Afterparty(31)

“Did something happen to your hair?” he says, and I can tell he’s making a strenuous effort to remain calm.

“Yeah, I put in what was supposed to be a temporary pink rinse, but it won’t come out. I might have to use rubbing alcohol or something.”

My dad looks as if he’s trying to figure out whether to be upset with me, and if so, just how upset.

I say, “I know it looks weird, but this is really a my-body-belongs-to-me thing. This is in the henna-tattoo-wears-off, tweezing-my-eyebrows, and having-green-toenail-polish column—not in the stud-through-my-tongue one.”

“You want a stud through your tongue?”

We have had multiple discussions about how putting a stud through your tongue is a medical disaster, creating a tiny bacterial sewer in your mouth; of course I don’t want a stud through my tongue after that.

My dad says, “Ma princesse, don’t cry. I’m sure we can find a way to get it out. It’s very slight, the faintest tint.”

? ? ?

“So,” Dylan says on Monday when I’m about to fork over another week of history notes that are completely handwritten because, in a moment of compulsive frenzy, I made charts. “All this time I thought you were a mild-mannered bad seed, but turns out you’re Juliet. Imagine my surprise.”

I say, “All this time I thought you were an underachiever. What are you raving about?”

Dylan imitates what appears to be a swooning girl. “Oh Rosalind, it’s just like Romeo and Juliet!”

“Do we even know anyone named Rosalind? What are you talking about?”

“From fair Verona, where we lay our scene?” he says, misquoting Romeo and Juliet. “Big family feud. Older French boyfriend. Clashing tribes. Sword fights. Your dad wants to mutilate him. Is any of this coming back to you?”

Oh shit. What Siobhan said to Chelsea. What I said to Chelsea.

Only bigger.

Arif, who has been watching this whole thing, leaning against the bank of lockers, slightly shaking his head, says, “Is this lout bothering you, Miss Capulet?”

Dylan says, “Shut it.”

Arif swats him. “You should bypass him and give those notes straight to me,” he says. “At least I know enough not to return them coated with cheese and pepperoni.”

“Pepperoni envy,” Dylan says. “Not halal. You would smear those notes with pepperoni if you could.”

“No,” Arif says. “I wouldn’t. And let me point out that it’s not kosher, either. Or even arguably healthy.”

“If Jews had Hell, I’d be going straight there,” Dylan says. He looks down at me. He’s a good eight inches taller than me. “As are you, Juliet. A disgrace to your tribe.”

Arif says, “Are you dissing this girl’s tribe?” He is fake-incensed. He says to me, “You’re Moroccan, right? Would you like me to go get him kicked out of school for cultural insensitivity? They’re very keen on that.”

“I’m part Moroccan. How does everybody suddenly know where my grandmother comes from and my family feuds and how my tribe’s pissed off about my boyfriend?” There, I have completely accidentally said it out loud. “My boyfriend.” In front of Dylan, who must think I come in a slightly rosy pink color given that I’m in a constant state of blushing in front of him.

“Too bad,” Dylan says. “If you were whole, he probably could have gotten me booted out of this swamp.”

? ? ?

Siobhan says, “Calm down. If you don’t want a cool French boyfriend, we can always kill him off. He’s an interim measure. It’s not a big deal.”

It’s a pretty big deal.

I’m suddenly a mysteriously tragic figure, languishing in California, texting the increasingly hot Jean-Luc, my romantic absentee imaginary boyfriend. One day after conception, he’s up and running and pining for me on the banks of the Seine.

Poor Jean-Luc, from whom Siobhan’s imagination has separated me because I’m a Capulet and he’s a Montague. Sort of. Jean-Luc and I have passionate yet heartbreaking trysts when he lurks in the forests of Canada tossing pebbles at my cabin window, evading death at the hands of my dad, who—our family elevated to the status of the somewhat Moroccan Kennedys of Quebec—is into dynastic feuds.

I say, “No one is going to buy this.”

Siobhan and I are sitting in the student lounge, eating candy bars from the vending machines. Siobhan says, “Are you questioning my brilliance? You’re not, right? Because I already told Kimmy, and she’s a broadcasting tower.”

A highly effective broadcasting tower.

Chelsea says, “How do you know this guy isn’t stepping out with a French model?”

I say, “Really, Chelsea. We are so far beyond that. He’s not a child.”

Siobhan and I exchange a quick glance, a fast, private, motionless high-five and set up Jean-Luc’s Facebook page.





CHAPTER TWENTY


“FACE IT,” SIOBHAN SAYS. “JEAN-LUC is cool, but this whole Afterparty prep list is only going to work if you find someone not imaginary that you think is hot and get going. Wasn’t there one single guy at Strick’s you wanted?”

“You want me to cheat on Jean-Luc with a drunk guy I don’t even know?”