She can’t be serious. “Cassidy Richards?”
“Yep.”
Oh, hell. I can tell by the sinister look on her face that she is serious.
“Why are you goin’ to school with my ex?” I ask.
Dani takes a bite of the granola bar. “One, because she’s a junior and can drive to school. Two, she’s popular and can introduce me to all the cool people. Three, she offered to drive me. Need I say more?”
Cassidy Richards and I have dated on and off since the beginning of last year. We broke up for good before the summer. She has this annoying habit of posting shit online about me. It’s not like she calls me out and tags me in the posts, but everyone at school knows her “breakup quotes” are aimed at me. Things like:
IF YOU’RE AFRAID OF COMMITMENT, YOU DON’T DESERVE ME
NO GIRL WILL TREAT YOU AS GOOD AS I DID
I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING AND YOU SHIT ON ME
I’M BETTER WITHOUT YOU THAN WITH YOU
and my personal favorite…
MY EX IS A DOUCHE
Yeah, that’s Cassidy. Slinging the insults until she decides she wants me back. Then my phone blows up with texts saying how much she misses me. The last time we broke up, I vowed we’d never get back together. Cassidy is the poster child for drama queens. I don’t do drama. At least, not anymore.
“What’s wrong with our sister?” I ask Marissa after Dani struts out of the house.
Marissa shrugs. “Don’t ask.”
Marissa sets her bowl in the sink and follows me outside when I hear a car honk. My best friend, Trey, is parked on our driveway, sitting proudly in his old beat-up Honda Civic with over two hundred thousand miles on it.
He sticks his head out the car window and calls out to my sister, “Hey, Marissa! Want a ride?”
“No thanks, Trey,” she says, pushing her glasses up on her nose as she walks away. “I want to take the bus.”
When I get in the car, Trey gives me a questioning look. “Let me see if I comprehend this accurately. Your freshman sister wants to take the bus?”
“Yep.”
“She’s excessively bizarre, Vic.”
“You mean weird?”
Trey looks at me sideways. He tries to sprinkle sophisticated words into our conversations. Basically he sounds like a mixture of an Ivy League scholar and a kid from the hood. I make fun of him, because while he’s a walking dictionary I just use the most amount of simple words possible.
“Let’s just say Marissa probably considers ridin’ the bus a high school social experiment and will write a paper on it for sociology class,” I tell him.
Trey’s engine sputters twice before he backs out of my driveway. “As I said, your sister is bizarre.”
“What about your sister?” I ask. “She walks around like she’s some kind of Hollywood celebrity ever since Jet got her that modeling gig.”
“I’m not denying that my sister is eccentric,” he says, amused. “Speaking of eccentric, Cassidy Richards just pulled out of your driveway with Dani. I thought I had the wrong house. Why was she here?”
“I don’t know what Cassidy’s up to,” I say.
Trey laughs. “She wants to be your girlfriend again. That’s what’s up.”
Just the thought of it makes me shiver. “Not gonna happen.”
“Next month is the homecoming dance,” he says. “Maybe she wants a date and you’re it. If you don’t have another girl to ask, you might as well acquiesce and go with her. You’re not going stag, that’s for sure.”
Hell, homecoming is the last thing on my mind. “Let’s change the subject, man. I don’t want to talk about Cassidy or homecoming. Or acquiesce, whatever that means. Talk so normal people can understand you.”
“Don’t you want to increase your vocab, Vic?”
“No.”
He shrugs. “Fine. So let’s talk about the fight you got yourself into last night,” Trey says. “You okay? I heard it was brutal.”
“Yeah. I mean, the dude totally clocked Heather.” I look down at my busted knuckles. I’d heard that Heather’s boyfriend was into boxing and stuff, but I had no clue he used her as a punching bag until last night when I saw him hit her at the beach. She tried to blow it off, saying it was the first time he’d been abusive to her.
I don’t give a shit if it was the first time or fiftieth time. The dude needed to know that you don’t hit a chick without consequences.
“I would have backed you up if I’d known about it,” Trey says.
Trey is in line to be valedictorian, and he’s always been squeaky-clean. He worries about his grades just as much as his reputation, which is why I didn’t want him getting involved in a fight that could have ended with the cops being called.
“I took care of it,” I tell him.
I always take care of business. Trey uses his words. I use my fists.
Unlike Trey, I don’t care about my grades because whether I study or not I do shitty on tests and quizzes. Being a dumbass in school is a curse I was born with.
Trey’s cell dings three times.
“It’s a text from Monika. Read it to me,” he says, refusing to text and drive. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road and his hands stay at the ten-and-two position like we were taught sophomore year in driver’s ed class. “What does she want?” he asks.
“She wants you to break up with her so I can date her.”