If I'm Being Honest(45)

“Wow. You know more than I do,” she says.

I blush, not entirely knowing why. It’s not like being friends with Brendan is an embarrassment. But I feel like friendship isn’t exactly what Paige is suggesting. “I just mean Brendan’s really cool, and he must have friends in his grade.” Or he should. But I guess I haven’t seen him hanging out with people.

Paige gives me her characteristic you’re-an-idiot look. “Your nickname certainly didn’t help,” she says pointedly.

My face falls. “It’s really because of me?”

Picking up her needle, Paige pauses for a long second. “It’s not entirely your fault,” she says eventually. “Truthfully, it’s Brendan’s choice. He doesn’t try to have friends. Home stuff is . . . hard on him. If it weren’t, the nickname would’ve only been a bump in the road.” From the way she says it, I understand she doesn’t want to elaborate. I leave the conversation there and let Paige return to her stitching.

Hearing the thud of the back door, I glance behind me. Hannah walks out in her Depths of Mordor shirt and goes to shelve paperbacks on a robot-themed display. She comes no closer to Paige and me. Ever since the talk I had with Hannah in the parking lot, she’s done a remarkable job of remaining just far enough from me that I’m unable to start a conversation. She pointedly keeps her eyes on the books, never glancing in Grant’s direction or mine. She finishes shelving and retreats behind the counter.

Paige scratches her head and winces violently enough to drop her thread. I grab it before it tumbles off the coffee table. “Thanks,” she says.

I give her a sympathetic glance. “Cracked scalp?” I remember my mom furiously itching over breakfast every time she’d bleach her sandy blonde hair a couple shades lighter, trying to imitate Reese Witherspoon or Cameron Diaz. She’d twitch in pain and spill milk on the counter or coffee on the floor.

“Cracked and now seared to a crisp because of the bleach,” she replies. I nod understandingly. Paige pushes her hair behind her ear, and I can’t help noticing how stiff and frayed it is. I’m honestly surprised she still has hair, what with her dyeing it every two weeks.

“Why do you do it?” I wonder out loud. “Change your hair so often, I mean.”

“To express my inner pain.”

She gives me a dramatic look. It’s pretty convincing, and it’s Paige. She’s probably serious. I restrain myself from gagging over the teenage-cliché factor.

“Just kidding,” she says, winking and cutting her thread. “I do it to piss off my parents.” She tosses the costume to Abby, who doesn’t catch it. The dress knocks a deck of cards to the floor, and I hear Charlie groan.

Paige rolls her eyes. Collecting the dress, she pulls Abby from her chair and ushers her into the bathroom, ordering her to try on the costume.

I’m left with volume one of Saga, the comic Paige dropped in front of me when I got here and ordered me to read. I’m enjoying the plot, I have to admit. On the couch, Grant has his book open. Romeo and Juliet, I read on the cover. But he’s not turning the pages, and every couple minutes his gaze darts to Hannah, who’s talking to WINTER IS COMING guy.

It’s unexpected, how at home I feel here. I couldn’t have imagined myself weeks ago in this dusty bookstore with this group of people. It’s nothing like the afternoon would have looked with Morgan and Elle, whom I realize with a touch of remorse I haven’t hung out with in a while. We’d probably be in Starbucks, ordering Frappuccinos, and I’d be listening to Elle detail her newest sponsorship and Morgan rave about her weekend on set. Instead, I’m reading a comic book next to a sewing machine and a board game I’ve never heard of—and I’m enjoying it just as much.

Hannah cheers when Abby comes out of the bathroom. Abby’s in the French-maid costume, and she spins, showing off how perfectly it fits. I catch Grant scowling, evidently jealous of Hannah’s enthusiasm.

“Paige,” Hannah squeals, “you’re amazing. We’re definitely going to win.”

Paige gives a dramatic bow. Despite the exaggeration of the gesture, I read genuine pride on her face. “I’m devoted to the cause,” she tells Hannah. She returns to our corner and drops into a chair.

“Win?” I ask.

“Yeah, for Rocky Horror,” Paige replies. “There’s a costume contest. The winners get to go on stage for ‘Time Warp,’” she adds, like I have any idea what she’s talking about. “Hannah’s really into it.”

“Does everyone dress as a character?”

“Yeah, well, not exactly. People sometimes just put on whatever outrageous, sexy stuff they can find. Whatever’s Rocky-worthy.” Paige pauses, her eyes finding mine. “Wait. Why do you want to know?”

I look at Hannah, fussing over Abby’s costume, and feel a grin forming on my face.





Twenty-One



I’M HEAVING MY ETHICS TEXTBOOK FROM MY locker on Monday morning when I glimpse two words on a piece of paper under my books. NOT INTERESTED. I blink. I’d forgotten I kept the note inviting Brendan to lunch.

I pause in front of my open locker. People pass me in the hallway, heading toward their classes, conversations ending in classroom doorways. I have a few minutes. Biting my lip, I impulsively remove the note from under my book pile and pull a pen from my bag.