I settle back into the passenger seat, wishing I could cover my face and scream. The gossip last week sucked, but the truth is that I don’t really care if people think I’m a slut. They don’t know what I do and don’t do with college guys, and I don’t care what they assume.
Because the reputation comes with a funny kind of power. “No high school boys” gives me the upper hand—both with boys, who see me as a challenge, and with girls, who would never dare say no to the guys I’ve turned down. I learned early in life that things that are hard to get are always worth more.
But by hooking up with Carson, I’m back on the same playing field as those other girls—with far less game, in their opinion. Showing up at Cruz’s with Carson would turn my scarlet A into an ace.
I’ve got half a mind to say yes. But saying yes is what got me into this mess.
“Hey,” Matt says, startling me out of my thoughts. “I’ll see you at seven?” he asks. “Dad’s making dinner.”
“Yeah,” I say, climbing out of the car. “I’ll be there.”
*
Inside, it’s dark and stuffy. We don’t run the AC when no one’s here. I leave the blinds closed and lie down on the couch with a cold washcloth over my eyes. But Mom comes through the door before I can get any rest. “Hi, honey! I’m—what’s wrong?”
I sit up. “Just a headache. It’s going away.”
She drops her purse, keeping the mail in one hand. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Yes, please.” I accept the can of Dr. Thunder she brings me, but I dream of the day we can afford real Dr Pepper. “How was your day?”
“The usual. Martha and I were five minutes late from lunch and Gary about had a heart attack. The man don’t have the sense God gave a wooden goose. How was yours?” she asks, opening an envelope.
“Fine. We had a pep rally.”
“Oh?” She starts to ask more, but instead reads the mail and says in a different voice, “Oh.”
“What?”
She tries to smile. “Nothing. Tell me about the pep rally.”
But I can see her lip trembling. “Mom,” I say, holding out my hand for the letter. “Come on.” She doesn’t offer it. “You’re a terrible liar. I’m just going to think it’s something horrible unless you tell me.”
“Don’t worry,” she says, handing it over. “But your dad’s check bounced.”
“Goddamnit.” My dad’s signature is the most I’ve seen of him since he split when I was in kindergarten. “It’s just one month,” I say. “Right?”
Mom shakes her head. “This is the sixth one in a row.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?” The checks have bounced before, but never so many all at once. If we had a computer or Mom had a fancy phone, we could at least find out before getting hit with overdraft fees.
She sits down and smooths my hair. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
I snort. I should offer part of my paycheck, but my last Pharm-Co check is only going to be half as much as usual and I don’t want to explain why.
“We’ll just have to tighten up a little,” she says. “I asked for some overtime.”
“Maybe I can get some too,” I lie.
“You don’t need to do that, baby.”
I don’t answer. I’m not sure how she plans to “tighten up” when our budget is so squeezed already. Mom makes just enough that we don’t qualify for government assistance anymore, and we can’t go after my dad in court because it takes money and time off of work that we don’t have. And what’s the point, when he doesn’t have the money either?
Sometimes I find it comforting that he sends the check regardless. Proof he remembers I exist, at least once a month.
But today is not one of those times. Today is one of those times when I remember it’s just me and Mom against the world, and the world is winning.
MATT
When Raychel comes over later, her mood has not improved, so I take her to my room to see the pictures from our hiking trip. She looks beautiful in them, fierce, with leg muscles as hard as the rocks she climbed, and I want them to cheer her up. But she points to the one I knew she’d focus on. “Oh my god, what’s wrong with my face?”
“You were yelling at me to hurry.”
She frowns.
See, this is what I don’t get about girls, or what I don’t get about Raychel Sanders specifically. She’ll take “ladies first,” but she gets mad when I try to help her. She can blame hormones, but I cannot. She lets me pay, but pays me back in secret. She wears makeup and black lacy panties on hiking trips.
I’m not complaining about that last one. I’m just saying.
But I’m glad I got rid of the photos where her underwear was showing.
She sits down on the bed and stares into space. I wave my hand in front of her face. “Hey. You okay?” I ask for the millionth time this week.
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, you seem fine.” I sit and put an arm around her. “Do you want to go to the party tonight?” I offer, in a fit of self-sacrifice. “Would that cheer you up?”
When she doesn’t answer, I pull away and realize she’s crying.
Crap.
RAYCHEL
My brain is a blender, spinning from one worry to another, mixing them up until I can’t separate them at all.
We’re broke. My mom didn’t tell me. My dad’s the worst. The whole school thinks I screwed Carson and even my best friend believes I’m interested in the guy. But why wouldn’t he? I can’t tell him what really happened. The only people who know the truth are me and Carson, and apparently we remember two different things.
I’ve known Carson since kindergarten. So when we got to the parking lot outside Spencer’s dorm, and he popped the tailgate and told me to have a seat, I didn’t think anything of it. I was too busy thinking about how great it was to have a chill in the air in August and hoping the cold front would stick around for my hike with Matt later that weekend. I hopped up beside Carson and tried not to breathe in his sissy Camel Lights. Turned down the one he offered me. Mom still smokes, and we can’t afford it, but she says she can’t afford not to. It’s one of the many ways in which she doesn’t want me to be like her.
When Carson stubbed out his cigarette, he chewed a piece of gum. It was spearmint, which I know because he kissed me unexpectedly. Turns out Carson is a fantastic kisser, though I was surprised as hell that he tried. My policy is pretty widely known, so I was a little impressed that he made the attempt.
But besides that, I like kissing. I like making out with boys. And summer had been a long dry spell, with all the college students gone. So when Carson whispered, “We should get in the truck,” I decided it couldn’t hurt to have a little fun.
He put the seats down and closed the back, then laid me down and kissed me silly. Kissed me stupid. One hand crept under my shirt. I let it go, because his hand was as talented as his mouth. But when he tried to move south, I stopped him.
“What?”
“No,” I repeated, trying to sit up. “Sorry.” I wasn’t even trying to be coy. I was just on the rag.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.” And we made out some more.