Leah on the Offbeat (Creekwood #2)(44)

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, it does.” She tilts her head toward me. “I don’t know. It just feels like I can’t win sometimes.”

I open my mouth to reply, but I have no clue what to say. For a minute, Abby and I just look at each other. I can’t read her expression at all.

Finally, she smiles, almost wistfully. “It is what it is.”

“I guess.”

“Just don’t call me perfect again. Deal?” She wrinkles her nose at me.

“Deal.”

A man around my mom’s age steps up to give a welcome speech. Then he introduces the tour guides—three girls and a guy, all UGA seniors. They split us into two groups, and we trail behind them into the parking lot, where there are actual buses waiting to be boarded.

“I kind of wish this was a double-decker bus tour.”

“Or one of those duck tours.”

I look at her. “What the fuck is a duck tour?”

“Say that ten times fast,” says Abby.

“No way.” We settle into a seat.

“Okay, so duck tours are those boats that go on land and water.” Something about my expression makes her giggle. “No, seriously, Google it. This is a legit thing in DC.”

I start to respond, but then I realize one of the student tour guides—Fatima—is saying something important right now. “You’ll see it just to your left,” she says, “and it is part of the meal plan.”

Immediately, a dad jumps in with a slew of rapid-fire questions about his son’s dietary restrictions. Fatima is unfazed. “The dining halls can absolutely accommodate students with food allergies,” she begins.

“Well, my daughter is vegan,” a mom chimes in, glaring up at Fatima like she’s issuing a challenge.

“Totally fine. There are lots of vegan options—”

The mom cuts her off. “I’d appreciate something a little more specific than ‘lots of vegan options.’” She makes air quotes as she says this. The vegan daughter in question shrinks into her seat, like she’s trying to disappear.

“Now you know why I didn’t want my parents here,” Abby mutters.

“No kidding.”

“I guarantee, right now my dad would be asking how they’re going to gender segregate the dorms.”

“Um . . . they’re not?” I say, lips tugging upward. “Because it’s college?”

“Yeah, he missed that memo.”

I mean, that’s the way to keep people from hooking up, Mr. Suso. Totally foolproof, except for the fact that gay people exist. How can Abby’s dad not realize that? Seriously, how can a person with a lesbian sister not even consider that as a possibility?

Not that it is a possibility. Not for Abby anyway. Because Abby’s as straight as a Popsicle stick.

Hours later, I’m in Caitlin’s bathroom, attempting eyeliner. I’ve already given up on my hair. My hair is an asshole.

“Shit.”

“You okay?” Abby asks, peeking in through the doorway.

“Eyeliner injury.”

“Been there.” She grimaces. “Hey, can I join you?”

“Sure.” I step sideways, making room. She sets a bottle of goopy white stuff next to the sink and starts wetting her hair. “What’s that?” I ask.

“Curl milk,” she says. Then she squirts some into her hand. “Keeps the curls popping.”

I really love your hair, I think.

“Good to know,” I say.

“What do you think you’re going to wear?” she asks, threading her hands through her hair.

“Um. This? And my combat boots? I didn’t bring extra clothes.”

“That works.”

“Did you?”

I see her smiling in the mirror.

“Look at you, all prepared.” I uncap my mascara.

She watches me for a moment. “Your eyes are so green.”

I flush. “It’s the lighting.”

“Mmhmm. They’re really pretty.”

There’s a hiccup in my stomach. I try to focus on my eyelashes. Which are nothing like Abby’s eyelashes. Abby’s eyelashes should have their own zip code.

She leaves, and then returns with a makeup bag. I wasn’t sure she even wore makeup. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t usually, at least not in school. But she knows what she’s doing—dusting and blending until her skin glows and her eyes are wide and soft.

“This will be fun, right?” she says, glancing at me.

“If you say so.”

She meets my eyes in the mirror and smiles before heading to the bedroom to change.

The party starts at eight thirty, but Abby won’t let us head down until after nine. “We really don’t want to be the first ones there,” she says.

We take selfies while we wait—and it takes approximately a thousand tries before we get one that satisfies Abby. That’s strangely reassuring. I always figured magical girls like Abby get their selfies right on the first try. She sends it to Simon, and he writes back immediately.

Wow.

With a period. And it’s weird how the period makes it feel like he really means it. I stare at my knees.

Abby nudges me, grinning. “Should we head down there?”