I always look like I need it. Thanks to a summer growth spurt, I’m six feet and weigh only 160 pounds. Some of this is my build—my dad is tall and skinny too—but, yeah, we have grocery issues.
I can’t admit it to her though. We’re responsible for our own food. It was one of the conditions of moving into Charlotte’s basement, and Dad spent our last fifty on gas for his truck.
“Nah, I’m good,” I say, forcing my smile from Friendly Nephew into Vote for Me Politician. I pat the front pocket of my book bag. “I have a really big lunch.”
Again, she believes me, and I get to wait for Ben outside. For about two seconds, I feel like a genius (It’s quiet! No one’s asking questions! Pretty trees to draw!), and then the humidity sets in. We’ve spent the last two years following work in the Northwest and I’d forgotten how southern summers make you feel like you’re never going to be dry again—still better than sitting inside though, watching Ben finish his cornflakes or whatever while my aunt eyeballs me.
I flip open my sketch pad and focus on the ancient oak tree in the neighbors’ yard. Seconds later, my breathing starts to smooth. Minutes later, my chest unwinds. Drawing and computer work do that. They’re the only things—aside from my nickname—I’ve been able to keep with me move after move. Behind me, the door slams and I tuck the notebook into my bag. I’m fast, but not fast enough.
Ben flicks my ear as he passes. “Aren’t you a little old for coloring?”
I get up, follow him to the faded-blue SUV his parents gave him. “Do that again and you’ll have to jerk off with your left hand.”
He laughs and we pile in, pulling away from the curb before my seat belt’s even fastened. Ben drives the whole way to school with his foot mashed on the gas and his hand on the radio dial, switching stations every few minutes. The silence between us should be uncomfortable, but I’m used to it by now.
Most people think it’s nice I have a cousin so close in age, but honestly, the only thing Ben and I have in common is his hand-me-downs. His mom has been shipping them to us for years. In fact, I’m wearing one of his old polos now.
“Heard your mom crying,” Ben says suddenly, eyes still on the road.
“She doesn’t feel well.”
“She doesn’t feel well a lot.”
There’s a pause and I know I’m supposed to fill it, but I watch the houses pass instead. Ben can shove it if he thinks he’s getting me to spill more details. She’s my mom. He should get that.
He should also get that you’re not supposed to put on an entire bottle of Axe body spray. My eyes are watering.
We two-wheel it around a bend in the road and make a hard right into a school parking lot. Ben screeches into a nearby space and slams both feet on the brake.
“Welcome to hell,” he says, panning one hand.
I lean forward, look through the windshield. Eh, it could be worse. Most public schools look like prisons. It’s all institutional brick on the outside and washed-out gray on the inside. This one? Well, it’s the same stuff, but at least there are wide banks of windows. I appreciate the effort.
“C’mon,” Ben says, swinging open the driver’s-side door. “Mom’ll kill me if I don’t make sure you find your homeroom.”
I shrug, throwing my bag over my shoulder and following the other kids dragging into school. It’s still pretty early and this side entrance shouldn’t be that popular, but as soon as we’re through the double doors, I realize the hallway’s clogged with people. We have to push through the crowd, making it maybe ten steps before Ben comes up short, staring.
“Girl fight,” he says.
I crane my head, get a better look. More like girl beatdown, because the first girl is way bigger than the second. Hotter too.
If they start rolling around, First Girl is totally popping out of that top.
Ben elbows my side. “That’s Jenna Maxwell.” He bumps his chin toward the hot girl. “Nice, huh?”
“Definitely.” Jenna is a pale blonde with curves in all the right places. The other girl has . . . violently purple hair. She bounces to her feet, saying something I can’t hear, but the crowd laughs and Jenna’s face flushes.
Ben whistles softly. “She’s going to beat the shit out of Wick for that.”
Wick? I glance at him. “Who names their kid Wick?”
“Trash.”
Ben says it easily, like it doesn’t apply to either of us. I guess he’s already forgotten my dad filled out a trailer rental application yesterday.
Ahead of us, Jenna gets the purple-haired girl—Wick—in a headlock, driving her skull toward the floor.
I stiffen. “Do something, Ben.”
“Like what?”
The crowd shoves both of us forward. Everyone’s trying to get a closer look. They’re staring at Jenna and I’m staring at . . . Wick. She’s thrown off Jenna now and should be booking it, but she’s not. She’s waiting for the other girl to make a move.