She Drives Me Crazy(4)

“I thought you would want it back,” Tally says. “I know you’ll get a new one this season, but it didn’t feel right for me to hold on to it.”

I blink rapidly and try to find my voice—

And just then, the back door heaves open again.

The Grandma Earl cheerleaders strut out. To my horror, the girl at the front of the pack is the last person in the world I want to witness this pitiful moment: Irene Abraham, the cheerleading captain. The girl who had my car towed at that party last year.

Irene is the quintessential queen bee: the most popular girl in our grade, a total lock for Homecoming Queen, and an absolute terror to us plebeians at the bottom of the social pyramid. She’s a gorgeous Indian American girl with piercing dark eyes and an eyebrow scar of mysterious origin. A few weeks ago, my class voted her both “Best Smile” and “Best Hair” for senior superlatives. Rumor has it that when the yearbook staff asked her to pick one, she asked if she could have “Class Inseparables” with her notorious enemy, Charlotte Pascal, instead. She wasn’t kidding.

I’ve only spoken to her twice in my life. The first time was in Driver’s Ed, freshman year, before she ascended to the realm of popularity and was still nice enough to lend me a pencil. The second was last spring, at that party, when I accidentally spilled my cranberry mixer down the front of her white jumpsuit. She told me it wasn’t a big deal, but an hour later she called the tow truck on me. Everyone ran out of the house to watch my car get dragged away while I went racing after it like an idiot. It wasn’t until I tripped, skinned my knee, and saw everyone laughing that I started to cry. Irene merely stood in the center of the yard, hands in her pockets, with a cool expression on her face. The merciless, untouchable queen.

Irene stops short when she sees us. The whole squad stops behind her. One of the other girls asks if I’m okay.

“I’m fine.” I stare pointedly away, willing them with everything I have to keep walking.

“Yeah, she’s fine,” Tally confirms. Her tone is apologetic, almost like she’s saying Sorry you have to see this.

I can feel Irene’s eyes land on me again, but I ignore her. What is she waiting for? She must get the hint, because she shifts her duffel bag on her shoulder and stalks toward the parking lot. “Are y’all coming?” she calls to her friends. “I’ve got shit to do.”

They glance at me, but after a second they shuffle after Irene.

“I guess we should go, too,” Tally says.

We. As if that’s still a thing. I don’t move. It’s the only play I have left.

“I’m sorry that game didn’t go how you wanted,” Tally says. “Good luck with the rest of the season.”

She hesitates, then plants a kiss on my cheek.

And then she walks away.

That’s the moment I decide: I will do everything in my power to beat Candlehawk—to beat Tally—when we play them again. I will do whatever it takes to show her that leaving Grandma Earl—leaving me—was the biggest mistake of her life.



* * *



My trusty old Jetta is my baby. The seats have cracks in the leather, the cupholder fits a coffee thermos perfectly, and the interior smells inexplicably like crayons. It used to be my older sister’s car, and when she passed it down to me, she stuck a four-leaf clover sticker on the gearshift to wish me luck. My mom’s contribution was a Saint Christopher medal, for the patron saint of travelers, which now hangs from the rearview mirror and swings helplessly whenever I make a hard turn.

I throw my bag in the passenger seat and tuck myself into the driver’s side. For a second I sit there holding my basketball button, gazing down at this person who no longer feels like me. Then I turn on the car, pull on my seat belt, and hook up my phone to the ancient aux cable.

I back out of my space and blare my music. Maybe playing “Purple Rain” loudly enough will soothe the bitterness in my stomach. I guide my car through the labyrinth of the senior parking lot, wanting nothing more than to get home.

Then I see Tally’s car zoom out of the lot. The same red Ford Escape we used to make out in after school. I haven’t seen it since the day she broke up with me. I can’t help it: I crane my neck to watch her drive away.

It’s because my eyes are glued to Tally’s taillights that I don’t notice it—

The car reversing out of its space directly in front of me.

CRUNCH.

I lurch forward in my seat as I slam straight into the other car’s rear end.





2


It takes a moment for my senses to catch up with me. My heart is pounding so hard I feel like I’ve just dropped off the side of a cliff. My entire body is sweeping hot, and my palms are pooling with sweat.

The car I’ve hit is a black sedan, but before I can get a proper look at it, the other driver stomps out of the car with all the anger of a rabid bulldog.

It’s Irene Abraham.

Fuck.

My shock transforms to fury. Go-freaking-figure. I know I wasn’t exactly looking when I hit her, but I also know I had the right of way. She must have decided the rules didn’t apply to her.

My adrenaline carries me out of my car before I can think about it. I slam my door and meet her in the middle. “What the hell?”

Her eyes flash when she sees me. Under her breath, she says, “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”