Beast(17)

Jamie smirks as she sips.

“I don’t blame you. I think girls should be short too,” I say, and take a sip myself.

“Hold up—don’t put words in my mouth,” she says. “I’m talking about me. My dad’s a former Trail Blazer, my mom’s Swedish, and I’m trying to stay under six feet tall so I can comfortably fit my knees in an airline seat, thank you very much.”

“Your dad’s a Blazer?”

She stares at me like I have nine heads. “Did you hear anything I said?”

“Well…yeah, but you have to admit, that’s an interesting factoid.”

“A factoid. Sure. He played two seasons before he tore both his ACLs and retired. Rip City, do or die. Now he sells boating equipment.” Jamie checks her phone for the time.

“I can sympathize,” I say quickly. I don’t want her to leave. “About the airplane. Those seats are so small, it’s unbearable.”

“What exactly did you mean, though, that girls should be short?”

I shrug. “It’s what I’ve heard.”

“From who?”

“My best friend, JP. He’s got standards. Girls should be short, not talk while you’re playing video games, and have long hair.”

“He sounds like a real prince.”

I scowl and look down at my coffee. It’s too hot. So far it tastes terrible. “I’m just saying.”

She motions to a lady walking across the plaza. “Her. That woman in the glasses—what do you think about her?”

“Like, in general?” I give her a once-over. “She’s got to be almost forty, too old to be wearing a hoodie and jeans. And they have holes in them. She looks like a hobo.”

Jamie nods curtly and points to another lady. “And her?”

“She needs to stand up straight; she’s too hunched over. It’s like she’d be pretty if she tried, but you can tell she’s not going to.”

“What a shame.”

“Well, kinda,” I say. “She looks like she’d be a nice girl if she smiled.”

Jamie gets out her camera and takes pictures of the two passersby before they disappear from the plaza to parts unknown. “You know what I think? They’re phenomenal as is. Maybe you’ll figure that out someday.” She stands up, gathering her things. “I don’t think I want to know what you think about me. Later.” Jamie throws her empty cup in the trash and walks away.

“Wait,” I call out after her.

She spins around. “Of all the people the universe has ever barfed up, who are you to judge, Dylan?”

I drop my coffee, brown liquid drenching the bricks as I roll after her. “Because I’m living it, okay? Every day. I am the one everyone sees and thinks, thank god, at least I don’t look like that.”

The wind kicks up her scarf and she smooths it back down.

She’s standing there with all her bones lining up in the most aesthetically pleasing way possible, and now I’m the one to roll my eyes. What a joke. She’s pretty and she knows it. Constantly seeking approval. Always looking around to see who’s staring back at her, and once they make eye contact, Jamie tosses her hair and gives a little smile to herself. Like it’s a check in the yes column.

Jamie can be all, wow, you’re such a dick, look at you judging others—but she’s perfect. There’s nowhere she can go where she won’t be welcomed, because she is a very attractive person, and humans like looking at attractive people. It’s science.

I twist it in. “Someone like you wouldn’t know anything about it.”

Jamie takes her camera with two hands and looks into the viewfinder for a good long while before she looks up at me. “I’m happy with who I am.”

“No doubt. You’re gorgeous.”

She launches into a nervous waterfall of laughter. “Oh my god.” Jamie turns away, hiding her bright pink cheeks.

“But who cares, right?” I say. “Because what we look like doesn’t matter, right? We’re all smiling beams of sunshine in the sky, on the ground, under the trees, and we’re all equal and extra-special flower petals, or whatever.” The words bubble up, pumping a deep spring in my gut. “If you believe that garbage, that we’re all beautiful little snowflakes, that’s great. I don’t. I haven’t believed it since the sixth grade, and I’m not going to start now.”

Pity coats her face and I hate that it’s for me.

I back my wheels up.

My leg is killing me. Dr. Jensen gave me a prescription for Demerol, and I begged my mom to fill it, but she refused. Apparently all it takes is one Demerol and I’m going to end up in some abandoned warehouse giving head for meth. Instead, Mom loaded up a little plastic baggie with ibuprofen and stuck it in the zippered pocket of my book bag. I pull out the baggie now and dry-swallow. “I should call my mom.”

“No, don’t do that,” she says with a softness that wasn’t there before. “Mothers should be avoided at all costs.”

“Yeah, well, my mother’s probably filed a missing-person report by now.”

“So what?” Jamie says. She takes her camera and snaps a few shots. “Don’t we deserve some time to ourselves?”

“Oh, are we doing a ‘we’ now? Because I thought you were leaving.”