She Drives Me Crazy(12)

* * *



Predictably, my day is smattered with interruptions from gossipmongers who want to know about the accident. I’m amazed at how many people suddenly know my name—not just the other seniors, but the juniors and underclassmen, too. Some of them are sincere when they ask if I’m okay, but most of them bring it up because they want to hear about Irene.

“Do you guys, like, hang out now?” a wide-eyed girl asks.

“Was she pissed at you for ruining her car?” another whispers.

“Does it feel like carpooling with a Kardashian?” a straight-faced freshman asks.

“No,” I hear myself saying over and over again. “I literally couldn’t care less.”

I don’t actually see Irene until the end of the day, when we have our only class together: Senior Horizons. It’s a joke of a class with an albatross of a teacher. Mrs. Scuttlebaum is a grumpy, bitter old woman who wears the same tulip-patterned cardigan over every outfit. Her smoker’s emphysema makes sitting in her lectures that much worse.

When Danielle and I walk into the classroom, a bunch of the guys, led by Gino, start laughing.

“Hey, Abraham, your Uber’s here!”

“Can you drive me to the dance this weekend, Zajac?”

“Five stars, Zajac, five stars!”

I can feel my face burning, but I roll my eyes with a bravado I don’t feel. Irene, however, crosses her legs and says, “I’d only give her three stars.”

The classroom howls with laughter. Irene catches my eye and smirks, almost like we’re sharing the joke.

There’s a beat where it’s silent, and then I say, “I’d give her zero.”

The classroom erupts in laughter again. Irene tilts her head at me. She doesn’t look angry, but I can’t quite read her expression. I ignore her and fish my notebook out of my backpack until Scuttlebaum wheezes at everyone to shut up.



* * *



The most surprising thing happens at the end of the day, when I’m on my way to basketball practice. Danielle and I are walking down the hallway when my cell phone chimes with a sound that stops me cold.

That chime is set to only one person.

Tally Gibson: Why are you driving Irene Abraham around?



I can’t sort out how I’m feeling at first. I mean, I’m stunned that Tally’s reaching out at all, especially after our talk last night. But I also feel strangely validated. This is proof that she still cares about what I’m doing. That I’m in her head as much as she’s in mine.

“Don’t engage,” Danielle warns, but I ignore her.

Me: How do you know that?

Tally Gibson: Saw it on Gino’s Instagram.



Sure enough, when I open the app, Gino’s Story is the first to pop up. It’s a picture of Irene and me getting out of my car, her looking aloof and me looking grouchy. The caption says Homecoming queen in her new chariot!! Gay Ginny Weasley for the win!

Cool. So glad everyone in my universe, including my ex-girlfriend, is seeing this.

“Scottie,” Danielle says in a way that means Don’t text her back.

“I’ll just give her the bare minimum so she lays off.”

Me: It’s just for a few days.



I don’t want to tell her about my accident, even though she’ll probably find out anyway.

Tally Gibson: Oh.

Tally Gibson: Am I not allowed to know the reason anymore?



“That freaking sociopath,” Danielle says, glaring at my phone. “She is so manipulative. Ignore her. You don’t owe her an explanation.”

I can tell Danielle is getting riled up, so I pocket my phone and continue down the hall. But when we get to the locker room, I take advantage of the chaos to pull out my phone again.

Me: Why do you want to know?

Tally Gibson: Because it’s not like you. What happened to hating her guts after the towing thing?

Me: I don’t think my opinion of her is any of your business. Not anymore.

Tally Gibson: Wow, okay.



I think that’s the end of it, but Tally sends one final text:

Tally Gibson: You should be careful. She can’t be good for you.



And that’s when it hits me: Tally is jealous of my perceived friendship with Irene. She’s threatened by the possibility that I could change—scared that I could catapult to popularity even faster than her. The idea leaves me dazed.

When we spill onto the court, I have a bounce in my step. I’m playing as well as I used to—maybe even better. My energy is contagious, and suddenly the whole team is playing at our highest frequency.

I don’t think it can get any better, but in the last ten minutes of practice, it does. The auxiliary doors open and, for the first time in my basketball career, we have a cheering section. Literally. Irene has brought her squad to watch us play.

I know she’s not doing me any favors. She’s only here because her own practice is over and she wants to hurry me along. Still, it feels validating to have an audience, and my teammates seem to feel the same way.

“Are they really here for us?” Shelby asks.

Liz Guggenheim, who we call Googy, shakes her head. “Nah, dude. They’re here for Scottie.” She turns to me, starstruck. “That car accident was the best thing you’ve ever done.”