Tell Me Three Things(23)

“Ew,” I say. “I mean, he’s not bad, but really?”

“No, that’s his band’s name. Orgasmville.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup. And he is. That. Cute. You have to see him onstage. I’ve been, like, in love with him for forever. He’s never said a word to me. Not one. Until right now.”

“He didn’t technically say anything to you,” Agnes informs her.

“He spoke in my vicinity, which is more than he’s spoken to me in the last two years. I’ll take it,” Dri says, and tightens her grip on my hand. That hurts too. “Eeeeee!”

“He has a girlfriend,” Agnes says, and I wonder about her need to piss all over Dri’s parade. If Pete McManning, the senior Scar was obsessed with all of freshman year, had ever talked within her vicinity, I would have squeed right along with her, even though I never quite got Scar’s interest in him. I can’t handle a wispy mustache, even if it’s for the hipster cause.

“Whatever. Gem can kiss my ass.”

“He’s dating Gem?” I ask, and realize just how much I have to catch up on. I know nothing about this school. Forget the honor code; there should be a book that chronicles all this stuff. So, Liam and Gem. Huh. If I had thought about it, I would have figured Liam might have a girlfriend, but I wouldn’t have paired him with Gem. And not because she’s hot—he’s the type to have a beautiful girlfriend—but because she’s nasty. I had him pegged as better than that.

“I know, right? It’s the only thing I don’t like about him,” Dri says.

“Dri is, like, totally obsessed with him. Literally obsessed. She even took up the ukulele to get him to notice her. Hashtag fail.”

“I went through a twee phase. Whatever,” Dri says to me, and gives me a hug. “Arrgghh! You are now my favorite person in the world.”

I smile. Pretend not to notice Agnes’s dirty look.



SN: how’s your day, Ms. Holmes?

Me: Not bad. Yours?

SN: good. been doing my homework in listicle form, because, you know, anything to make it more interesting.

Me: Do you think college will actually be better? For real?

SN: hope so. but then again, I just read about a guy who lost a ball in a frat hazing incident.

Me: Seriously? What is wrong with people?

SN: can you imagine wanting to be liked so badly that you’d give up one of your testicles?

Me: I can neither imagine having testicles nor giving one up.

SN: you won’t let me use emojis, but an ‘i heart my testes’ one would be appropriate right about now.

Me: You know what I heart? Nutella. And pajama pants. And an awesomesauce book. Not necessarily in that order, but together.

SN: awesomesauce? 2012 texted and wants its word back. btw, do you eat the Nutella right out of the jar with a spoon?

Me: Used to. Now I share a kitchen with the Others, so I can’t. Wanted to label it, but my dad said that would be rude.

SN: The Others?

Me: Stepmom and stepbrother. Do you have Others?

SN: nope. my parental structure is still intact. well, at least legally. they barely look at each other these days.

Me: Why?

SN: it’s complicated.

Me: Do you think we’ll ever get past “it’s complicated”?

SN: no doubt in my mind, Ms. Holmes.





CHAPTER 12


Dri’s plan is to live vicariously through me, which is a first, since no one has ever wanted to be me. Ever. I’ve been told to text if Liam says anything interesting. Actually, anything at all.

“You want to learn via text how to work the cash register?” I asked in all seriousness at the end of last period, just before I jumped into my car to go to my first shift at Book Out Below! I wasn’t sure how deep Dri’s obsession went, but as someone who has had my fair share of crushes, I understand the need for information. Details allow you to pretend that you actually know the person who you obsess over, even though you don’t know them at all.

“You can skip that part. Unless he does something cute while explaining it. Then yes, text away,” Dri said, fortunately understanding that I was not, in fact, making fun of her.

So far, Liam has said nothing worth memorializing, nothing really interesting at all. The cash register is the same model we had at the Smoothie King, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Mostly, my job seems to be to sit behind the counter and stand up when I hear the bell on the front door announce a new customer. Judging by Liam’s quick response time, it’s clear that this will soon become a reflex.

“What kind of music does your band play?” I ask. I purposely don’t say “Orgasmville,” mostly because I don’t think I can do it without blushing. The band’s logo is a big vaginal-looking O, with a tongue through it. The Rolling Stones meets Georgia O’Keeffe. And, of course, the name is trying too hard. I give them no points for subtlety.

“I guess rock. Sort of. You know Lou Reed?” I nod, though I’ve only vaguely heard of him. I’m not one of those people who can play the music game, one-upping people via obscure band references.

“Like him. But modern. And maybe even better,” he says, and smiles so that I know he’s just joking. He’s not cocky, like most of the senior boys, who take up too much space when they walk through the halls—all banging lockers and complicated handshakes and running commentary on the girls who are unlucky enough to pass by. Liam, despite swinging Earl, is a bit more contained, the kind of guy who might ask before kissing you.