The day passes at the speed of snail.
Before last period, I leave a Post-it for a freshman kid the football goons are harassing today instead of Shane. They call him Alexa instead of Alex, and that has to suck. Since I don’t know him, I compliment his taste in sneakers, which are awesome old-school Chucks, just the right amount of grunge. Alex does a clumsy karate kick as I go by, showing off the shoes, and I laugh. The beautiful people think I’m an idiot, but their scorn is worth it for moments like this. It’s like everybody I tag could be a potential friend.
“Hey,” Alex calls. “I hear you’re on the market again.”
… Wait, what? He’s a freshman.
I stop. “I’m not seeing anyone.”
“Does a younger guy have a shot?” he asks, flashing me a grin.
He’s short and skinny, like Ryan used to be. Alex has a goofy sense of personal style, plus bad coordination and unpredictable skin. His hair looks like his mom cuts it by trimming around a bowl. But I don’t want to hurt his feelings.
“Only if said younger guy can pick me up in his G6.” I figure he’ll know that’s a joke since I don’t approve of fossil-fuel burning cars, let alone absurdly wasteful private planes.
He grins. “I’ll get right on that.”
By the time I get to the bike rack, the initial after-school scramble has passed. The buses are loaded and leaving the parking lot. Most people who drive take off as soon as they can, clogging the road leading away from JFK. Still, even now, there are a few stragglers in the parking lot. Two guys wearing knit hats practice skate tricks until Mr. Mackiewicz runs them off. It’s pretty funny how he makes time to be a buzzkill even on his way out to his car.
I have fifty minutes before I need to be at the Curly Q for my shift, so I’m in no real hurry. But I’m surprised when Lila hails me. She breaks away from a pack of mostly goth posers, who are piling into a gray van. Lila is tall, five ten or so, and she might look like a supermodel, if she wasn’t so into death fashion. Her long legs eat up the distance between us.
“Where you headed?” she asks me.
I can’t figure out what her deal is today. We never talk. “Work, eventually.”
“Want to get a frap?”
Oh. I think I know what this is about, so I mumble, “There’s no dirt. Nobody cheated.”
“I’m not interested in that anyway. I’m sure the story’s tedious.”
“Then what?” I don’t mean to be rude, but seriously, we barely live on the same planet.
She shakes back her super-vibrant dyed red hair. “Since you want me to lay it out, well, you’re way short on female friends. Most of mine’ve killed too many brain cells, so I’m in the market for someone with whom I can use polysyllabic words.”
“I’m flattered. I think. And, yeah, I have time for a frap.” The tiny café that serves as a substitute for Starbucks is two blocks from the salon.
“Sweet. Can I ride on the handlebars of your bike?”
“No. You can run along behind me like a spaniel.” See, I can be sarcastic, too.
Lila grins. “I could seriously get to like the new you.”
“I’m still me. Same princess. Same nice. Just…” Something has changed, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“With an angry breakup edge?” she offers.
“That works.” Anger is the wrong word, though, because I don’t permit that feeling anymore. The cost is too high when I unleash.
I wasn’t kidding when I said she could run after me. Conversation over, I swing onto my bike and head for the coffee shop, which is cunningly named Coffee Shop. There was a sign that said ANDREA’S above it at one point, but she sold the place, and the new owners took that part down. They just never mustered up the ambition to dub it anything clever. The pastries are pretty good, however, and the décor is cute, belying the uber-utilitarian name.
By the time Lila arrives, I’m already settled and sipping a latte. I smile at her as she pushes through the door, jingling the bell. She places her order, then joins me; the barista will bring her drink when it’s ready. There are a few other people in here, mostly artsy types. They like the ambiance better than the fried meat grease and dull roar over at DQ. A couple of them double-take at the sight of me hanging with Lila, as we’re not really from the same social strata.
“So why don’t you tell me what this is about,” I say, sipping my drink.
“I can’t put anything past you, huh?”
“Unlikely.” After I say it, I realize that’s Shane’s word, and a goofy-happy feeling sweeps over me. It’s absurd, but it makes me feel like he and I have a thing.
She cuts her eyes to both sides, as if there are spies from JFK nearby. “Sophomore year, I broke up with Dylan Smith.”
“Rings a bell.” Now that she’s mentioned it, I remember. “He’s such a tool. You were spirit squad, weren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
After the breakup, she hung a sharp left away from the beautiful people, swapping her dance routines and pom-poms for thick eyeliner, lots of black, and a bad attitude. Dylan went around with his crew talking about what a druggie whore she’d become without him. Personally, I thought she was better off, especially given the way he treated people he saw as lesser beings.
“At first, my old friends were all, ‘OMG, are you insane? He’s so hot, you two are the power couple.’” She shrugs. “They didn’t care that he was a controlling asshole. When I refused to ‘see reason,’ they just cut me off. I had like a month where I just didn’t talk to anyone.”