Better Than This: Better Than This, #1

By C.G. Coppola

Autumn Sommers wants to forget what happened on the bus. It's been three years, but avoiding Alex Wolf has become standard, especially since everyone knows about his sketchbook—and the drawings of her inside. The incident followed them from junior-high and now, in their sophomore year, the two have been paired on a project.

 

Autumn just wants to get through it. She needs to maintain her grades to keep her terrible Aunt Milly from moving back in, but working with Alex might be impossible since they have to pretend to be a couple for their assignment. Forced to put their past on hold, the two focus on their fictitious relationship until the lines between real and fake get blurred, and they discover there might be some truth to the façade. But things have changed since seventh grade. Alex has a secret, and it could mean the end of their new friendship…and more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.G. Coppola
• Release date: May 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9798215277935

C.G. Coppola

C.G. Coppola is the author of the fantasy adventure series, Arizal Wars, and the contemporary romance series, Better Than This. In addition to short stories that explore magic and the paranormal, she writes books that involve a lot of kissing, kickass heroines, and fighting alongside best friends. When not writing, C.G. Coppola can be found watching Netflix, playing with her dogs, Appa and Regis, or dancing to Meghan Trainor in the kitchen.

Book preview

ONE

Who is A.M.S?

By Joe Smith / New York Times

February 1st 2011

His songs have been hailed as classics, many believing these chart-toppers to be among the best ever recorded, but Rhythm Guitarist and lead vocalist of the globally-recognized American rock band, Better Than Decent, disagrees. To Alex Wolf, he could be doing better. A lot better.

Wolf joined the band—then Chronic Rage—in the early 2000s, the group ultimately hitting it big in 2006 when their first album released at the top of the charts. Known for their iconic indie-punk blend, Better Than Decent has become a part of our culture, and it’s all due to one single on their first album.

Her, gained overnight popularity. The acoustic sensation became an instant number one, bringing the little-known band to light, and with it, Wolf’s iconic ballads. While the group mostly leans in the punk direction, the solos and singles contributed by the Rhythm Guitarist have skyrocketed the versatile band to celebrity status. But it’s not just the music that has everyone talking—it’s the question.

Who is A.M.S.?

With every album, Wolf includes a special single (and in some cases, multiple) which he dedicates simply to: A.M.S. Hits like Still Here, Waiting, You, and Perfect, have become romantic icons, each earning Wolf—and the band—multiple Grammys. It’s the guitarist’s soulful voice mixed with his unrequited, often heart-broken lyrics that have many speculating on A.M.S.’s existence. Some argue she is an imaginative figure while others believe her to be real. Theory after theory has been exchanged by the millions of Better Than Decent fans, but with the musician refusing every question on the subject, no one knows the truth.

Five years later and we’re still asking:

Who is A.M.S.?

here’s what happened

Part 1:

Before

October 6th 2000

7:17 a.m.

I hate Leo Warskowski.

Last week he poured a Sprite into Amber’s back-pack. The entire bus watched, and no one stopped him. No one said a word. The week before, he made up a song about Carrie and sang it at the top of his lungs, over and over again until we got to school. We listened to chants of fatty, fatty, can’t you see/cookies and donuts are not fat-free for twenty minutes. Carrie cried the entire day.

Leo Warskowski is an asshole.

A huge asshole. Like, the biggest asshole on the planet, and if it wasn’t enough being stuck in the same middle-school, I have to share the bus with him too.

I frown at my overalls. Today could be the day he comes for me. He’s picked on almost everyone else; it has to be my turn soon. Pinching the end of my hair, I wonder if having it in two braids is a good idea. Maybe it looks dorky. It probably looks dorky. But Leo might skip the sandy frizz and focus on my freckles—a bridge of brown spots across my nose and cheeks. They were cute when I was little, but now I look ridiculous.

Show it to me.

I barely hear him over the commotion in the back. A group tries to rap while two kids argue about something someone’s dad said. Conversations buzz from each row, laughter rippling from one end of the bus to the other—but Leo’s words cut through it all.

Show it to me. You’re always drawing in this thing. There’s got to be something good in it.

Get out of my face.

I peek over my shoulder. Normally, Leo slings insults while some poor kid takes it, but no one ever responds.

And it’s that quiet kid, Alex.

I can only make out his dark hair; the rest of him is hidden behind the green bus seat. But he’s pressed against the window while Leo hangs over him.

What’s wrong, Wolf? Afraid to show me?

Get out of my face.

I’m not in your face. The rapping has stopped and so has the argument over the dad. A few conversations linger, but not many. I’m just being friendly. So...why don’t you show me what you’ve been drawing?

No response.

Oh, come on. You’ve got to have naked pictures in here, because— Leo jumps back with a black sketchbook, flipping it open.

Alex lunges forward. GIVE IT BACK!

Leo shoves him and the two struggle for a moment, and suddenly, I have this feeling. This really awful feeling like I’m going to be sick. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but my heart starts to race, coils tightening in my stomach.

"GIVE IT—"

Leo punches Alex in the shoulder, knocking him into the window. Then he does it again just to be an asshole.  Taking the opportunity, he scans the pages, his eyes growing wide. Something he didn’t expect. Then he looks at me. Right at me. I stop breathing at the realization that I was right—something awful is coming.

Her? He says it in a way that makes me feel three inches tall. He points at me, and I want to curl up and die. "It’s all her?"

The bus falls silent. No one is talking anymore; even the quiet conversations have dissolved into the background. Half of the riders are staring at me. The other half are staring at Alex.

Did you know? Leo asks, and it takes a moment to realize he’s talking to me. Did you know he’s got, like, a thousand pictures of you?

I bite my lip, not sure what to say. Not sure what to do.

Leo looks from Alex to me, an evil grin growing. He’s about to make this a whole hell of a lot worse, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. It’s time we get this all out in the open.

My stomach drops—everything inside telling me to hide. I know this is so much worse for Alex, but I don’t want to be here either. I don’t want to know about the sketchbook. I don’t want to know about any of it.

Leo jumps from his seat. Here, look—

The second Alex realizes what’s about to happen, he leaps onto Leo’s back. Everyone kind of gasps because this has never happened. No one has ever fought back. Not unless they had a death wish. And here’s Alex Wolf, smaller than his bully by at least a foot, fighting like he’s got everything to lose. Maybe he does.

The boys struggle again, but it’s not enough. Leo slams Alex into the seat for the second time, and then into the window. STAY DOWN!

When he finally succumbs, Leo takes his time and leisurely flips through the pages. The entire bus is silent, everyone watching him, waiting to see what he says. Waiting to see what he does. Finally, he snorts out a laugh. Stalk much, Wolf? Jesus. The bus. At lunch. What is this—you have her painting? He turns page after page and with each one, I want to die a little more. Reading? Christ, dude. You even said two words to the girl?

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Alex slump in his seat. Leo keeps flipping. You’re obviously obsessed with her.

I throw my hand to my forehead, covering my eyes.

Did you know he was obsessed with you? Hey, Leo snaps, drawing me out of my shelter. Did you know about all this? He holds the sketchbook open. But I don’t look. I purposely don’t look because it’s none of my business, because I don’t want to see someone else’s inner thoughts, especially if they’re about me.

Come on—look at it. He forces the sketchbook in front of my nose. My eyes catch a dark corner. I do my best not to invade Alex’s privacy, but I can’t help it. His charcoal work is so intricate, so detailed in its layering that it’s hard not to notice it. It’s a technique I’m trying to learn with painting, so seeing it mastered like this in a different medium, it takes me a moment to realize I’m staring at the side of a face. My face.

Do you know him? Hey, Leo snaps again. I’m talking to you. Do you know him?

No.

Do you want to meet him?

I shrink in my seat.

His smile grows wider; he’s really enjoying himself. Come on—don’t you want to meet the guy who is... yup, he turns another page, definitely obsessed with you?

God, this is awful. If I thought I hated Leo Warskowski before, somehow, I loathe him even more now. I’m staring at the seat in front of me, waiting for this to be over, just waiting for the bus to pull into the school and for all of us to get out of here.

Hey—You want to look at me when I talk to you? I asked if you wanted to meet him.

I bite my lip, refusing to answer.

Come on. He slides into the small space next to me, my skin suddenly crawling. I scoot closer to the window, putting as much space between us as I can. But it doesn’t dissuade him. I could arrange a little... one-on-one time for you two. Would you like that? A little Seven-Minutes-in- Heaven action? I know Alex would. He’s probably been jerking off to the idea all year.

I wrap my arms around myself, focusing on the green bus seat. We’ll be at school any minute. Any minute and all of this will be over.

No? he finally asks. With a shrug, he backs out of the seat and tears a page from the book. Crumpling it up, he tosses the paper ball at me with more speed than I expect. It hits my shoulder with a zing and lands next to me. Leo turns and throws the sketchbook at Alex. Hard. I tried, man. She’s not interested.

The bus comes to a stop, and the engine turns off.

The driver opens the doors, but no one moves. I think they’re still waiting for something to happen—but what left is there? I’m more embarrassed than I’ve ever been and Alex Wolf has me topped.

Let’s go, the driver calls and suddenly, bodies flood the walkway, conversations snapping back into place. Except they’re all about us this time. About Alex and me. About what just happened.

My face burns as I reach for my bag. The crumpled-up paper falls to the ground and I stare at it, wondering what to do. The sketch doesn’t belong to me, but it doesn’t belong to anyone else either, except Alex, and who knows if he even wants it at this point. Scooping up the paper, I deposit it in my bag. I can decide what to do with it later. People are still getting off the bus and Leo, who has pushed his way to the front, is already cackling about some haircut the new kid has.

Heart drumming, I move for the aisle.

I look up.

Red-faced, Alex throws a hood over his head and shuffles past, glaring at the floor. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if there is anything to say.

I get in line behind him and wordlessly, we get off the bus.

October 6th 2000

7:24 a.m.

By seventh grade standards, it’s official.

Alex Wolf is in love with me.

Three Years Later

HOW LONG UNTIL WE HAVE to go in?

Savvy checks the dashboard clock. Three minutes.

I stare out the window, watching people walk across the parking garage. The bell is going to ring, and I don’t want to move a single muscle. I’m not serious when I suggest it, but I really don’t feel like school today. We should ditch.

We? Please. I ditch. You don’t ditch.

Maybe today I’ll surprise you.

Oh yeah?

Instead of admitting defeat, I pull down the visor and peer into the mirror. Hazel eyes stare back, along with yesterday’s mascara. Great. I slept in, and now the entire school will know I didn’t take a shower. But I’m not a total wreck. I managed to throw on my good pair of jeans with the purple Converse I love, but my dark tee-shirt probably should’ve gone through the wash first. It’s speckled with paint I would have noticed if I’d had more than ten minutes to get ready.

But Jesus Christ my hair.

Matted and in need of a serious brushing, it’s still in yesterday’s braid, sandy blonde frizz sticking out all over. So not cute. I flip the visor back into place, trying to forget the image. I look like crap.

Well, Savvy dabs on lip-gloss with her pinkie, what did you expect after five minutes of prep?

I think it was more like two minutes.

And why is that?

I sigh, already knowing what’s coming. I forgot to set the alarm again.

She pockets the shiny tube and smacks her lips together. Look, there’s nothing wrong with staying up to paint, but you have to remember to set your alarm, girl. Otherwise, you’ll feel like shit in the morning.

Like always, Savvy has her blonde-black locks pulled into a ponytail, the platinum top revealing all her natural dark beneath it. She’s applied a fresh coat of smoky make-up to go with her dark ensemble: navy shorts with a plum tank, ankle boots, and black fishnets. She looks put together in the super-hot kind of way, far from the day-old artist vibe that I’ve got going on.

Two minutes, she reads the dashboard, tapping her fingers along the bottom of the steering wheel. Her head rolls toward mine, something mischievous in them. You know, if you’re serious about skipping, you wouldn’t have had to rush. We could’ve just chilled and spent the day at your house.

I have a quiz in Algebra.

So? I have a test in American Government. We can just make it up tomorrow.

Gonzalez doesn’t allow make-ups.

And?

I shake my head against the seat. Need to keep my grades up. It’s the one thing keeping me from having a live-in nanny who—believe me—nobody wants.

"Come on. Aunt Milly can’t be that bad."

If only Savvy knew.

My mother’s older sister, Mildred, came to live with us after dad left, just as mom was starting her stewardess career. The transition from mom and dad to barely seeing mom and having a strange woman in the house was difficult enough, but all the strict rules made everything worse. Half an hour of playtime. No television for any reason. Bedtime at seven o’clock sharp.

Believe me, the second I do something she doesn’t like—bam! She’s on the phone with my mom and we can’t hang out any more.

Savvy scowls.

I can’t risk that, or my painting time. I look at her, conveying the message. Grades are vital here, Sav.

She opens her mouth but stops when her eyes catch the rearview mirror. Her lips twist into a smile. Look.

Alex Wolf is heading for the stairwell, about to come up behind the car. I’m only allotted this little bit of time—just these few seconds to take him in—so that’s what I do.

I want to know why, after three years, he still looks at me like it’s my fault, like I’m the reason Leo Warskowski did what he did. Exposed his feelings like that. It must be far from the way he feels about me now because all I get from Alex Wolf are glares of death. And anger. And accusation. It’s like he hates me, like he blames me for the whole thing.

As usual, his wardrobe revolves around the same dark jeans and gray hoodie, the hood a darker shade. It’s over his head, blocking most of his face with headphone cords sneaking down both sides and disappearing into his pockets. And, like usual, he keeps his black bookbag high on his back, the thing almost flat.

Passing behind us, he flashes the rearview mirror a glance.

Technically, a glare.

It’s sharp and strong and makes me feel the same every time I’m hit with it: like I’m trespassing, like I’m not allowed to notice him, even though it’s far from the other way around.

Jesus, Savvy whispers. If looks could kill.

Welcome to my life.

Alex reaches the main stairwell with the last few stragglers. I take it as my cue to get out of the car and stretch.

Must be all that pent up sexual frustration. She grabs her bag. I reach for mine, joining her around the side of the car. You should probably just make out with him.

Okay. Sure.

I’m telling you, she leads us to the stairwell, all he needs is a good rub and tug, and he’ll be smiling.

Yeah. I’ll get right on that.

You should. Her tone changes slightly, growing more serious. Great. I know where this is going and I really wish she wouldn’t because we’ve gone over it, like, a thousand times. Savvy looks at me with those big blue puppy-dog eyes. Here it comes. "He’s been in love with you for such a long time. Probably forever. I know you think he hates you—"

Did you not see the glare we just got?

But it’s really this repressed sexual thing. Just kiss him a little and—you know he has a tongue-ring, right?

How could I forget? I skip down the steps, eager to get away from this conversation. Again. You remind me every day.

Well, she sprints to keep up with me, "it’s because none of the other boys here are in the market for one, so I need to live vicariously through you and your steamy, steamy make-out session so please, she clasps her hands in mock prayer, do us both a favor and French the boy."

French him yourself. 

I would. But I’m not the one he’s in love with.

Stop.

What? It’s true. The entire school knows—

Savvy. I reach the bottom of the stairs. Obviously, I have to say this a hundred and one times for it to sink in, but if that’s what it takes, so be it. "It’s been like, forever, and I’m pretty sure he’d rather I get hit by a car then hook up. Besides... I look away because honestly, I’m still not sure how I feel about it, ...they were just drawings."

Yeah. Lots of them. A freaky amount.

I throw her a halfhearted smile. I’ve got class.

So? Let’s ditch. Let’s make today special. Let’s make it the day something different happened.

I seriously consider the offer. I’ve already started this Thursday off on the wrong foot; it’d be great to go home and sleep—or maybe paint some more—but Mr. Gonzalez only allows makeups if there’s a doctor’s note and I’m not sure I can produce one in time for tomorrow. And there’s no way I’m willing to let my grades drop if it means having to deal with Aunt Milly again.

Can’t.

Savvy doesn’t seem surprised. One day you will. And it’s going to blow your mind how awesome it feels.

I walk backwards, offering a wave. See you in fourth?

She nods and heads for homeroom.

BY FIFTH PERIOD, I’M ready to go.

I have two more classes after Family Planning & Development, and then it’s home. But I have to get through next period first. It’s not that its bad; it’s just kind of boring. All I do is listen to Mr. Mitchell ramble on about what it’s like to be an adult. Simple note-taking at its best.

Sliding into my usual chair, I glance out the window. It’s nice to look outside when Mr. Mitchell goes off-topic, encouraged by people asking about his personal life. I wish they’d leave the guy alone. He’s single and not unattractive, which is apparently the recipe for the ‘it’s okay to ask your teacher anything’ vibe we’ve established. But as interested as I am in how Ted’s date went with