“Are you dressed?” I ask. I’m not being a dick, I really can’t tell, but he scowls and doesn’t answer, too busy spilling Fruity Pebbles all over the counter. At least he’s not wearing any of my clothes. “Be in the car at 7:15 or I’m leaving you here.”
He waves off my empty threat. Every time he screws up, my parents take his car away, which means I’m the one who really suffers the consequences. Making me play chauffeur is easier than bothering with chores and grades. For him, anyway.
At 7:25, Andrew finally makes it to the car, slamming the door behind him and immediately glaring at my stereo. “What is this emo pansy bullshit?”
“Raych had it on yesterday,” I lie, and back out of the driveway.
He scrolls through my collection. “Your music sucks.”
“So I hear. Every freaking time you’re in my car.”
Andrew finds something that meets his standards and sits back with his eyes closed while I drive to Raychel’s. I usually give her a ride, since the bus sucks and her mom can barely afford food and rent, much less a second car. When we reach the duplex, she’s trying to balance on the crutches while fighting to open the screen door. I hop out to help, but I don’t offer, again, to fix it, because I know she’ll refuse. Even though we both know no one else is going to do it.
I lock up as she hobbles to the car and points Andrew to the backseat. “I already called shotgun!” he protests, as if he doesn’t lose this argument every time he rides with us.
“Ladies first,” Raychel says. “Or up front. Whatever.”
He grumbles but does what she wants, just like always.
RAYCHEL
Andrew keeps kicking my seat. I should have given him shotgun—he’s too big to sit in the back, two or three inches taller than his big brother. They have the same dark hair and eyes, and almost the same birthday, one year apart. But Matt’s a little skinnier and nerdier. Andrew does what he can to accentuate their other differences: longer hair, grungier clothes, stupider behavior. Matt wants to save the world; Andrew’s pretty sure he’s its center. He went to Outward Bound too, but came home convinced he’s invincible.
“Quit!” I say, twisting in my seat and slapping at his leg. When I face front, he kicks again, so I turn up the volume instead. “At least you found something halfway decent to listen to this morning.”
He laughs. We’ve always double-teamed Matt on music because he basically has the same taste as his dad. We also share majority rule on pizza toppings, weekend plans, and movie selections. Andrew and I could probably be closer friends, but he’s never serious about anything—not school, not rules, and definitely not girls. Good-natured and fun, but not reliable.
Unless you need weed. Then he’s your man.
“Did you finish your history paper?” Matt asks me, not taking his eyes off the road.
“Yes, Mother.” I know he means well, but it’s early and my ankle hurts. I spent most of last night trying not to worry about the day that awaits me. My injury is just going to draw more attention when I’d rather have none at all.
At the parking lot, Andrew snags my backpack and jogs ahead, ignoring my protests that it’s not even heavy. I hobble along with Matt and try to avoid the fake horseshoe prints embedded in the sidewalk. We’re the Big Springs Cowboys. So stupid. No cowboys ever herded cattle through the Ozarks; the mountains were just big enough to make them detour west around Arkansas. But I guess our appropriate mascot options were slim. The “BS High School Hillbillies” doesn’t really strike fear into the hearts of your rivals.
As we reach the front doors, our hands reflexively stretch out to pat the statue of Cowboy Chester. Touching his bronze boot is supposed to bring you luck, like a redneck version of Saint Peter. Only seniors are “allowed,” but Andrew steals some luck anyway.
Inside the lobby, the late August temperature rises fifteen degrees. The space is mostly glassed in, which sounds cool, but in reality smells like a sauna full of wet dogs. We’ve almost made our way across the room when I hear Mindy Merrithew calling. “Oh yikes!” she says to me, her friendly tone not quite a match for her expression. “What happened?”
“Pole dancing injury,” Andrew says. Her eyes flicker between us as I whack his arm. “It was awful,” he adds. “Tassels everywh—”
“Rock climbing,” I interrupt. “I fell.”
“Ouch.” Her momentary frown flips right side up. “Can I borrow Matt for a sec?” she asks. “For Student Council stuff?”
I shrug. Mindy’s the quintessential good girl: Student Council, cheer squad, Bible study twice a week, and a kind word for everyone, whether she means it or not. Bless her heart. I know she thinks Matt and I are sleeping together on the sly, but we’re like a very chaste arranged marriage. We wear each other as habits.
And Matt remains clueless about the massive crush she has on him. “I should probably stay with Raych,” he says. “I told my dad—”
“We’re headed to the same hall,” Andrew says. “I’ll call 911 if she starts seizing or anything.”
“You should keep your foot up during class,” Matt says. “And we can get some ice at lunch.”
I restrain myself from saying “Yes, Mother” again and give him a fake salute.
“Hope you feel better!” Mindy calls after us. Her cheerfulness is obscene this early in the morning.
Andrew puts my pack on his chest, walking beside me as I crutch up the wheelchair ramp. “How long you stuck with those sticks?” he asks.
“A few days. Are we dicks for leaving Matt with her?”
“Nah,” Andrew says, snickering. “That kid needs to get laid.”
I snort. “Which one?”
“Both. Maybe he’ll meet someone on campus this year.”
“Doubtful.” In Big Springs, “campus” always means the local university, which is so close to our building that we call it BS High School Thirteenth Grade. They start recruiting us early—both the admissions office and the fraternities and sororities. We can also take classes there for dual credit, so this semester Matt is taking Cal 3. But I’m betting his female classmates are smart enough not to date seventeen-year-olds.
College courses are too expensive for me, but at least we have a big selection of AP classes. The university professors want their kids to have plenty of opportunities to overachieve while they’re here. But they rarely want their kids to stay here for college, which is part of why the Richardsons are always on Andrew’s ass—they can afford better schools and want to send him to one. I mean, this one is a decent university, so far as state schools go, but if you’re from here, it’s just same shit, different day, bigger toilet.
And there’s plenty of shit to avoid. Like the cluster of guys blocking our way in the hall.