MONDAY, 6:15 P.M.
I picked up the phone for, like, the fifth time, and opened a text to Rachel.
But I couldn’t figure out what to say. Probably because I wasn’t sure how I felt. On the one hand, I wanted her here now. I wanted the smell of her and her crazy hair tangling through my fingers and her lips against mine. I wanted things to go further . . . though probably not in the living room, now that Mom was home.
But I also felt guilty, and just . . . confused. I wasn’t with Emma. If we’d been almost together after the picture dropped, Beau’s party and her texts since meant we definitely weren’t now. Still, didn’t I owe her something?
The whole thing made me feel like punching Mom’s stupid throw pillows.
Rachel didn’t text all through dinner.
I went on Flit. She’d finally posted something new. It didn’t even have my name in it.
@attackoftherach_face: For everyone looking
for the secret to my hair, let me suggest
standing too close to strong electrical currents.
It was funny, but the idea that she was talking to all these strangers made my stomach muscles clench. Why hadn’t she texted me? Had I screwed something up with her already? None of those Flit randos even cared about her.
Then I remembered I was sitting here worrying about Emma and tried to stop being such a jealous tool. My brain today: apparently locked in caveman mode.
By the time I’d finished nodding at my parents through dinner, I couldn’t take it anymore. Before I could think too hard, I pressed send.
(To Rachel): Are you okay? You’re not freaked out, are you?
The phone hadn’t even gone dark when her text came in.
(From Rachel): Not freaked out. I just couldn’t imagine talking to your mom right then. Sometimes I lose a little brain-processing power when things are good.
So she thought it was good. Immediately I imagined kissing her again. Taking off her shirt, then her bra. It would be lacy, maybe black. Artsy girls would totally wear black bras. She’d be shy at first, but then into it. . . .
Dude: focus. Thinking about Rachel’s bra was not making it easier to think of something normal to respond.
(To Rachel): Wanna try round two on Wednesday? That’s when they’re airing your dress thing. My mom has a partners meeting, so no need to plan a speech
Oh man, that sounded kinda . . . like I meant something else. Did I?
(From Rachel): Absolutely.
(To Rachel): Cool. Meet me at my place after school?
(From Rachel): Can’t wait.
Most of me couldn’t wait either.
But I couldn’t get rid of that feeling in the pit of my stomach. Like I didn’t really deserve this. Like it was just a matter of time until I got caught.
chapter forty-three
RACHEL
TUESDAY, 7:48 A.M.
“What do you think it’ll be like?”
Mo and I were sitting in her car in the junior lot. We’d already been here for about five minutes while I made ridiculous, contorted faces in the passenger-side mirror in an attempt to settle my nerves.
“I have no clue.”
“Well that’s reassuring.”
“Sorry, I could lie, but who knows? People online were cool, so that’s good. Plus you gained how many followers last night? By the time our application is due we’ll be shoo-ins. But the internet doesn’t care about high school politics, or have loyalties to Kyle’s exes.” Mo shrugged, tapping her foot in the seat well impatiently.
“Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Okay, yes, but if it’s terrible, just imagine us in New York, writing plays. Or think about the fact that you made out with Kyle less than twenty-four hours ago.” Mo grinned mischievously.
I could feel a shivery tingle flow through my entire body. I could still imagine the moment almost physically—him leaning in, his lips on mine, him drawing me closer. And he wanted to see me again. It was really happening.
“Fine, I’m fortified. Let’s go.”
I forced myself to keep my head up—for once, don’t look at the ground, Rachel—as we walked to the front door.
But no one said anything. A couple of girls stared in the math hallway, but we made it all the way to my locker without a single word from anyone.
Great. So much for everything being different. It was dumb, but this small part of me had thought maybe people wouldn’t just be not-crap, they’d actually be cool. Actively cool.
I’d also secretly thought my locker might be decorated with “Go, Rachel!” stuff, like they sometimes did for new members of girls’ sports, but I’d known that was dumb, so I was only the tiniest bit disappointed that it was just a plain locker. It’s not like there was a Varsity Social Acceptance Team.
I turned to Mo, frowning a little. She shrugged.
“No one being evil is not a bad outcome.”