Puddin'(41)

I pop the tab on the can, and the sound of it piercing the silence is pure satisfaction. Almost more satisfactory than me reaching up and pouring nearly half the can out on top of his head.

Bryce freezes in shock as soda dribbles down his chestnut golden-boy hair and onto his T-shirt, where his ultimate-bro Oakley sunglasses hang from his collar.

And then it’s like what’s happening suddenly hits him. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he screams.

I reach for my backpack and dart out the door.

It’s a second or two before I can hear him on my heels. “Give me my phone back!”

“Who is she?” I shout, not paying any mind to the fact that classes are still in session. “I know every bitch in this school! Who is she?”

Sprinting and typing in his security code isn’t what I’d call easy, but I manage. “You didn’t even change your code?” I say over my shoulder. And somehow it infuriates me most that he felt like there was no way he’d get caught. All I can think is that there’s another girl. There has to be. Guys don’t just leave girls like me unless they’ve got something else lined up.

I stop dead in my tracks just down the hall from the front office and scroll through his messages. He practically runs into me—all limbs as he reaches over me for the phone, but I have a sibling, which gives me the upper hand. If there’s anything my little sis has taught me, it’s how to be a master at keep-away.

And then I see it. A name I don’t recognize. Hiding there in plain sight under a fake contact. “Who’s Neil?” I ask. “New kid in school?” There are no new kids in Clover City.

“That’s private property!” he says. “That phone costs more than a month of your mall-rat paychecks.”

“That’s okay,” I tell him. “Let it all hang out. Well, whoever Neil is, I’m sure he has great boobs and a super-perky ass.” I feel something boiling in my chest. Something that feels like tears. Instead of giving in, I bite them back. I scroll through the messages, but all I see are dumb memes traded back and forth and a few short texts about how the family reunion is sure to “blow.”

His chest heaves and his forehead is damp with sweat. “Neil is my cousin from South Carolina, you psycho bitch.”

Furiously I scroll through more text messages, and I find a little bit of flirting between him and some other girls from school—Sam included—but most of it . . . it’s harmless. Nothing.

“There’s not another girl,” he says with finality. “But believe what you want.”

I whirl around on my heels. But the fire in my belly is quieting and disintegrating into hurt. He’s telling the truth. There is no other girl. He’d rather be alone than with me. I pull myself together and wear my anger like a shield, because the only thing I have left to save now is face.

“Likely story,” I say. “Maybe I’ll remember that before I delete all your gross dick pics from my cloud. Or I could accidentally share them. All those little buttons are so tiny and confusing.” Now we’ve got an audience. Students and faculty are slowly creeping out of their classrooms. Great. My mom is going to kill me. But honestly, what do I have left to lose? “Oh, and here’s a note for future dick pics. Everyone knows you’re just trying to make it look bigger if you take it from underneath.”

Someone behind me whistles, and I hear a teacher say, “Everyone, back to class.”

Principal Armstrong walks up behind Bryce. “Both of you in my office.”

“Not until this slut gives me my phone back.”

“You want your phone back?” I ask. “Your super-expensive phone?” I’m screaming now. “The one I could never afford? I’ll give you your dumb phone back.”

And then I slam his phone, screen facing out, into the nearest locker. I lied when I said popping the tab on that can of Dr Pepper was satisfaction. This is satisfaction. The glass cracks and I slam it again. “Good thing you have so much money to buy a new one!” I throw the phone over his head and it skitters down the hallway, making a few crunching noises along the way.

I walk past Principal Armstrong and escort my own damn self straight into her office. She follows me, guiding a scowling Bryce along.

I turn around just as I enter her office. “I’m not sitting in the same room as him,” I tell her.

Armstrong rolls her eyes, then nods, sending Bryce over to Vice Principal Benavidez’s office.

I sit down in the chair in front of her desk, and the moment Armstrong closes the door behind her, I begin to sob. “I need . . . I need to call my mom,” I say.

She pats my shoulder. “That was supposed to be my suggestion.”

Principal Armstrong does most of the explaining, for which I’m grateful. I nearly tremble when she hands me the phone, but my mom is . . . calm. She tells me we’ll talk about it when I get home and that she’s calling Keith and my dad to see who can get to the school quickest.

I hang up, and Armstrong hands me a box of tissues. She cradles her chin in her hand and turns up the music on her computer just a little. Some kind of nineties acoustic songs with flowy lady voices dancing along to each note. “What is this? Old-lady slow jams?”

“Tori Amos,” she tells me. “You’re having a bad day, so I’ll try not to hold that against you.”