Complete Nothing (True Love #2)(10)

I pulled the car into the driveway and hit the brakes. “What does that even mean?”

It came out nasty, as if I was mad at her or something, and suddenly I felt worse than I already had, which I didn’t think was possible. I took a deep breath and tried to blow out my anger, but I couldn’t stop seeing the way Claudia had thrown herself at Lance back at the studio. I knew she wasn’t interested in him. I did. But he was basically the perfect guy for her, and I’d spent the last year and a half waiting for her to see it. Now they were going to go to that audition together, get into the dance program together, and spend the next four years hanging out. While I was . . . where? Here? Taking classes at the community college and going to LCH football games on the weekends, trying to relive my glory days?

God. I was such a loser.

Michelle, meanwhile, didn’t seem to notice my tone. She looked at me like I was the dumbest person alive. “You know, like on TMZ how they’re always showing celebs kicking the paparazzi’s ass?” She unhooked her seat belt and pushed open her door. “Talia was not cool with Kendall insulting her dad. She totally ripped the back off Kendall’s practice jersey.”

I smirked, trying to focus on my fairly awesome sister instead of my own lameness.

“Seriously?” I said as I got out of the car. “Sounds more violent than my practice.”

“Eighth-grade girls’ soccer is not a cakewalk, bro,” she said, widening her blue eyes as she shook her head.

I laughed and ruffled her hair. “I might have to come be your bodyguard next time.”

“Are you kidding? Talia takes Krav Maga!” Michelle joked, nudging my side. “She could take you with one hand tied behind her back.”

“Ha ha.” I got her in a choke hold and gave her a noogie. Not a hard one, though. More like a love-noogie. At least if I stayed home next year I’d get to hang out with my mom and Michelle. That was a bright side.

“Get off! Get off me! Foul! I call foul! You’ve got a hundred pounds on me!” I let her go and she straightened her hair and huffed. “You are so immature.”

“My apologies, princess.” I raised my hands in surrender. “What do you think Mom’s making for dinner tonight?”

“I hope fried chicken,” Michelle replied with a jump, forgetting how fed up she was with me. “We haven’t had fried chicken in forever, and she said she was going to try some new seasoning or something.”

She pushed open the door and we both paused. The house was full of the scent of frying food. Even though I’d just eaten half a pizza, my stomach grumbled. My mom, who was a paralegal by day and a food blogger by night, was rushing around the kitchen, her semi-wet blond hair pulled up into a high ponytail, an apron strapped on over her sweats. Every day she came home, showered, and got right to work on some random recipe she’d try out on us. Then she’d write about our reactions for her blog, “Kid Tested.”

Which was why I’d been my sister’s chauffeur ever since I’d gotten my license. But I didn’t mind. I liked the extra alone time with Michelle. And at least my dad had left behind his old car when he’d bailed on us eight years ago. My mom had kept it in good condition, so that I’d be able to use it as my own one day. She called it my dad’s “parting gift.”

“Hi, guys!” she called out happily. “How was your day?”

“Good,” I lied, considering the way it had ended.

“Better now!” Michelle added, hopping over to the stove.

I put my bag down and was about to go grab one of the onion rings off the paper towel where they were draining on the counter, when something in the dining room caught my eye. Great. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse. On the table were stacks of college brochures—dozens of them. My mother must have raided my room, and from the looks of it, she hadn’t left a drawer unsearched, a pillow unturned, or a garbage can unemptied.

“What’s that about?” I asked, trying to sound casual as I plucked an onion ring.

“You and I are going through those tonight, together,” she said, and gave me a serious stare. She checked the temperature on her oil, which popped and sizzled. “If you’re meeting with your guidance counselor to narrow down your choices tomorrow, I want my two cents in.”

“But Mom—”

“No buts, Peter.”

Michelle giggled.

“But I have volunteering tonight,” I improvised. I wasn’t scheduled to work, but they could always use help. It wasn’t like Marcy Fiore, my church’s middle-aged soup kitchen ministry adviser, was going to turn me away if I showed up at the door. “I can’t miss that.”

“Then we’ll do it after,” Mom said. “This is your future we’re talking about, Peter. You have to start taking this seriously.”

I felt that pressure—the pressure I always felt when Claudia brought up college—like someone was grinding a rock into my chest. The onion ring found its way into my mouth, even though my stomach didn’t really want it anymore.

“Are there any schools near Princeton?” I asked, trying to lean back against the counter casually. “I mean, like, schools I could get into?”

My mom and Michelle exchanged a knowing glance.

“Well, there’s Rowan,” my mom said, carefully placing a chicken leg into the oil, then wiping her fingers on her apron. “And Rutgers is about an hour from there. But Rutgers might be . . .”