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Knowing Jude

Knowing Jude

Author:S. H. Waen


"You're not the kind of girl I'd usually kiss," he says, his eyes latching onto my lips. "But I'll do it anyway." Then the cocky jerk leans in and kisses me. ____ Jude Walker is a troubled soul. When he was a little boy, he made a mistake that has made him grow up with hate from his siblings and unacceptance from his dad. He is depressed, suicidal, and a bad boy. Ava Jordan Hansen is a quiet girl who cares too much about others. She might seem okay to everyone around her, but she has demons gnawing at her sanity. When their paths cross, Ava finds herself drawn to Jude's darkness knowing very well every step of the way it's a very wrong direction to go. But she keeps on!
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“My name is Ava Hansen and I…”



“No, but…”

“Please, if…”

The line goes dead on the other side and I slam my phone on the table.

“Where the fuck do they expect me to get experience if nobody will give me my first chance?” I complain out loud, fighting the urge to hurl something across the empty space and down the library balcony. Which would have to be my English textbook, my essay notebook or my copy of Hamlet, so no thanks, I would rather keep my anger in check.

My shitty old phone is obviously out of the question. Shitty, old or not, it’s the only one I’ve got.

“Beats me too,” a voice comes from behind me, and I swivel in my seat.

A tall blonde guy is standing behind my chair, carrying a backpack, holding its strap in one hand and a lollipop in the other.

“You are late Jude,” I accuse, looking at my wrist watch.

We were supposed to meet at 4.00pm, not 4.12pm.

Jude Walker walks forward and drops his bag on top of my books. I push it away.

“God forbid that we all be on time,” he says, taking a seat directly opposite me. His blue eyes rise to mine. “Remind me again, what’s your name?”

What? Really?

“Gotta be kidding me,” I mutter beneath my breath, collecting my English books and stuffing them in my bag.

“No I’m not,” he answers. “Arya? Angela? It’s got an A somewhere, right?”

I hold my bag on my lap and stare at him, speechless. He is fúcking serious.


I’ve gone to the same school as this guy for three freaking years, going on to four, and he doesn’t know my name? Yes, we are not in any class together but we are in the same year so what the hell?

He lifts his lollipop and pops it into his mouth. He continues looking at me, waiting for my response.


I ignore him and start digging for my Math book. I place it, more like slam it, on the table, then follow it up with a workbook and a diary. I place my bag aside and grasp a pen.

I look back at him.

“We need to make a schedule,” I tell him.

He frowns, then pulls the candy from between his lips, leaving them glistening and red.

“You’re not gonna tell me your name?”

“What do you want? My name, or help with Math?” I snap.

“Both.” Then before I can catch on to him, he reaches forward and grabs my workbook. He looks at the cover before returning it. His red lips stretch into a smile. “Ava. Ava Hansen. I knew it had an A somewhere.”

I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth loud enough so he doesn’t miss the sound. “Congrats on the close guess, genius. How about we work on that schedule now?”

He winks and leans back in his seat, all carefree.

I stare at him and wait for him to say something, but it looks as if he is doing the same thing, waiting for me to say something. Which I already have, but oh well.

“You going to say anything?” I prod.

He leans forward again, twisting the lolly stick between his fingers. “You know, I always thought you were nice.”

I groan and press the heel of my palm against my forehead, fighting a fresh urge.

To throw my pen right between his eyes and see what happens.

“And I always knew you were an annoying asshole,” I shoot back.

He draws back, his brows actually coming together in a frown.

Did I surprise him?

I know sometimes we don’t realise some things about ourselves until another person points them out, but really? That should have been obvious to him.

“No I’m not,” he denies.

I throw my hands around, suddenly tired of this pointless conversation.

“Whatever, can we make the fúcking schedule right now?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t know you were the cursing type, either,” he says, his red lips turning up in a hidden smile.

Oh what the hell.


Jude Walker is the classic blond blue-eyed beauty, trust me when I say.

Don’t go getting any cute boy next door images in your mind, though.

Jude Walker is not cute, and he is not nice.

Well, that last one I don’t know, but judging from my first ever proper meeting with him, which was a Math study session that ended ten minutes ago — after lasting ten minutes half of which we argued and the other managed to make a schedule — I can confidently say I didn’t detect a single nice bone in his being.

Jude is hot. Not cute.

He might be a jerk, but I’m a girl with eyes, and when I see eye candy I name it for what it is. I’ve been around the guy for three years, so I’ve seen his hotness a lot of times, but one thing is sure.

It never diminishes.

Sometimes when you get used to something it eventually loses its appeal after a while, but this one guy seems to get hotter and hotter as the days go by.

Two days ago, my Math teacher told me there was a student who needs help with his Math, asking whether I could offer to tutor him. I’m good at Math, and always welcome a little practice, so I agreed.

I don’t know who I had expected, but Jude had been a surprise.

School football team star Jude Walker, school bad boy Jude Walker.

The moment I left Ms. Fernandez’s office, I did a bit of digging here and there, otherwise known as stalking.

Jude is not a dumb kid. In fact, I think he has more As on his transcript than I do. I was wondering why he needed my help when I noticed his Math grades. We were halfway through our last school year, and the highest he had managed was a B, which compared to the rest of his subjects was poor.

He was going all out on As. I couldn’t help but admire him.

I was a bit flabbergasted at his high grades, however. Let me confess I was a victim of believing in the stereotype of dumb jocks.

If he wasn’t so annoying, maybe I would like him a little.

We have successfully made a schedule, though I wouldn’t exactly call it a schedule.

We have the days.

Not the time.

Which, if you ask me, makes the whole thing useless and pointless.

We cancelled out the days he has football practice, and the days I have club meetings.

Drama and Journalism, which he thinks are too many.

Which leaves us with Tuesday and Friday.

“I’m pretty sure nothing will be happening on Fridays,” he says as we head out of the library area.

“Why not?” I ask, irked that he is making this hard, even though it’s all for him.

He shrugs. “I mean, it’s Friday,” he says.

The reason of reasons, if you ask me.

“Why are we restricting ourselves to evenings, anyway?” he asks.

“You want to do it early in the morning before classes?” I suggest.

“Hell no, I barely get up in time for the first class.”

Makes two of us.

“I’m saying four to six. What about you?”

We walk in silence for a while.

“Only four hours per week?” he asks.

“I’m up for more, just give me the time,” I say.

I literally have all the time in the world, since finding a job for after school has proved futile for me. I snicker mentally, remembering the voice over my phone.

“How old are you?”

“Have you had any experience waitressing before?”

“I’m sorry, in that case we can’t take you in, we need…”

Like what the fúck, it’s a waitressing job in a restaurant at the very edge of town, not a hostess at a five star spa in the middle of the city or something fancy like that.

“I’ll let you know,” Jude says as we come to the front of the school.

“Cool,” I mumble, and start off on my way.

“Hey, wait,” he calls, and I look back at him.

I stand still and wait for him to say something.

“Thanks for taking me up,” he says, serious for once with no trace of humour in his voice.

I shrug. “It’s a way of revision for me,” I answer and turn away. This time round, he doesn’t call me back.