Ella's Twisted Senior Year(22)

I make a glass of orange juice from the fridge and try not to feel weird when my instincts have me reaching for the cabinet to get a cup. They’re still in the same place, just like I remember.

I struggle against the waves of nostalgia stirred up by this simple cabinet. “Hey, Mom? Where’s my toothbrush?”

She told me yesterday that she’d left me a new toothbrush and toothpaste in the bathroom since weren’t using the free hotel ones anymore. But last night there was nothing in my bathroom and I could hear Ethan downstairs with his parents so I just fell asleep with gross teeth. Now I can’t avoid it anymore, but at least Ethan is still in his room.

Mom’s head tilts. “I left it in the bathroom.”

“It’s not in there.”

Mrs. Poe says, “Which bathroom?”

“The one in the hallway,” Mom says, reaching for another muffin.

“Oh that’s the wrong one,” I say. I finish my orange juice and rinse out the glass. “The rec room has its own bathroom.”

“Oh wow, I didn’t know that.” Mom laughs. “How did I not know that?”

Mrs. Poe snorts. “Samantha, you know we were never allowed in there. It was a kids only zone for years.” Then she launches into a story about how the contractor messed up and made the bathroom two feet shorter when the house was built.

I slip out of their reminiscing and follow Dakota back up the stairs. “Hey, you should come to my room when you’re done,” she says over her shoulders. “Just, you know, if you have time.”

“Okay sure,” I say. I step into the hall bathroom and a burst of hot steamy air hits me. Ethan must have just taken a shower which means I probably barely missed seeing him. I let out a slow breath, relieved that this bathroom has two doors, one that separates the sink area from the shower area. If he’d left the shower door open, then all the humidity would have totally ruined my hair.

The new toothbrush and a box of toothpaste are on the counter. I ignore the men’s hair gel and the other two toothbrushes in a holder near the sink but the thing is, once I’ve seen the gel, it’s impossible to ignore it. The memory of how good his hair smelled last night makes me grit my teeth. Why does my best friend-turned-enemy have to be so hot? It’d be so easy to hate him if he was repulsive.

The second bathroom door opens and a cloud of humidity fills the room. My heart leaps. He was in the shower this whole time.

“Sorry, I’m leaving,” I say, grabbing the toothbrush stuff.

“You’re welcome to stay.” Ethan flashes me a sideways grin as he walks by, wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair falls in black streaks across his forehead. My eyes immediately drop to his abs and then I look away, but catch his eyes in the mirror’s reflection. He grins. “I’ll get dressed in my room.”

And then he’s gone and I’m left panting, my fist gripped around the toothbrush so tightly the package rips open.

Damn.

In the rec room’s bathroom, I brush my teeth like a zombie, my body going through the motions but my thoughts are elsewhere.

April doesn’t answer my three phone calls and I’m starting to panic about how I’ll get to school. The school bus is not an option. The other option—well, I refuse to think about that right now.

Remembering Dakota’s request, I knock on her bedroom door and she waves me inside. “What’s up?” I ask, glancing around her room. It’s changed a lot from her Barbie doll and Dora the Explorer days. Now the walls are painted lavender and are decorated with black and white photos of European landscapes. It’s still pretty girly, though.

“Okay so, I don’t want to like, hurt your feelings or anything,” she says, and it sounds like a question. I lift an eyebrow, watching her do her eye makeup in the mirror above her dresser. “I just, well, I know you lost all your clothes and stuff,” she says.

I roll my hand. “What’s your point?”

Her shoulders fall and she turns around, giving me this smile that looks weird because only one of her eyes are lined in black. “I heard about how Kennedy told the whole school you wore the same thing twice.”

“What?” My eyes squeeze shut. “But you’re in junior high. How did you hear that?”

She bites her lip. “Kennedy’s little sister has a big mouth.”

I press my palm into my forehead. “This is so stupid. It’s bad enough that I lost everything in the stupid tornado,” I mutter.

Dakota says, “That’s why I called you in here. Okay, I know it might be stupid and you can totally tell me to shut up but, like, I think we’re the same size.”

She’s taking forever to spit out whatever she’s trying to say. I lift an eyebrow. “So . . .?”

“So I was thinking,” she says, sweeping her hand toward her walk-in closet. “If you want to borrow some of my clothes you can. I mean, I’m sure they’re all lame but I have jeans and stuff. It might help?”

I look down at my ensemble—the same jeans I’d worn the day the tornado ripped my house to shreds, and a black t-shirt I’d bought for five bucks at Old Navy this weekend.

“I could use some jeans,” I say.

Her half-made-up face brightens. “Awesome! Help yourself.”

After finding a pair of skinny jeans that fit me perfectly, I’m feeling loads better about going to school today. I’d told myself I didn’t care about wearing the same jeans, but now that I’m not, the relief is huge. Kennedy had, after all, pointed it out to the entire school. I can tell myself I don’t care what people think but in the end, I’m glad I’m wearing different jeans.