“So he was cute,” Carlos says with a grin, folding his arm over my shoulder. “It’s okay, Char, you can think a boy is cute. Thinking won’t ruin your life.”
I scowl at him. “He was more than cute, if you must know, but—”
“How much more are we talking about?” His hand at my bicep tightens reflexively. “Handsome? Heartbreakingly gorgeous? Off-the-charts bangable?”
Leave it to Carlos. “—but it just seems arrogant,” I continue, “to send me flowers when I don’t even know him.”
“Maybe he’s slightly overconfident,” Carlos agrees, spinning the combo of our shared locker—every year, after our lockers are assigned, Carlos and I choose whoever’s is in the best location and the least beat-up, and that becomes our base of operations. This year, our locker has only two elbow-sized dents in the door, and the lock actually works sixty-percent of the time. Pacific Heights High is severely overcrowded, underfunded, and much less glamorous than its name suggests. There is no view of the Pacific Ocean—instead it’s situated smack in the middle of Hollywood, surrounded by throngs of tourists and apartment buildings. All the wealthy, academically superior high schools are farther west, closer to the ocean. What I wouldn’t give to have the opportunity to attend one of those schools. “But don’t take it out on the flowers,” Carlos adds.
I shove the massive bouquet into the locker, trying to seem indifferent, even though I’m careful not to let any of the stems bend or split. “Change of subject. Tell me about the party last night—did you see Alan Gregory?”
Carlos gives me a look, but accepts the shift in topic. “Last night was a total fail. Alan texted me that he had a physics test to study for so he couldn’t make it to the party after all. I ditched out early and went home to watch old SNL reruns on my laptop.”
I wrap my arm through his and squeeze. “I’m sorry. It’s his loss. Maybe he’ll call you for a date this weekend.”
“Maybe.” Carlos shrugs. “And maybe Mr. Gorgeous and Mysterious will send you another dozen roses tomorrow.”
“Let’s not get carried away.” Today was mortifying enough.
“Hey, now.” Carlos pauses at the end of the hall, forcing Sophie Zines to swerve around us. Sophie is pretty in that overly done, too much makeup, perfect hair and clothes kind of way. I’ve always felt plain and washed-out next to people like her, like a cardboard cutout, void of any color. My clothes are all from thrift stores or hand-me-downs from my sister. Thankfully I have Carlos to help direct my style choices, but I still can’t compete with the Sophies of the world. “I like my sweet Charlotte just as she is,” Carlos says, his tone serious. “The eternal virgin.”
I wince, glancing ahead at Sophie, hoping she’s out of earshot. Carlos may be comfortable talking about my sex life—or my lack thereof—in public, but me...not so much. “Not eternal,” I correct softly. “I’m just waiting until after college—at least.”
“So basically until the end of time?”
“Stop,” I say, shaking my head even as I grin despite myself.
“You’re some kind of saint, Charlotte Reed. And like I said, I love that about you, I do.”
We push out into the daylight through the heavy double doors, the midday sun blinking down bright and hot.
“But someday,” Carlos adds, lifting a hand to shield his eyes as we survey the front lawn, which is dotted with clusters of students sitting on the brown sunbaked grass or on the faded blue benches.
“Someday what?”
“You’ll fall madly in love and I won’t be able to tear you away from some primo male specimen with abs like a Spartan god.”
“I think that’s your dream guy,” I shoot back, squeezing his arm. There is no dream guy fluttering around inside my head.
He winks down at me and pulls me across the lawn to our usual lunch spot. “You’ll see, my pure, uncorrupted Charlotte. One day you’ll meet someone who will turn your perfect world upside down.”
THREE
OUR TINY, SINGLE-LEVEL HOUSE ON Harper sits tucked back from the street between two towering and slowly dying palm trees. A rusted Buick rests up on blocks in the neighbor’s yard. A dog yips from behind a chain-link fence two houses up, and a siren screams down a side street. Yet a mere five blocks away, tourists converge on Sunset Boulevard; after snapping photos of gold stars sealed into the pavement, they ride tour buses to see the homes of rock stars and movie stars and reality stars up in the Hollywood Hills. So close, nearly tangible, yet a world away from the dilapidated, paint-peeling, sun-scorched neighborhood where I live.