But I let my smile fade as soon as my back is to the locker room, the heavy weight of disloyalty pressing on my shoulders. I tell myself that I’ll make it up to Mom somehow. Maybe I’ll stay late at the shop tonight. Maybe I’ll make dinner. Hell, I’ll even recite one of her spells with her, like she’s always begging me to.
I exit through the gym’s fire door (which the squad uses as a shortcut to the parking lot) and run into a brick wall of sticky, humid air carrying subtle notes of gardenia, jasmine, and weed, along with the not-so-subtle notes of pounding bass drums and honking horns from the start-stop traffic clogging the street. A pool of sweat forms instantly above my collarbone and my clothes start clinging to my body despite the ocean breeze carried from miles away. Which is to say, it’s an average L.A. day.
I cut a path across the fresh-mown lawn of the football field toward the congested parking lot. It’s not hard to spot my ancient Sunfire among all the shiny new cars. Driving Mom’s castoff is only slightly less embarrassing than taking the bus would be.
“Indie!”
I glance over my shoulder and groan as I spot Paige lumbering across the field toward me, dwarfed under the violin case strapped across her back.
A more irritating and persistent neighbor I have yet to meet. Paige and I were friends for, like, three seconds way back in the day before Bianca came along, due to the whole same-age, lives-ten-steps-away thing. Our moms thought it was adorable when Paige would chase me around trying to get me to play with her, never realizing that maybe it was a sign. Now, at the age of sixteen, Paige is still chasing me around trying to get me to be friends with her. And it’s still not cute.
I keep walking. Even if I had time for a chat, I wouldn’t stop.
“Ind, wait up!”
I practically break into a jog.
Paige snatches my arm. “There you are.” She gasps for air. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“No,” I lie. “But I can’t talk. I’m late for work.” I pass an appraising eye from her mousy-brown bangs, which fall over thick-rimmed, leopard-print glasses, to her oversized band T-shirt, pin-striped shorts, and unlaced Doc Martens, and decide she must actually be trying to look bad. There is no other explanation. It’s no wonder Bianca says I can’t afford to hang out with her.
She doesn’t take the hint and skips along beside me, hiking the violin case over her skinny shoulder.
“So listen, I know reading’s not cool and blah blah blah, but I just read the most fantastic book. Seriously, the best book ever. You have to borrow it. It’s by this totally weirdo hippie guy but he’s a genius, a genius, Ind. I totally thought of you when I read it.”
The Sunfire has never looked so appealing. I rummage in my bag and produce my keys. “Great. It’s just that I have to get to the shop right now. Otherwise I’d love to hear all about it.” I open the driver’s-side door.
“Actually, I was wondering if I could get a ride. My mom has a work meeting, and my new violin teacher is right by your mom’s shop.” She smiles sheepishly.
I sigh. Knowing Paige, she isn’t going to give up easily. It’d probably be much less painful to just drive the girl and get it over with than to argue about it for twenty minutes in the parking lot. I look around to confirm no one’s watching before saying, “Okay, get in.”
“Sweet, thanks.”
She takes an inordinate amount of time shoving her violin case into the backseat, before finally sinking into the passenger seat. I peel out of the parking lot into the insane afternoon traffic. Paige blathers on about this book—which admittedly seems pretty cool, the bits and pieces I catch of it—while my mind slips back to the scene in the locker room, to the way Devon’s name slid over Bianca’s tongue. It makes me sick, so of course I start imagining possible scenarios taking place at the restaurant right now: Bianca playfully hitting Devon’s arm after he tells a joke, Bianca leaning across the table so Devon can get a good look at her cleavage, Bianca and Dev making out in a booth.
My stomach coils into a knot, and I have to remind myself that Devon would never cheat on me. He loves me. Even if he is an incurable flirt. Still, sometimes I wonder how much easier life would be if I just let Bianca have him.
But I don’t really want that. Not when I think of Devon’s characteristic lopsided grin. Not when I catch his scent on a passing breeze. Not when he throws his arm around me and his nearness makes my heart stutter.
“Indie?”
“Huh?” Twenty minutes must have passed without me saying a word, because we’re suddenly surrounded by the vibrant-colored vintage shops, massive billboards, and palm trees of Melrose Avenue. Music and car horns pulse through the air; hordes of hipsters in bowler hats and funky shoes strut along the sidewalk as they chat loudly on their cell phones.