P.S. I Loathe You, page 4
“She doesn’t like him, does she?” Layne squeaked. “Because if she does, you have to break them apart. You promised me. I helped you get Skye Hamilton away from Dune this summer, and you promised you’d help me get Dempsey. Remember?”
Kristen bit her throbbing hangnail.
“Re-mem-ber?”
Of course she remembered. That was why she’d spent all morning trying to convince Massie that her new crush was an LBR.
Kristen paced across her green shag rug. The fibers that usually tickled her feet seemed unusually coarse.
“Reeeee-meeeemmmmm-berrrrrrrr?”
She stomped her foot.
“Yes. Yes, I remember, okay? But it’s not that easy.”
“Neither was breaking into the country club, filling the pool with Jell-O, creating a video reflection so it looked like water, and timing it so that Skye jumped in before Dune. But I did it. And now if you’d kindly place your hand on your neck and feel the shark tooth, I think you’ll agree that the plan worked and—”
“Okay, okay! What do you want me to do?”
“Find out if he likes me,” Layne cooed sweetly. “And if he says no, then make him change his mind.”
Kristen’s ears began to ring. It was hell calling.
“Layne, I totally want to help, but I hardly even know the guy,” she tried. “Can’t you just have an honest conversation with Dempsey? You’ve been opposite-sex best friends for years.”
“We were opposite-sex best friends.” Layne sighed. “Now that I like him, I can’t talk to him anymore. I’m too—”
“Hold on,” Kristen interrupted. “What, Mom?” she called into her empty apartment. “I’m on the phone!” She paused like she was listening to her mother. But the only shouting woman she could actually hear was the new stressed-out neighbor next door. “Okay! Stop yelling. I’ll be right there.” After an extra-long sigh Kristen moaned, “I gotta go.”
“No prob, slob,” Layne replied. “Looking forward to the good word, yellow bird. I’ll check in tomorrow.”
The line went dead.
With shaking hands, Kristen reached under the bed and grabbed her soccer ball—the only thing she could kick repeatedly without being arrested.
THE PINEWOOD
ROOF
Monday, September 21st
4:46 P.M.
The rooftop of the Pinewood was paved with uneven bricks, cigarette butts, and flattened beer cans. But it had a tall concrete wall around its perimeter that overlooked the building’s grassy courtyard and could sustain the force of a stress-kicked soccer ball. It was Kristen’s go-to place when things got complicated, like Massie had Bean . . . Alicia had her dance studio . . . Claire had her fingernails . . . and Dylan had her fridge. And things were complicated.
Kick!
The ball slammed against the concrete wall and shot back to her. She kicked it again.
Slam!
She’d promised Layne she’d help her get Dempsey. They’d made a deal.
Slam!
If she reneged, she would destroy her good name and honor in the eyes of the Witty Committee.
Slam!
But how could she sabotage Massie’s new crush? She had made a pledge. She had taken a vow. This time we’ll do it right. . . . Our friendships come first. . . . PC support, day or night . . . Or that member will be cursed. CURSED!
Kick!
Slam!
Kick!
It was a lose-lose situation. And the only neutral person she could turn to for advice was surfing on a heart-shaped island with no cell service.
Kick!
Kick!
Kick!
Like a loyal dog, the ball landed at her turquoise and white Adidas cleats. Kristen stepped on it and lifted her gaze.
A sudden gust of wind broke a solid mass of gray clouds into a smiley face that seemed to say, Let the Big Guy help.
Swept up in a rush of divine inspiration, she began gathering beer cans. Once her hands were full she built two towers, paying little mind to the burp-scented liquid that dribbled down her wrist while she stacked.
“Okay.” She sighed aloud. “If I hit the one on the right, you want me to help Massie. If I hit the one on the left, you want me to help Layne.” Kristen glanced up at the smiley cloud, making sure it was still watching. “Ready?”
She spun three times, squeezed her lids shut, and kicked!
On the street below, the brakes on a passing truck wheezed to a stop. A dog barked. Two little boys giggle-ran through the courtyard. But no cans crashed to the ground. And no ball slammed against the concrete wall.
Kristen opened her eyes.
And then she blushed.
Dempsey Solomon appeared in front of her wearing mirrored aviators, spinning the soccer ball between his two index fingers, and grinning.
“What’re you doing here?” she asked, feeling slightly embarrassed. Like that time she had a lip-kiss dream about Danh and then saw him the next morning.
“I’ll tell you if you can go around the world.”
Demonstrating, he kicked the ball from his right foot to his thigh to his shoulder to his head to his left shoulder to his left thigh to his left foot to Kristen.
“Done.” She stopped the ball with her heel and then took it where it needed to go.
When she was done, Kristen giggled for a second longer than normal, while her mind recalibrated and reevaluated all previous notions of Dempsey. He was more than just a wannabe actor who’d lost weight over the summer, invested in contacts, tanned evenly, dressed like a rugged safari guide, and steeped himself in African culture, thereby enriching his soul and broadening his global perspective—he was soccerlicious!Kristen could now see why Massie and Layne had picked him as their C-plus.
“Where did you learn that?” Kristen blurted. “I always thought you were—” She paused, not wanting to insult him, but also not knowing what to say.
“A couch potato theater dork?” he finished for her.
Kristen blushed again.
“I was.” His confident smile told her that he was okay with that. “I mean, I’m still into theater. But I’m also super into football.”
Kristen twirled her shark-tooth necklace, oddly charmed by his use of the British term, something she usually found beyond pretentious. “Since when?”
“Since Africa.” He tugged the zipper on his olive green hoodie. “My family volunteered at an orphanage in Tanzania, and the older kids taught my brother and I how to play.”
My brother and me, Kristen thought with some relief. Her mom had warned her about boys who were too perfect: They were not to be trusted. And until this minor grammatical infraction, his picture had been on all twelve pages of the “too perfect” calendar.
“So what are you doing here, anyway?” She bounced the ball on her knee. Dempsey caught it with his foot, knocked it to his head, and shot it forward like a dolphin at SeaWorld.
Both beer towers crashed to the ground. “I’m your new neighbor.”
“Seriously?” she gasped.
“Yeah. After living in African mud huts, my parents walked into our house on Tuxedo Way and thought it was too much. So they sold it and bought something cozier.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his worn khaki cargos. “And sent the leftover money to them.” He pointed east.
Kristen grin-nodded like she was warmed by their generous decision, not offended that her home had been compared to an African mud hut.
“So we’ve been moving in all day, and everything was going fine until the red river–clay dishes broke,” Dempsey continued. “And my mom started freaking out. And the apartment started feeling really small and cramped. So I came up here.” He shrugged. “Africa is so big and open. And ever since I got back, I’ve felt trapped, you know? Like everything is closing in on me. And all I want to do is be free.”
The image of Layne and Massie on either side of Dempsey, crushing their crush into a panini, gave Kristen pause. Maybe, out of respect for his claustrophobia, it would be best to give him some space. And then, once he acclimated, she could talk to him about the Lassie situation.
Satisfied, Kristen kicked the ball. The instant it bounced back, Dempsey toe-lifted it onto his knee and took it around the world again.
Gawd, couldn’t he miss once?
BOCD
NEW GREEN CAFÉ
Tuesday, September 22nd
12:32 P.M.
“We’re back!” Massie bit into a crisp organic carrot and settled into the bamboo chair at the head of number eighteen.
“We’re back!” The Pretty Committee rose out of their seats, lifted their farm-fresh vegetables, and clinked them together like champagne flutes.
The New Green Café, which had been transformed into a sun-soaked greenhouse over the summer, was teeming with lunching coeds. They all stole glances at the Pretty Committee over plates of fresh produce and frothing glasses of skin-purifying Borba juice.
“Our days of eating low-fat turkey Subway sandwiches in the overflow trailers are over.” Massie unscrewed the top off a bottle of Rodeo Drive, Chanel’s latest purple polish. “Time to mark our territory.” She crouched down and began painting BFFWC under the bamboo table. And then she spotted the happy little pen hearts Claire had drawn on the rubber toe of her red Converse and gagged carrot.
What was it about friends in love that made them so annoying?
“Hey there.” A familiar pair of scuffed-up Timberlands stopped at their table. “What’s up, neighbor?”
Neighbor?
Massie suddenly forgot all about Claire’s hearts. Her own was much more important.
“Neighborrrrrrrrr,” Dylan burped.
“Ewwww.” Kristen giggle-waved the air. “Egg!”
“Egg whites,” Dylan proudly corrected.
“Dempsey.” Massie ran her fingers over her low side-pony and stood with a smile.
He smiled back, his worn white crewneck accentuating his Tanzania tan. He rested his hand on the back of Kristen’s chair.
“You’re moving to table seventeen?” Massie looked left, wondering why he or anyone else would ever want to sit with BOGUSS (Briarwood-Octavian Government Unification Students’ Society). The table was permanently empty. They didn’t even want to sit with themselves.
“No.” Dempsey snickered, his dimples carving mini-smiles in his cheeks. “I mean me and Kristen are neighbors.”
Kristen and I, Massie thought, but didn’t bother correcting him. He had just come from Africa and was probably still readjusting to the language.
And then it hit her.
“Neighbors?” she squealed. “As in, you live in an apartment?”
“Yeah.” He beamed. “It’s cozy. I like it.”
Massie purposely ignored Kristen’s triumphant grin.
“EhMa-cute!” She smoothed the brown faux fur on her Juicy swing coat and why-didn’t-you-tell-me-that? glared at Kristen. “I ah-dore the Pinewood.”
Kristen fake-coughed.
Massie snatched Dylan’s bag of blue chips. “Terra?”
“Hey—” Dylan started to protest. But Massie silenced her with an elbow to the spine.
“Thanks.” Dempsey dug in and poked around for just the right chip. Clearly they were perfect for each other. If she ate chips, she would have done the exact same thing.
“Ever tried the spicy ones?” Layne suddenly appeared out of nowhere and thrust a black bag under his chin.
“Hey, Mrs. Claus.” Dempsey liberated his hand from Massie’s bag and put it in Layne’s.
“Don’t jinx me.” Layne lifted the gray feather–covered fedora off her head and fanned her flushed visage like a 1940s film star. “They haven’t made the announcement yet.”
“Has anyone announced that you’re stealing diseased pigeon feathers and gluing them to your fedor-ka?” Massie inquired.
“Yeah. Teen Vogue is writing about it in next month’s DIY section.” Layne proudly stuck the hat back on her head.
“Disease-Infected Youth?” Massie lifted her high-five hand. But for some reason Dylan was the only one who giggle-smacked it. Dempsey didn’t smile. Obviously, he was trying to be nice to the LBR because they were pre-makeover friends. And like any decent human being, he planned to wait the recommended twelve weeks before dumping her. By Thanks-giving, Layne would be outed like Clay Aiken on the 9/27/08 cover of People magazine.
“What’s up?” Derrington called, limping toward their table. He was wearing a bright green BOCD Golf visor, the matching jacket, and madras pants. Massie fought the urge to call him Tiger, because he’d assume she was flirting. And why lead him on?
“What are you wearing?” Dylan fluffed her red hair.
Derrington took a massive bite of tofu dog. “Josh Bankman’s golf uniform.” He chewed, and then polished off the rest of the dog. “I had to sneak into the café. I can’t eat in those trailers.” He dumped a paper cone filled with sweet-potato fry crumbs in his mouth. “They smell like pickles.”
He reached into his plaid pocket and pulled out a bag of sours. “Here.” He tossed them at Claire. “From Cam.”
“Awwww.” Claire’s smile was so wide, she practically swallowed her own ears.
“So Splenda!” Massie cooed, pretending to be moved by the sickly sweet gesture, even though she was really sending a subliminal message to Dempsey that said, If you ever did something like that for me, I would react favorably.
Derrington flicked Layne on the padded shoulder of her secondhand history teacher tweed blazer.
“Owie!” She flicked him back.
“How did you get in here? You’re supposed to be in the trailers too.”
Layne unfolded a note written on school letterhead. “Principal Burns gave me permission because Alicia’s going to announce the cast of The Wizard of Claus,and I auditioned for the lead and—”
“Does anyone have any ice?” Derrington cut her off. “My foot is swelling.”
“Lemme see.” Dylan beamed.
Derrington grabbed his plaid pants at the knee and lifted his leg. “Whoa.” He teetered left. Then right. Then left. Then he fell on his butt by Massie’s gray suede ankle boots. “Ahhhhh!” He rocked back and forth.
Massie rolled her eyes and stepped away from the spectacle. Gawd, would he stop at nothing to get her attention?
“Ehmagawd.” Dylan raced to his side. “Y’okay?”
“Yeah,” he moaned while she helped him onto her chair. “I went to soccer practice and tried to push through the pain. And it got worse.” Derrington lifted his leg and pulled off his white sweat sock to reveal a black and blue foot the size of a walrus flipper.
Claire pity-gasped. Massie turned away in disgust.
“Now I’m off the team until it gets better.” He smiled like someone who had better things to do, even though he probably didn’t. “Looks like I’ll have a lot of free time after school now.”
“Well, I won’t,” Massie blurted, just to be clear. “I’m getting involved in the arts,” she said loud enough for Dempsey to hear.
“But you’re the best player on the team,” Kristen whined. “And now that we’re one school, the Tomahawks’ score affects our overall standing. You could totally bring down the Sirens.”
“Thanks for caring,” Derrington teased his fellow captain, wincing in pain.
“Good afternoon.” Alicia’s voice crackled from the speakers. “This is Alicia Rivera with your lunchtime news brief.”
Everyone in the café took their seats and stopped talking— not because they cared about school news, but because they thought she was hot.
“First up, the Christmas play.”
Layne squeezed Dempsey’s arm. Massie flicked a soybean at her back.
“I am pleased to announce that this year’s female and male lead in The Wizard of Claus will be played by Layne Abeley and Dempsey Solomon.”
“YESSSSSS!” Layne threw her fedora in the air. A flurry of mangy pigeon feathers drifted to the ground.
Dempsey threw his tanned arms around her and lifted her into the air. Massie flicked another soybean, this time pegging Layne on the cheek.
Dylan threw her head back and cracked up.
“Jealous much?” Layne shouted at the entire café, having no idea who the soy-shooter was.
Massie summoned Layne to the head of the table with an index finger. “Hey,” she whispered, “where did she say those rehearsals were?”
Layne exhaled sharply, poisoning Massie’s air with spicy chip smell. “Don’t even think of stealing the female lead. It’s already mine.”
“Puh-lease!” Massie slapped her heart. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Layne leaned in a little closer. “Then what do you want?”
“The male lead.” Massie winked. Then, just to be perfectly clear, she pulled out a travel-size bottle of Chanel No. 19, leaned forward, and spritzed the back of Dempsey’s olive green hoodie three times.
Derrington waved the iris-scented air. “Dude, is that you?”
Dempsey sniffed the back of his sweatshirt with marked concern.
“Don’t worry,” Derrington assured him. “The same thing happened to me a few months ago. I think it means you’ve been touched by an angel.”
“More like the devil,” Layne mumbled. Her phone beeped with a text.
Massie: I marked him. He’s mine.
Layne’s thick eyebrows collided. “You can’t do that!”
“What?” Dylan asked, peeking at Layne’s screen. And then immediately began typing.
Dylan: U marked derrington and now you’re over him. U sure u mean it this time? isn’t marking forever?
Massie glowered across the table before responding. Why was everyone being so negative lately?
Massie: I can un-mark him by soaking him with water.
Dylan: U going to unmark derrington?
Massie: Some day.
Dylan: U don’t even like him anymore.
Massie: Doesn’t mean he can like someone else.
“But—” Dylan tried, looking up from her iPhone.
“Butts are for toning,” Massie snapped, resenting the sudden challenge. Not only was it undermining, it was taking her attention away from Dempsey. And if she didn’t keep him occupied, he might leave. “Now shhhhhh.” She pointed at the speaker on the ceiling, then lifted her finger to her lips.
