The Way You Make Me Feel(2)
“Nope, can’t get enough.”
“Why can’t you channel that smart-mouth into your schoolwork?”
The May Los Angeles sunshine blinded me the second we stepped outside, and I pulled on my mirrored aviators. “Are you saying I’m smart?”
Before he could answer, someone called out my name from behind us. I turned around and made a face. It was Rose Carver.
Tall, graceful, and precise in her movements, Rose walked briskly over to me. Her skinny jeans fit her dancer’s legs like a glove, her floral-print blouse was tucked in, and the pixie cut under her hat showed off her delicate features. Rose looked like a long-lost Obama daughter.
When she reached me, I was annoyed that I had to look up at her. “What?” I asked.
Her expression was focused and determined. I could feel the bossiness rolling off her in waves.
I hated Rose Carver.
She jabbed a finger into my shoulder. “You need to shut this down.”
“Shut what down?”
“This whole prom-queen thing. You had your fun. Tampons, hardy har har,” she said, throwing her head back. Then she focused her laserlike eyes on me again. “Now, drop out of the running and let someone who actually cares have a chance to win.”
Her condescension was like manna from the gods. I squinted up at her. “You mean, someone like you?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, or anyone else, really.”
“You’re so selfless, always thinking about the greater good,” I said with a smile.
Her eyes closed briefly, as if she was harnessing all that impeccable self-control exercised by high-achieving ballerinas everywhere. “I didn’t spend months as the head of the prom committee only to have you make a joke out of the whole thing.” The thought of spending months caring about prom was suffocating.
I stood on my tippy-toes to try to be at eye level with her. “I’m not going to apologize for you wasting your social life on prom.” Her eyes flashed and I continued, “You know, I was considering dropping out. But you just made me change my mind.”
“Clara, Rose. That’s enough,” Mr. Sinclair said. “Let’s go.”
I patted Rose’s arm before walking away. “See you at prom, Rose.”
From behind me, I heard her shout, “You’re such a child!”
I continued down the familiar path toward the principal’s office.
CHAPTER 2
There weren’t enough hot dogs and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos in the world to satiate Patrick and Felix. After my inevitable detention that afternoon, I met up with them at one of the thousands of 7-Elevens in Los Angeles, this one on Echo Park’s main drag—Sunset Boulevard, a few blocks away from Elysian High.
Despite what it means to popular culture, Sunset Boulevard isn’t a glamorous street littered with movie stars driving around in convertibles or something. For one thing, Sunset runs here all the way from the beach. It’s like twenty-two miles long. It starts at the Pacific Coast Highway, passes by mansions near UCLA, gross clubs and comedy bars in West Hollywood, tourist traps in Hollywood, strip malls with Thai food and laundromats in East Hollywood, juice shops and overpriced boho boutiques in Silver Lake, and then lands here in Echo Park, another quickly gentrifying eastside neighborhood full of coffee shops and taquerias.
When I got to the 7-Eleven, the AC hit me with an icy blast as I stepped inside, the electronic bell chiming. Patrick and Felix were picking out change from their wallets to pay for their hot dogs, and Felix’s girlfriend, Cynthia Vartanyan, was there, too. She sat in front of the magazine rack, her skinny, crossed legs encased in sheer black tights, her long, thick black hair tucked into a knit beanie, her fingers flipping through the latest issue of Rolling Stone. Of course. She was one of those insufferable snobs who pieced together a personality with obscure music facts.
We didn’t get along. One, because Felix was my ex-boyfriend from freshman year, and she couldn’t hang with that no matter how many years it had been. Two, my favorite thing to do around her was ask if she’d ever heard of X band—a band that was always on the radio. The self-control needed on her end not to go off on some pretentious rant about mainstream music was amazing.
“Hey, kids.” I dropped my backpack down next to Cynthia, and she looked up at me with a small, tight smile.
“Please keep your belongings on your person!” barked Warren, the gawky and perpetually greasy-haired clerk.
I opened a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and popped one in my mouth. “Only if you ask nicely, babe.” He flushed but let it go. Warren secretly loved having us hang out here. Once, we ran off a potential robber by throwing candy bars at him and screaming until the guy dropped his switchblade and bolted. There was an unspoken rule from that day on that we were allowed to loiter for as long as we wanted. And that’s literally all we did. Hang out at 7-Eleven. My adolescence would end up being represented by a variety of Frito-Lay products.
“What’s up, future prom queen?” Patrick asked before taking a huge bite out of his hot dog. Patrick probably ate more calories in a day than Michael Phelps, but he still looked like a Goth scarecrow.
I tossed a chip at his head. “Thanks for that.”
Felix grinned, his teeth straight, white, and slightly vampiric. “It was a last-minute stroke of genius.” Like me, Felix lived for pranks and disruption. Compact and graceful, he was basically a male, Mexican American me, but with much better personal grooming habits. And that’s what ultimately killed our relationship—turns out when both people in a couple are stubborn and easily bored, things get tiresome, fast.