“Oh. Ann, right?” She laughs a little, like she’s embarrassed by her gaffe, but she isn’t fooling me. And she’s looking up at Drew, not me. “Some people aren’t as memorable as others.”
I tense, ready to lay into her. But Drew halts my response by laying an arm over my shoulder. The hold is proprietary and clearly marks us as a unit.
“Well, I don’t think I’ll forget you now,” he tells her, his tone not at all nice.
Not that Whitney notices his sarcasm. No, she beams.
And though I know Drew means well, I hate that he has to witness this. That he has to defend me. The way people react to us are as polar as true north and south.
Heart hurting, I stand rigid in his embrace and stare down Whitney. “Considering you’ve called me Anna Banana-pants since the third grade,” I add coolly, “you’re either extremely dense or a liar.”
Her mouth falls open as a flush works over her face. She hadn’t expected honesty.
Drew gives my shoulder a light squeeze as he looks at me. “Weren’t we going somewhere?”
“Yep.”
He guides me around Whitney, neither of us saying goodbye to her. A muttered “bitch” follows us as we walk away, and Drew leans close, his breath buffeting my ear. “Kind of the pot calling the kettle, eh?”
A reluctant smile pulls at my lips, even as I step away from his hold. “You’d never convince her of that.”
“I’m sorry she was rude to you.” He frowns, concern darkening his eyes. I hate that.
I shrug. “Likely, she was flustered by your grand presence.”
His scowl grows. “Making excuses for her, Jones? She doesn’t deserve it.”
No, she doesn’t, but the alternative of telling him that she and everyone else I’ve known for most of my life behaved that way on a constant basis is unthinkable.
“Whitney was a cheerleader at my high school. She’s nuts for all things football.” I have no doubt she would have had her claws in Drew had he gone to our school.
Drew gives me a look, as if he knows all too well what I am thinking. I also kind of hate that he reads me so easily.
“I take it you don’t like cheerleaders?” he asks.
We sidestep a group of girls, all of whom eye Drew. Quiet giggles rise up as we walk by.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “Last year, in my study group, there was a girl who is on the squad here. Laney. She was nice. Worked her ass off to succeed at her sport, and I admired her for it.”
“I know Laney.” By the happy look in his eyes, I wonder just how well, but before I can voice that uncharitable thought, he adds, “She goes out with my friend Marshall.”
Ah.
Drew opens the door to the stairwell for me.
“Then there are cheerleaders like Whitney,” I go on, “who seem to have studied the handbook for stereotypical bitches everywhere.” I shrug, pulling free a thick lock of hair that’s caught beneath my bag strap. “Why they feel the need to act accordingly, I’ll never know.”
Drew’s eyes, bleary as they are, crinkle at the corners with tired humor. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to play a part.” He pauses, his hand on the banister. “Or maybe not. Nonconformist that you are.”
Praise never sits well with me. Especially not Drew’s. I make a face and force my voice to be light. “Bah. Nonconformity is a role too.”
“Maybe, but…” Drew flashes a quick smile, genuine but tight with pain, “‘Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist.’”
“Throwing Emerson at me?” I shake my head as we make our way up the stairs. “Now you’re just showing off.”
“What can I say? My mom was an English lit professor. Emerson was her favorite. Other kids got Goodnight Moon before bed. I got that and an Emerson quote.”
“Leave it to you to pick the chauvinistic one out of the bunch.”
“What?” His brows rise in outrage. “There’s nothing chauvinistic about that quote.”