I wait, guessing there’s a reason she’s telling me this. The waitress brings Lila’s frozen mocha, which delays the story for a few seconds. Then she carries on as if there’d been no interruption.
“So in the middle of this, I get a Post-it on my locker. I don’t even remember what it said now.”
Oh. “I do. I said I loved your black corset top.” It wasn’t something I’d be brave enough to wear, but it looked stunning on Lila.
“Right.” She smiles at me, the look untouched by her usual cynicism. “I was trying to show Dylan what he was missing at that point. I really needed somebody to be nice to me. It helped that you were. So now that you’re basically in that same situation, I want to return the favor. I’m not the Post-it type, and that’s your thing anyway. So…”
“Hence, the fraps.” Although I’m not drinking one, she is.
“Exactly.”
I’m no longer worried about the potential pitfalls, but I mentally go back over something she said. “Same situation? You mean Ryan’s talking shit about me?”
If he is, I don’t even. Everything freezes inside me. How can he? I’m not the one who lied on so many levels. I was just there.
“Not that I’ve heard. I just meant … you can’t hang with your usual crowd anymore. I know how awkward that can be. And I really am in the market for a new best friend. My current crew keeps me from being forever alone, but they’re not…” She taps her temple and grimaces, conveying that they suffer from stoner brain.
I can’t believe she’s just telling me this. It seems so unlike Lila, but then I realize I really don’t know her. For the first two years, I saw the side she showed while running with the beautiful people, and then the new version she created to fit in with the goth crew. Maybe neither Lila was exactly the person she wants to be; that thought is kind of revelational. It’s probably true of me, as well.
“I’m definitely willing to hang. I might be quitting a number of my clubs.” That thought pains me, as I joined them for my college application, but I just can’t see working with Ryan at this juncture.
“What’s your cell number?”
I give her the number without my usual spiel it’s for emergencies only. When I check the time, I see I need to get moving. “Work beckons. Want to set something up for this weekend?”
“Do you ever go to the Barn?”
That sounds like it would be a club, but it’s actually a barn. Oh, the joys of rural living. There’s a kid who graduated last year, still famous for hosting parties. Which strikes me as a little sad. Why does he want to be the Man to a bunch of minors? I mean, maybe that’s all he has.
“I didn’t last year.” But maybe it’s time to change it up.
“There’s a bash on Saturday. You want to check it out?”
“Sure.” Then I realize that transportation will prove a problem. “Can you text me the address? I’ll meet you there.”
Parties are always hosted at night, so I’ll need to ride out to the farm, which could take a while. It also means I’ll be gross and sweaty when I arrive. I’ll also be covered in reflectors. I close my eyes and sigh. Maybe this isn’t the best idea.
“I can give you a ride,” she says.
I shake my head. “It’s not that. I have a thing about cars.”
“Are you scared of them?” She sounds worried, like if this is true, I’m 100 percent weirder than she banked on, and I’ve already lost her.
Fortunately, I have a valid reason to cover the deeper motivation behind my dogged avoidance. “No, I just don’t ride in them. They’re killing the world.”
“Oh, it’s like a protest?”
“Pretty much. I know it’s not getting media coverage or anything, but I care. I’d know if I broke down just because it’s easier.”
“That’s cool,” she says, visibly relieved. Then I see an idea register. “My dad restores golf carts as a hobby. Don’t ask. If I picked you up in one of those, would you go?”
“Totally.” I can’t believe she’d do that for me. It’s so dorky and she hardly knows me. “But is that even legal?”
“They’re allowed on back roads, as long as I yield to faster moving traffic. It’ll be faster than a tractor at least.”
I laugh, but she has a point. Country roads are often clogged by farm machinery this time of year. So I offer a quick nod. “Then I’m in. I really appreciate it.”
“Where do you live?”
I scribble my address on a Coffee Shop napkin, then groan at the time. “Now I really have to jet. Mildred will eat my face if I’m late.”
That’s the owner of the Curly Q. She’s a hundred years old with thinning, dyed-orange hair. From the look of her, you’d be scared to let any of her employees work on you, but the stylists are great. They like practicing on me when it’s slow. Usually, I don’t let them do anything permanent, but tonight, I’m feeling reckless. It’s just hair, right? Since I’m going to a party at the Barn with Lila Tremaine in a golf cart it seems like I need to update my look.
I have forty seconds to spare when I burst through the doors. Mildred gives me the side-eye, but since I’m not technically late, she just says, “Get your smock on, girl. There’s cleaning to be done.”
Though it’s not strictly legal or sanitary, I’m pretty sure they save the hair for hours. The stylists just sweep it away from the chairs and pile it out of the way. So by the time I arrive, there’s a small Sasquatch on the floor. It takes me an hour to get the shop pristine. Customers come and go, mostly walk-in haircuts. Around six, it slows down, and Grace beckons me to the chair.