Puddin'(89)

I settle into the booth nearest the window to just enjoy the air-conditioning for a little while before I decide on my next move. I could call my mom, but then I’d have to explain all this drama to her, and she is very clearly Team Millie.

Across the street, I watch as Willowdean’s boyfriend, Bo, squats down on the curb with a soft drink. A few minutes later Willowdean follows him in her red-and-white uniform dress, her blond curls spilling out of her baseball cap.

The two share a soda and make a sort of contest of kissing each other on the cheek until their noses collide and Bo breaks out in a big gut-busting laugh.

Watching the both of them is like watching the cheesiest montage in one of Millie’s romantic comedies.

And it only makes me angrier.

The one person I thought was different from all the other waste-of-space assholes in this town, and she turns out to be just as bad as everyone else. I reach for the napkin dispenser on the table and try pushing away the tears brimming up. But once they start, they don’t stop. I turn my body away from the guy at the counter—not like he’s paying attention to anything besides his phone anyway—and I let the tears spill down my cheeks.

My life wasn’t perfect before. And, yeah, Bryce was a jerk. But who knows what I missed out on besides State and Nationals when I was banned from the dance team? Travel, scholarships, awards to beef up my college applications. And I guess Melissa and Sam weren’t all that bad. They weren’t great friends, but they were friends. And Millie took all that away in a moment, without a single thought as to what kind of consequences might lie ahead. Logically, I know that I trashed the gym and that’s my fault. But did she have to be the one who pinned it on me? Something about that just stings.

But what hurts most of all is that she never said a damn thing. All those hours at the gym and talking in Amanda’s backyard or out at my abuela’s house, and she said nothing. I’ve never even taken Sam or Melissa or even Bryce to meet my abuela. Not even after Millie knew what I did to the Shamrocks for the whole school to see! That really kills me. I like some good revenge as much as the next person, but only when it’s well deserved.

I watch as Willowdean and Bo share their soda before heading back into work. I try to muster up the old Callie and think of some truly awful thing to say, about how a girl who looks like Willowdean has no business with a guy who looks like Bo, but the truth is I think they’re nauseatingly cute together. The thought alone feels like some kind of betrayal of self. Like I’ve shed the person I once was, and maybe that’s supposed to be a good thing. But instead I feel like I’ve lost the layer of skin that protects me and keeps me safe from the rest of the world. My whole body feels like a skinned knee with too-fresh skin exposed to the elements—so much so that even an innocent breeze stings.

The sun is slowly beginning to dip below the horizon, and I still have a long walk ahead of me. I don’t need my mom out patrolling the streets, looking for me. I refill my fountain drink once more, and the guy behind the counter doesn’t even look up when the bell above the door rings as I walk out into the parking lot.

I tighten the straps on my backpack and head off toward home. I make it four blocks before a Ford Bronco rumbles to a crawl beside me.

The passenger window buzzes down as another car honks as it speeds past. “Hey!” shouts Mitch, unfazed. “You out here training for a survival show or something?” He points to my Chili Bowl cup. “I see you’ve come prepared with rations.”

“Yeah,” I say as I walk alongside the car on the sidewalk. “Diet Dr Pepper is my survivalist elixir. My life blood, if you will.”

“Ah,” he says. “Well, I don’t want to interfere with your oneness with nature.” Another impatient car speeds past him while the driver practically sits on the horn.

I can’t help but laugh. “You might be the cause of Clover City’s first official traffic jam.”

“Finally, something for my father to be proud of,” he says. “Let me give you a ride.”

I stop. And so does he. Walk six miles, or take a ride from the one person in this town who hasn’t thrown me under the bus at some point in time? (Yet.) I’ll take the ride.

“I think you and Dr Pepper might be the only trustworthy things left in my life. Sure you don’t mind?”

“I mean, not to objectify you, but I also like watching you walk, if that’s what you prefer. But your company is great, too!”

I feel an almost smile forming on my lips.

He reaches over his center console to open the door for me, and I hop in.

I throw my backpack in the backseat, and it crashes against piles of empty cups and clothes. “Whoa. That’s a lot of shit.”

“Listen,” he says, “my mom does not mess around when it comes to how clean she keeps our house. My room included. The backseat of this baby is like my own slovenly dirty secret.”

I shrug. “So you’re like a hoarder, but just your backseat.”

“Well, I like to think of it as more of a junk drawer.”

“A really big junk drawer.”

He smirks. “To your house?”

I nod. “Yep.”

“Are you going to tell me why you were walking, or are you going to play it cool and mysterious?”

“Cool and mysterious,” I tell him. “For sure.”