Later, in gym, I walk the track with Dri—she says that’s what her friends call her, because Adrianna has “too many reality-show connotations”—and we laugh as we count the number of times Mr. Shackleman tries to surreptitiously adjust his balls. It’s Dri’s game. SN is right: she’s funny.
“I can’t decide if he’s itchy or trying to hide his boner from watching the Axis of Evil run,” she says. Gem and Crystal have lapped us three times now, not breaking a sweat, not even breathing hard. They look so good, I can’t help but watch them too.
Mr. Shackleman doesn’t look much older than the high school boys, except he already has a beer gut and a small bald patch on the back of his head. He wears gym shorts and blows a shrill plastic whistle more than necessary.
“Are they twins?” I ask about Gem and Crystal.
“No,” Dri laughs. “But they’ve been best friends, since, like, forever.”
“Have they always been so, you know, bitchy?” I hate the word “bitch.” I do. Using the B-word makes me feel like a bad feminist, but sometimes there is no other word.
“Not really. You know how it is. Mean girls get mean in seventh grade and they stay that way until your ten-year reunion, when they want to be best friends again. At least, that’s what my mom says.”
“It’s funny how high school is high school everywhere,” I say, and smile at Dri. Try not to feel uncomfortable at the mention of moms, like it didn’t set off an invisible flare in my chest. “I mean, this place is completely different than where I come from, but in some ways it’s exactly the same. You can’t escape it.”
“College. So close and yet so far away,” Dri says. She’s nothing like Scarlett, who is brash and unafraid of anything or anyone—contrary to what she claims, she’s the brave one of our duo—and yet, I have a feeling Scar would like Dri. Would guide her along, like Scar has done for me all these years.
“A friend told me recently that how happy you are in high school is indirectly proportional to how successful you’ll be later in life,” I say, testing the theory that maybe SN is Adrianna, which I’d definitely take over SN being Theo. Maybe she was just too shy to reach out on her own. I study her face, but there isn’t even a twitch of recognition.
Nope, not her.
“I don’t know. Hope so.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out an inhaler. “Sorry. I’m allergic to the outdoors. And the indoors. And everything else. I know it makes me look like a tool, but not breathing looks worse.”
Once we are better friends, I should tell her she has nothing to be sorry for. No self-deprecating qualifier necessary. And then I laugh to myself, because even though she is two thousand miles away, Scar is right here too. Because that’s exactly the kind of thing she would say to me.
CHAPTER 8
Theo is wearing jeans that are so tight it looks like they are thigh tattoos, and a sleeveless leather vest. I’m pretty sure he approaches getting dressed as an act in costuming. Today he’s a buff and surprisingly hot Hells Angel.
“Look at you checking out my guns,” he says, and opens the fridge. He takes out two fancy pressed juices and throws me one. “Here. This will keep you from getting rickets.”
I’m perched on one of the kitchen stools, reading. This enormous house tricked me once again: I thought I was home alone. Had I known Theo was here, I wouldn’t have left my room with my exfoliating clay mask on. Not my best look, costume or otherwise.
“What the hell is this?” I take a swig of juice, which is green and cloudy and, it turns out, revolting. I fight my gag reflex.
“Kale, ginger, cucumber, and beet juice. Probably should have started you with one more fruit-heavy. Forgot you aren’t an advanced juicer.”
“An advanced juicer? Really? You know that sometimes talking to you is like watching a reality show,” I say. “It’s amusing only because it can’t possibly be real.”
“This is all real, baby.” Theo again flashes his impressive muscles.
“Not too shabby,” I say, referring to his arms. “I dig the biker look.”
“Biker? I was going for rocker.”
“That too.”
“But healthy, muscular rocker, not strung-out, skinny rocker, right?”
“Definitely the former.”
Theo looks relieved, and for the first time, I see that maybe he isn’t all confidence all the time. Now that I know what to expect, I take another sip of my juice. There is something oddly virtuous about its grossness. I can’t decide if I love it or hate it, which, it turns out, is exactly how I feel about Theo.
“Are you going to Heather’s party tonight? It’s going to be insane. Her dad and his new girlfriend are in Thailand, and he has this huge mansion in the Hills. They have mad bank.”
Wait, SN used the expression “mad bank” recently.
Doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself.
Those words are common enough, right?
I look at Theo, point to my mask.
“What do you think?”
“Oh no. Please don’t make me have to take pity on you and take you with me,” Theo says.
“What a lovely invitation, but no thanks. I have homework to do.”
“Don’t believe you. It’s Saturday night.”
“I have nothing to wear.”
“That I believe. But I bet we could rustle something up.”