Fullepub 
Chapter 3
3
The next morning, I pull into Irene’s driveway a full five minutes late. I don’t do it on purpose; the time just gets away from me. She’s standing there impatiently, her long hair perfectly straightened, her makeup impeccably done. She clutches a giant silver thermos and holds her phone the way all pretty girls do: flat on its back like she might whisper gossip into the speaker any second.
I expect a snarky remark about my tardiness, but she’s silent when she opens the door. She tucks her bags in the back seat and sets her thermos in my cupholder without asking. It feels invasive, especially in such a contained, intimate space. A space that I usually only share with the people closest to me: my sisters or Danielle or, until recently, Tally.
I reverse out of her driveway and turn up my music to drown out the awkwardness. My nerves are on edge, waiting for her to say something. I notice when she clears her throat. I sniff against the sharp, woody scent of her perfume.
When we turn onto the main road, I decide to break the silence.
“Sorry I was late.” I lean back in my seat, pretending to feel at ease. “Hope it didn’t inconvenience you.”
She rakes a hand through her hair. “You weren’t,” she says flatly. “I usually leave at seven thirty. I told you seven twenty-five because I knew you’d be late.”
For a second, all I can do is stare at her. “Wait, what?”
“You never got to APUSH last year until a second before the bell rang.” She glances at me. “It’s not an insult, just an observation.”
My blood simmers. It’s true that I always ran late to AP US History, but that’s because Tally’s locker had been right next to the classroom and I would loiter there with her until the last possible second. It’s a reminder I don’t need so early in the morning.
“So what?” I snap. “You’ve taken it upon yourself to keep a log of people’s arrival times?”
She laughs breezily. “You’re so easy to irritate.”
I imagine how I must have looked to her, dashing into class late every day. Did she see me hanging all over Tally last year? Could she sense the cracks in that relationship before I could? Is that why she thought I was such a loser? A feeling of shame spreads through my torso.
“I’m better at getting to AP Euro on time,” I say pointedly. “But I guess you wouldn’t know that, since you didn’t make it into the class.”
It’s a really snotty thing to say, but I want to get under her skin and I don’t have many cards to play. It seems to work, because she puts down her phone and glares at me.
“I did make it into the class. I just didn’t want to take it.”
“What? Why?”
“Oh come on. AP European History? A class where you literally study how white people fucked up the world with the Crusades and colonization and smallpox? Yet there’s no room in the budget to offer Asian or African History? Yeah, no. If that’s the pinnacle of academic study our school has to offer, I’ll fucking pass. Say what you want about Ms. Bowles’s ‘regular track’ modern history class, but she makes a point of dismantling the whole European hegemony thing, and that’s a much better use of my time.”
I can’t think of anything to say to that, not least because I’m trying to figure out what hegemony means.
Irene takes a pointed sip from her thermos and shakes her head. “But please, tell me more about how you’re so much smarter than me. Not like I haven’t heard it before. People love to assume they’re better than you when you’re ‘just a cheerleader,’ as if I’m not completely fucking aware of the complicated identity that comes with my sport.”
“I never said I was smarter than you,” I say tersely.
She snorts. “Right. You only implied it. But you’re the one who was dumb enough to get taken in by Tally Gibson.”
My heart rate skyrockets. “What did you say?”
She raises her eyebrows. “Was I not clear enough?”
I jerk the car over to the side of the road. The car behind us blares its horn as it passes. Irene looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Let’s be clear about a few things.” I’m so angry that my voice is trembling. “One: In case you haven’t noticed, driving you to school is the last thing I want to be doing, so try to tone down the bitchy factor. Two: I might have covered for your ass yesterday, but I haven’t forgotten your shitty tow truck prank, and I haven’t forgiven you for it, either. Don’t give me yet another reason to hate you. And three: Don’t you ever talk shit about Tally to me. Ever.”
Irene is breathing hard, her face crinkled in fury. The scar in her eyebrow visibly shows. I’d like to thank the person who put it there.
“Understood,” she says finally, her chest heaving. “But if you get to set some ground rules, so do I. And there’s only one: Don’t ever make assumptions about me again.”
“Fine,” I growl.
I pull back onto the road and turn up my music. We don’t say another word for the rest of the drive.
When I park in my usual space in the senior lot, I notice with relief that Danielle’s car is already here. I can’t wait to escape and find her.
I’m scrambling out of my seat when it hits me: Irene Abraham is about to get out of my car … in the middle of the senior parking lot … where we’re surrounded by classmates who know the two of us go together like a princess and a gremlin. People are definitely going to talk.
Irene gets out of the car first, snapping the door shut. I take a deep breath and open my own door.
The moment I stand up, I can feel all eyes on us.
The looks are coming from people all over the parking lot—the band kids, the potheads, the hipster Christian kids. Irene’s group of friends looks up with their perfect haircuts and cocky smiles, most of them snickering. They make their way toward us as I fish my backpack and duffel bag out of the back seat.
“Yayyy, happy carpool day!” Honey-Belle trills, clapping her hands. She is impossibly chipper. Her DNA is probably made of cupcakes.
“So whose fault was it?” Gino DiNova calls. “Was it you, Abraham?”
Gino is hard to explicitly hate because he never says anything actually offensive, but he never says anything nice, either. Right now he’s got his cell phone out, clearly taking a snap of my car, laughing like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen. I don’t think I’ve even spoken to him before.
“Funny you’re so interested, Gino,” Irene says coolly, “considering you ran over Brinkley’s mailbox last month.”
That shuts Gino up. The group combusts with laughter and Honey-Belle pulls Irene into her side. I push past them toward the school entrance, feeling their eyes on my back. Not one of them says a word to me.
“How’s your car?” Danielle asks the moment we meet at our lockers. I never texted her about it, but she must have heard through the grapevine. She looks sympathetic, which means she’s gotten over my poor playing last night. I grimace and accept the coffee she hands me, while she accepts the baggie of apple slices I cut up for her this morning. We’ve traded breakfast like this since the first day of senior year.
“Bumper’s all fucked up. But that’s nothing compared to my ego.” I take a sip of the coffee and brighten. “Whoa, second day in a row you’ve gotten the perfect cream-to-coffee ratio!”
“Told you I would,” Danielle says smugly. Then her expression darkens. “I heard who the other driver was. I hope you smashed the shit out of her car.”
The great thing about Danielle is that she would never say anything annoying like Why didn’t you tell me? It’s just not how we work. After Tally dumped me, I couldn’t even bring myself to tell my friends. It was Daphne who texted Danielle, and within an hour, Danielle showed up at my house with a gallon of Rocky Road ice cream. She let me sob for half an hour, and then she and my sisters queued up a movie marathon of John Tucker Must Die, She’s the Man, and a slew of other classics.
Danielle has been my best friend since fifth grade, when our teacher’s alphabetical seating system landed us right next to each other: Zajac and Zander, the far-flung edge of the class roster. That same year, Danielle ran for class president under the platform of latter-half-of-the-alphabet rights. Pretty much everyone whose last name started with M or later voted for her, and after she won, we enjoyed a solid month of standing at the front of the line before our teacher got tired of it.
“Welp, I did. And now I have to drive her till her car’s fixed,” I say, nicking one of her apple slices.
Danielle stares at me, horrified. “What?”
“My mom set it up when she found out we live near each other. She felt bad that Irene wouldn’t have a ride.”
“That seems like a cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Cruel, unusual, and completely on-brand for the year I’m having.”
Danielle pointedly ignores the last one. I feel a twinge of embarrassment, knowing I sound pitiful.
“We need to give our moms a talking-to about meddling,” Danielle says. “My mom barged in on my shower this morning because she came up with another idea I could write about for the Common App essay. And you know what it was? How I’m a great big sister to Teddy. As if admissions counselors care about that.”
Danielle and her seven-year-old brother, Teddy, were both adopted. Danielle’s mom is Black, like Danielle and Teddy, and her dad is white. Her parents met in a ballroom dancing club in college. Like, for real. Sometimes they spontaneously tango when we’re hanging out at their house.
“Why is your mom so worried about this essay?” I ask, grateful for the change of subject.
“She’s not.” Danielle busies herself with chewing on her thumbnail. “I’m worried about it, so she’s hovering. Everything I’ve read says you should avoid mission trips and personal heroes because those are the ultimate clichés. It’s better to share an anecdote that reveals your personality. But, like … what am I supposed to say?”
We slam our lockers and lean against them, thinking. It’s a nice escape from my new reality.
“You’re one of the smartest people in our grade,” I tell her. “You know so much about this application process, you could probably run the whole guidance department if you wanted to. Just like you’re running our basketball team.” I freeze, realizing the answer. “Wait! You can tell the story of how you’ve stepped up to be our coach!”
No one asked Danielle to take over our team. It’s just that Coach Fernandez isn’t really a coach—she’s the computer teacher who runs the robotics club. After our old coach retired last season, the school couldn’t find anyone new to coach girls’ basketball, so Fernandez agreed to sign on as Official Adult Person; otherwise, we wouldn’t have had a season. She pops by practice maybe once or twice a week, but otherwise lets Danielle do her thing.
“It would make a great story,” I continue enthusiastically. “You can paint yourself as our fearless leader!”
Danielle flinches like a mosquito landed on her. “No. That’s so braggy.”
“Dude, the point of an admissions essay is to be braggy. Isn’t that why you do all the things you do?”
“I do them because I’m a long-suffering perfectionist.” She shoots me a familiar smile: the one she uses to deflect attention off herself. It makes me want to hug her and shake her at the same time, because she’s so wonderful but so determined to downplay it. It’s like she hides herself under a lampshade so no one will see how brightly she shines. Even when she staged a coup in fifth grade for alphabet reversal—so those of us who were always at the end of the line finally got to be up front—she made me switch places with her so she didn’t have to stand first in line.
I’m trying to think of another angle for her essay when we’re interrupted by our two guy friends, Gunther Thomas and Kevin Todds. They’re best friends the same way Danielle and I are; they even have lockers right next to each other. There’s something about my friends and the alphabet.
“Look who’s the talk of the town,” Gunther says, slinging an arm around my shoulders.
I wince, all thought of Danielle’s problems forgotten. “You guys heard, too?”
“A couple of the band guys were talking about it,” Kevin says. “They didn’t actually know your name, but we knew it was you because they described you as ‘gay Ginny Weasley.’”
“Charming,” I say with a scowl. “Glad to know I have such a powerful reputation.”
“Better than Tow Truck Girl,” Gunther says, and I punch his shoulder.
We’ve been friends with the boys since freshman year. Gunther is short and stocky, with thick brown hair and a blond birthmark on the crown of his head. He plays our mascot, the Fighting Reindeer, which means he spends a lot of time prancing around and charging people with his antlers. Kevin is a few inches taller than Gunther, with a round face and acne scars on his light brown skin. His big thing is music. He’s been in marching band all four years, and he’s trying to line up auditions for college conservatory programs.
“What’s new with you, Danielle?” Kevin asks. “I heard you played well last night.”
Danielle shrugs and tries to shift into a casual pose, but she ends up stumbling into her locker. She’s gotten increasingly weird around Kevin lately. Like, nursing-a-secret-crush weird. “Yeah, I played all right.” She wrinkles her nose. “Better than you at mini golf, anyway.”
Kevin presses a hand to his heart. “Damn. Low blow.”
Just then, Irene and her entourage sweep into the hallway. It’s one of those subtle things where everyone around us continues to go about their business, but you know they’re aware of the popular kids entering their midst.
“There’s your buddy,” Kevin says with a sigh. “Revving up for Homecoming Court this weekend. Another day in the life of the princess.”
“And now she’s got Scottie to drive her pumpkin carriage,” Gunther says, his eyes twinkling.
Irene doesn’t look at me as she walks by, but I can sense other people staring at me, hoping for us to interact. I slam my locker closed and try to lose myself in conversation with my friends, but it’s like an invisible string has tethered me to Irene and I’ll spend the whole day linked to her no matter what I do.
Predictably, my day is smattered with interruptions from gossipmongers who want to know about the accident. I’m amazed at how many people suddenly know my name—not just the other seniors, but the juniors and underclassmen, too. Some of them are sincere when they ask if I’m okay, but most of them bring it up because they want to hear about Irene.
“Do you guys, like, hang out now?” a wide-eyed girl asks.
“Was she pissed at you for ruining her car?” another whispers.
“Does it feel like carpooling with a Kardashian?” a straight-faced freshman asks.
“No,” I hear myself saying over and over again. “I literally couldn’t care less.”
I don’t actually see Irene until the end of the day, when we have our only class together: Senior Horizons. It’s a joke of a class with an albatross of a teacher. Mrs. Scuttlebaum is a grumpy, bitter old woman who wears the same tulip-patterned cardigan over every outfit. Her smoker’s emphysema makes sitting in her lectures that much worse.
When Danielle and I walk into the classroom, a bunch of the guys, led by Gino, start laughing.
“Hey, Abraham, your Uber’s here!”
“Can you drive me to the dance this weekend, Zajac?”
“Five stars, Zajac, five stars!”
I can feel my face burning, but I roll my eyes with a bravado I don’t feel. Irene, however, crosses her legs and says, “I’d only give her three stars.”
The classroom howls with laughter. Irene catches my eye and smirks, almost like we’re sharing the joke.
There’s a beat where it’s silent, and then I say, “I’d give her zero.”
The classroom erupts in laughter again. Irene tilts her head at me. She doesn’t look angry, but I can’t quite read her expression. I ignore her and fish my notebook out of my backpack until Scuttlebaum wheezes at everyone to shut up.
The most surprising thing happens at the end of the day, when I’m on my way to basketball practice. Danielle and I are walking down the hallway when my cell phone chimes with a sound that stops me cold.
That chime is set to only one person.
Tally Gibson:Why are you driving Irene Abraham around?
I can’t sort out how I’m feeling at first. I mean, I’m stunned that Tally’s reaching out at all, especially after our talk last night. But I also feel strangely validated. This is proof that she still cares about what I’m doing. That I’m in her head as much as she’s in mine.
“Don’t engage,” Danielle warns, but I ignore her.
Me:How do you know that?
Tally Gibson:Saw it on Gino’s Instagram.
Sure enough, when I open the app, Gino’s Story is the first to pop up. It’s a picture of Irene and me getting out of my car, her looking aloof and me looking grouchy. The caption says Homecoming queen in her new chariot!! Gay Ginny Weasley for the win!
Cool. So glad everyone in my universe, including my ex-girlfriend, is seeing this.
“Scottie,” Danielle says in a way that means Don’t text her back.
“I’ll just give her the bare minimum so she lays off.”
Me:It’s just for a few days.
I don’t want to tell her about my accident, even though she’ll probably find out anyway.
Tally Gibson:Oh.
Tally Gibson:Am I not allowed to know the reason anymore?
“That freaking sociopath,” Danielle says, glaring at my phone. “She is so manipulative. Ignore her. You don’t owe her an explanation.”
I can tell Danielle is getting riled up, so I pocket my phone and continue down the hall. But when we get to the locker room, I take advantage of the chaos to pull out my phone again.
Me: Why do you want to know?
Tally Gibson:Because it’s not like you. What happened to hating her guts after the towing thing?
Me:I don’t think my opinion of her is any of your business. Not anymore.
Tally Gibson:Wow, okay.
I think that’s the end of it, but Tally sends one final text:
Tally Gibson:You should be careful. She can’t be good for you.
And that’s when it hits me: Tally is jealous of my perceived friendship with Irene. She’s threatened by the possibility that I could change—scared that I could catapult to popularity even faster than her. The idea leaves me dazed.
When we spill onto the court, I have a bounce in my step. I’m playing as well as I used to—maybe even better. My energy is contagious, and suddenly the whole team is playing at our highest frequency.
I don’t think it can get any better, but in the last ten minutes of practice, it does. The auxiliary doors open and, for the first time in my basketball career, we have a cheering section. Literally. Irene has brought her squad to watch us play.
I know she’s not doing me any favors. She’s only here because her own practice is over and she wants to hurry me along. Still, it feels validating to have an audience, and my teammates seem to feel the same way.
“Are they really here for us?” Shelby asks.
Liz Guggenheim, who we call Googy, shakes her head. “Nah, dude. They’re here for Scottie.” She turns to me, starstruck. “That car accident was the best thing you’ve ever done.”
The whole team looks at me, their mouths twitching with glee. I feel like I’m flying close to the sun.
“Let’s run the Hot Dog play,” Danielle says, smirking. She passes me the ball, and I hesitate, realizing the gift she’s giving me.
“You sure?”
“Make it sail, Scots.”
We run the play with a palpable momentum. I zip around the court, and when Googy feeds me the ball, I send it swishing through the basket with a perfect jump shot.
The girls in the stands erupt. Honey-Belle actually whoops. Danielle looks at me like we’ve just found money on the ground.
“Carpool with Irene for as long as you can,” she whispers, a gleam in her eye.
And for the first time, I think it’s not a bad idea.
