Shuffle, Repeat(26)

“Where are we?” I ask him.

“It’s a construction site. They’re putting in one of those big douchebag communities, but for right now”—he gestures around at the darkness—“it’s just us. We can stay as long as we want.”

“Or until my curfew.” We’ve never had tons of opportunities to do the Deed, but that’s been okay with me. I’m still new to even having a sex life. It’s fine if it’s more of a once-in-a-while thing.

Itch, on the other hand, would much prefer if it happened more often.

He leans over the emergency brake to kiss me. I shift forward in my seat to meet him, because it’s expected, because it’s what we do. His kiss is warm and slow and familiar. I’m just starting to get into it when he pulls back. “Hold on. I almost forgot.” He pops open the glove compartment and pulls out a small brown paper bag. He slides it onto my lap so I can crinkle open the top. Inside is a headset with a bow stuck to it. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” I run my finger over the headset’s surface. It’s much bigger than the earbuds that came with my cell phone.

“Professional grade.” Itch must see my confusion, because he explains further. “So you don’t have to be subjected to Oliver’s crap on the way to school.” He points to the tip of the cord. “It plugs into your phone just like a regular pair. Now you can ignore him and listen to whatever you want.”

I feel my eyebrows come together and am briefly reminded of Ainsley. “That seems…”

“What?”

“Rude. To tune him out like that.”

“He’s the one who’s rude,” says Itch. “Not to mention cheesy. Didn’t you tell me he put Air Supply on the playlist?”

That song doesn’t even make sense; I’ll give Itch that. Regardless— “Oliver is still doing me a favor,” I remind him. “It’s not like he has to drive me to school.”

“Please.” Itch snorts. “He’s not picking you up out of the goodness of his heart. His mom is forcing him to do it.”

I mull that over, trying to figure out what to say to my boyfriend. Despite what Itch thinks of Oliver—a sentiment I used to echo—now I know that he’s a decent person. Finally, I come up with this: “I already agreed to the system. We have this playlist thing going. Wearing a headset so I can listen to my own music would be cheating.”

Cheating. Like what I did this summer.

I shake the thought away.

“It’s not cheating if it’s a stupid bet in the first place,” Itch argues.

“It’s not a bet. I told you that already.” My voice rises and I don’t try to stop it. We’re at a freaking construction site. No one can hear us. “It’s a competition. It’s a game.”

“It’s bullshit.”

“It’s fun,” I say even louder. With the words comes the knowledge: it’s true.

Itch shakes his head. “You have a screwed-up definition of fun.”

I sit back against the door, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “What’s your definition? Because I honestly don’t have any idea what you think is fun. You never seem to have any.”

Itch is silent for a moment before leaning forward and turning the key. “It’s getting late.”

“I appreciate the present.”

Neither one of us is telling the truth.





“I’ve been thinking about something you said,” Oliver tells me as his Air Supply song plays softly for the second time this morning.

“That we should be paying more attention to climate change?” I ask.

“No.”

“That people should reconsider their feelings about insects as food because eating them instead of meat would be better for the environment?”

Oliver laughs. “No, but I would pay good money to watch you eat a grub worm.”

“I said I’m reconsidering my feelings,” I remind him. “Not that I’m ordering grub worm sandwiches.”

“Poser.”

“Baby steps,” I tell him. “What have you been thinking about?”

“The senior prank.” Oliver waits patiently while I perform a bunch of eye rolling and excessive sighing. “Is it out of your system?”

“One more.” I heave a final deep groan. “Okay, I’m done. Go ahead.”

“No more laxatives.”

“Am I expected to cheer?”

“No.” Oliver pokes me in the ribs.

“Hey!”

“But you are supposed to hush and listen.”

I hush and listen.

“Theo says that Jimmy McKay says he can borrow a really tame cow from his uncle’s farm.”

“?‘Borrow.’?” I say it with a heavy dose of skepticism.

“We won’t give it any laxatives and we’ll be really nice to it.”

“How?”

“What do you mean?”

“How are you going to be nice to Jimmy McKay’s uncle’s really tame cow?”

Oliver considers. “We’ll bring it treats.”

“Treats.”

“Hay or alfalfa or…sugar lumps! Don’t cows like sugar lumps?”