Tease(13)

Suddenly he looks over and I jerk my eyes back to the book in front of me, my cheeks burning again. God, am I really so desperate to hang out with anyone my own age that I’m drooling over Carless Carmichael now?

When we’re finally done for the day, I practically sprint to the parking lot. There are two other girls ahead of me already: Beth, who got mono last year (but in one of those sad, non-hookuprelated ways), and Cherrie, who’s just a slacker. “Cherrie” is short for something Latina, but we all pronounce it like the fruit. She used to correct everybody, I guess because we were saying it wrong, but the name just stuck. I suddenly wonder if maybe she skips school all the time because it’s hard to get picked on every day, or called the wrong name or whatever, like you don’t belong. Like I’ve been feeling. But then she turns to Beth and they start laughing about something. They get into Beth’s car together and I remember: even among the outcasts, I’m the biggest loser.

I’m pulling my Honda around the side of the building when I spot Carmichael on his bike. He’s standing up on the pedals, jumping the front tire up and off the curb. He actually looks like he knows what he’s doing. I’m already braked at the stop sign, and I pause there for a minute, watching his crazy black hair and the muscles flexing under his T-shirt. He jumps again, turning the front wheel, but he comes down awkwardly and has to jump off the bike and sort of dance away while it crashes to the ground. It’s surprisingly goofy and sudden, and I don’t realize I’m laughing until he turns—my window is rolled down, trying to cool off the car, so I guess he heard me—and scowls. Like I was laughing at him, even though I totally wasn’t.

“Sorry, I just—” I start to call out, but he already has the bike back in his hands and he’s jumping on and pedaling out of the other end of the lot.

Fine. Who needs these delinquents anyway.

“We haven’t really talked about Dylan. Would you want to tell me about that?”

“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. Then I add, cattily, “Do you want to talk about Dylan?”

It seems funny right before it comes out of my mouth, but once it’s said I have to look away. I look down at my nails and say, “I wish I could get a manicure.”

“Why can’t you?” Teresa asks.

I pick at a flake of the glittery gold color I have on now. It’s all coming off, like I’ve been out partying nonstop, instead of the exact opposite.

“It’s expensive. And people look at me funny.”

Brielle used to drag me to the salon at the nice strip mall, the one with the Anthropologie and Williams-Sonoma. But I can’t really afford that one on my own. After we had to stop hanging out, I tried the cheaper place in the crappy strip mall, next to Taco Bell. That’s when I started noticing that going out in public was going to be impossible. Actually, anyplace where you sit down for more than five minutes is a pretty bad idea—and way worse if they have a bunch of local newspapers.

I can see Teresa nodding out of the corner of my eye. “It can feel like a pretty small town sometimes,” she says.

“Try all the time,” I say. It’s psychotic how many pictures of Emma have been plastered everywhere. My mom says the media loves when bad things happen to pretty girls. You’d really think there weren’t any, like, wars or elections or random shootings to talk about, given how much ink has been devoted to printing and reprinting Emma’s last school picture.

“And you don’t see Dylan anymore?” Teresa asks, trying to bring it back to her original question, I guess.

I look up. “I’m not supposed to, remember?” I say bitterly. “But whatever. It’s really complicated. I mean, it got really complicated. I don’t think it was Dylan’s fault, I just . . . I mean, you had to know Emma. She was such a . . .”

“She was such a . . . what was she, Sara?”

I puff out my cheeks, pushing out a whoosh of air. “She was one of those girls, you know, who are always hanging out with guys, who don’t have any friends who aren’t guys. Because all the other girls at school knew she’d steal their boyfriends.”

“She stole boyfriends?”

“God, yes. Like, daily.”

“Including Dylan?”

I scrunch my shoulders up to my ears, curling my arms around my chest. I push my breath out in another big sigh and let everything drop and finally say it. “Yeah. Including Dylan.”

“That must have been hard for you,” Teresa says.

“Uh, yeah,” I say, but then I have to bite my lip. “I don’t really want to talk about this anymore.”

“Okay. Why don’t we wrap up for the day?” Teresa says, setting down her notebook.

“Great.” I stand up and take off the cardigan I finally remembered to bring, since it’s about fifty degrees warmer outside than it is in here.

I’m stuffing the sweater into my bag when Teresa adds, “Love is a really complicated thing. I know it must still hurt.”

I look down at her and pause. “Okay,” I say. I can’t think of anything else, so we just stare at each other for another second. And then I leave.



When I pull up to school on Wednesday, Carmichael is riding his bike through the parking lot, his dark hair flying out behind him. He hasn’t been to classes in a few days and my stomach knots, remembering how I accidentally laughed at him last week. I pull into an empty space as slowly as possible. I don’t know if I’m trying to go slow so I’ll run into him, or so I can avoid him. But then I remember: either way, I’m going to see him in class.