P.S. I Loathe You (15 page)
Dylan ripped open the plastic bag with her teeth. “Ready?” Seeds spilled into her mouth, and she immediately spit them to the asphalt. A week ago she would have worried that Derrick might find the seed-spit a turnoff, but not anymore. She knew he’d laugh. And he did.
“Ew, sorry.” Dylan wiped her tongue on the sleeve of her gray cashmere waffle-weave sweater dress.
He dumped a bunch of seeds in his mouth and shot them like bullets from an AK-47. “No problem.” He grinned playfully.
As if cued by Alfred Hitchcock himself, a flock of pigeons swarmed the lot and landed at their feet.
“Ahhhhhh!” Dylan dropped her bag and ran for a nearby tree.
Derrick did the same, with a limp, but without the high, shrieking scream.
They giggle-watched as dozens of pigeons poked the pavement liked winged jackhammers.
“Ehmagawd, there she is!” Dylan pointed at Ms. Dunkel, who was parking her red Subaru Forester while gray feathers drifted to the ground amid the feeding frenzy.
“Come on.” Derrick tugged her arm. “We need to get out there and take responsibility for this.”
“Shouldn’t we wait until it calms down a little?” Dylan dug her nails into the tree trunk. “We could get hepatitis or something.”
“No!” He tugged. “We need to—”
“Scram, rats!” Strawberry appeared in the parking lot, waving her arms at the cooing surge.
“Ahhhhh! How are we going to get to the trailers?” yelled Kori, her LBRBFF. “Throw something at them!”
They removed their backpacks and whipped them onto the ground like they were in flames. Three rattled pigeons flapped their wings and rose a few inches, but landed almost immediately. The rest kept pecking.
Suddenly, more came.
They hovered just above the girls’ heads, looking for their point of entry, while dropping poop and shedding feathers.
“What do they
want
?” Kori cried.
“Food!” Strawberry scooped up their packs. “Give them food.”
Kori whimpered as she unzipped her polka-dot LeSportsac. “Low-fat organic cheese or Tofurky?”
“Both!” Strawberry shouted. “Whatever!” She whipped a Fuji apple into the chaos like a grenade.
Derrick and Dylan shook with silent laughter.
“What is going
on
here?” Ms. Dunkel yelled.
The pigeons scattered at once.
“Feeding the pigeons is against school policy,” she insisted, paying no mind to their tear-soaked faces.
“But we weren’t—”
“Detentions for both of you!” Ms. Dunkel grabbed their arms and yanked them toward the trailers. “I hope you like washing cars.”
“No fair!” cried Strawberry as she and Kori scrambled to keep up with their irate teacher.
“No fair!” Dylan stomped her red ankle boot.
“I better go too or I’ll get another detention without you.” Derrick waved, hobbling backward.
“What do we do now?” Dylan pouted.
“We’ll go for plan C at lunch.”
“’Kay.” Dylan beamed. Despite her disappointment, she was still smiling. This was the most fun she’d ever had staying out of trouble.
NEW GREEN CAFÉ
Wednesday, October 7th
12:35 P.M.
Dylan knocked organic turkey meatballs from one side of her plate to the other.
“It’s lunch, nawt an abacus,” Massie teased.
“Point!” Alicia giggle-lifted her finger in the air.
“I’m not hungry,” Dylan lied. She had better plans for the balls.
“Neither is Kristen.” Massie checked the time on her iPhone. “This is the third day she’s skipped lunch because of soccer captain stuff.” She made air quotes when she said “soccer captain stuff.” “But she can’t hide forever. Eventually she’s gonna have to explain why she just stood there while Layne rode off with my crush at—”
A chunk of firm tofu smacked Massie on the forehead.
Uh-oh. Wrong forehead.
“What the—?”
Everyone stopped eating and turned. But no one dared laugh. Not when the BOCD alpha had bean curd all over her T-zone.
“Sucka!” Derrington shouted . . . and then his face blanched. “Ooops. Sorry, Massie,” he apologized, although he was looking straight at Dylan.
Massie rose out of her seat, her bottom teeth bared like a bulldog’s. “Gawd, will you puh-lease stop flirting with me? It’s pathetic times ten.” She pinched the side of Dylan’s tray, casually dragging it toward her. “I’ve moved awn, okay?”
All eyes were on her, and, like a true alpha, she refused to let all that attention go to waste.
“Hey, maybe if you had a pair of these you’d be able to get over me.” Massie lifted two of Dylan’s turkey balls and hurled them at his head.
“A direct hit!” Massie high-fived herself as they bounced off his chest, leaving a saucy skid mark above the alligator on his white Lacoste.
The Pretty Committee scurried under their bamboo table for cover.
“Massie! Massie! Massie!” chanted the surrounding wannabes.
“Save your Trina Turk tunic!” Dylan urged Massie. “Hide. Let me get him.”
Dylan fired at her crush like a machine in a batting cage, nailing her target with every toss.
“Oof! Ow! Ugh!” Derrington shouted after each ball made contact. “Take that!” he bellowed, returning fistfuls of tofu cubes.
“Dylan! Dylan! Dylan!”
“Save your waffle dress,” Massie begged Dylan. “I’ll finish him off.” Before Dylan could stop her, Massie had climbed up on her chair, redirecting everyone’s attention back to her.
“No, I’ll do it!” Dylan whipped another meatball.
“No,
me
!” Massie whipped two.
“What is going on here?” Principal Burns appeared, shielding herself with a wood tray.
The chanting stopped suddenly.
“Ms. Block, it looks like you’re responsible.”
“No, I am!” Dylan stepped forward.
“No, I am!” Derrick announced.
“No need to fight about it.” Principal Burns grinned smugly. “There are plenty of detentions to go around. I’ll see all three of you in here after school with mops.” She clapped twice. “Everyone back in their seats. And Mr. Harrington, get back to your trailer!”
Once he was gone, Massie sat with a sigh.
“Gawd.” She wiped her face with a cloth napkin. “He really
needs
to get over me.”
No, you need to get over yourself!
Dylan wanted to scream. Instead she tried another approach. “Maybe if you break the hold it will—”
“Not with this mystery vamp on the loose.”
“Why?” Dylan asked in a measured tone, quaking nervously below the surface of her skin.
“Because I don’t have a replacement yet. And if he goes public before I do—”
“He’s a guy, Massie, nawt a stock.”
“Then why are you so desperate for me to
trade
?”
“I’m nawt,” Dylan snapped, flicking a chunk of tofu off her hand and sinking into the Great Depression.
NEW GREEN CAFÉ
Wednesday, October 7th
4:08 P.M.
Dylan stared at Massie’s Evian water as they dragged the heels of their ankle boots down the barren hall toward detention. The water sloshed around innocently as she swung it, forward and back, completely oblivious to its life-altering power.
“I can’t believe you turned yourself in.” Massie swung open the door to the café. “It’s almost like you
wanted
a detention.”
Dylan tried to swallow the invisible hair extensions lodged in the back of her throat. “I was standing up for
you
,” she managed. “I didn’t want you to get punished alone.”
“Ohhhhh. That’s nice.” Massie took a long swig of water.
“Hey.” Derrington limped into the café a few seconds later. “Is it clean? Did you finish? Can we go?”
Dylan giggled. Massie rolled her eyes.
The lights were dim, giving the impression that the overworked tables and chairs were taking a much-needed break, and that the long day was over. Only three mops by table eighteen and a sauce-stained floor indicated otherwise.
“Let’s get this over with.” Massie led the charge.
As if reading Dylan’s mind, Derrick zeroed in on Massie’s water bottle and lifted his brows suggestively. Before Dylan could stop him, he faked an ankle spasm and bashed into the alpha, knocking the bottle from her hand. Water sloshed everywhere, soaking his
PARIS HILTON FOR PRESIDENT
T-shirt.
Dylan flashed him a quick “it soooo doesn’t work that way” glare.
“Sorry, my bad.” He backed away from Massie, waving his hands apologetically.
“Gawd.” Massie rolled her eyes with disdain, then turned to Dylan. “Let’s just finish so we can get out of here and go to Nunya.”
Dylan nodded like she couldn’t have agreed more, even though she had no clue where that was.
“What’s Nunya?” Derrick asked, slapping a sopping mop on the floor.
“Nunya business!” Massie lifted her palm. Dylan high-fived her like they were still the best of friends.
Which technically they were, right?
Just to be sure, Dylan made it a point not to even glance at Derrington while they cleaned. She whispered with Massie and giggled at her jokes, as if they were alone.
By the time everything was clean, Dylan was certain the alpha had no clue what was really going on. Not even Massie could hide the pain of betrayal that well.
Outside, the sun had started to fade. And so had all hope that Dylan and Derrick would ever get to spend any real time together.
“See ya!” Derrick hopped onto his black bike and pedaled off, not bothering to wait for a response.
“You think he’s going to meet the new
me
?” Massie asked as they shuffled toward her Range Rover.
Dylan’s stomach lurched at the thought. “Maybe.”
Massie cocked her head and looked at the mud-colored sky, considering something. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately—”
All breathing stopped. This was it. The moment that would change everything.
Dylan closed her eyes like she was about to get slapped.
“Did he mention anyone to you?”
Dylan exhaled with gale force. “Nope.”
Massie laughed lightly to herself. “I’d almost think it was you if he was, you know, into that sort of thing.”
“Into
whatsortofthing
?” Dylan heard herself screech.
“You know, triple B’s.”
“Huh?”
“Big-boned betas.” Massie giggled.
Dylan clenched her fists. She was seriously considering violence, when something warm splattered on her head.
Massie burst out laughing.
Without another word, Dylan and her poo-soaked skull ran sobbing toward the bathroom. Because that’s what you do after you’ve been dumped on twice in a matter of seconds.
SIRENS-TOMAHAWKS FIELD
Thursday, October 8th
4:08 P.M.
Massie felt like a chocolate cupcake.
Not because she had on too much self-tanner. Or because her gut was hanging over her Socc-Hers uniform. Actually, it was quite the opposite. She looked ah-mazing. Dozens of cheering fans poked giant foam No. 1 fingers in the air while chanting her name. That was the icing.
But just below the sugary surface was another layer. And it had a completely different texture.
It was dry and crumbly. But mostly bitter. Bitter because Kristen hadn’t helped her secure Dempsey. Bitter because Layne might actually have a chance. Bitter because Alicia was a better dancer, and knew it. Bitter because Claire and Cam were the perfect couple. Bitter because Alicia and Josh were running a close second. Bitter because Derrington was moving on. Bitter because her “triple B” comment to Dylan had been triple mean. And bitter because she couldn’t bring herself to apologize.
On one level, it was nice knowing she wasn’t the only girl on the team with a big fake smile. Dylan was covering her dry, bitter cake with icing too. And knowing that made Massie feel ah-
lot
less pathetic.
Tom-tom. Tom-tom. Tom-ta-ta-tom-tom. Tom-tom. Tom-tom. Tom-tom. Tom-ta-ta-tom-tom. Tom-tom. Tom-tom. Tom-tom. Tom-ta-ta-tom-tom. Tom-tom.
BOCD’s marching band began playing the official tribal drumbeat of the Tomahawks while the teams took the field.
“Socc-Hers, prepare!” Massie lifted her clutch feathers over her head and shook.
The rest of the team followed and began.
“WE DON’T KNOW WHAT’S WRONG OR RIGHT,
ALL WE KNOW IS OUR TEAM’S TIGHT!
WE DON’T CARE WHAT’S OUT OR IN,
JUST AS LONG AS OUR GUYS WIN!
IF IT’S LOSING THAT YOU FEAR,
FRANKLY, WE DON’T GIVE A CHEER!
WHOOOOOOO!”
They ended in a spirited tableau that paid homage to the
High School Musical 3
movie poster. Even the players- applauded. Cam smiled just for Claire. Josh smiled for Alicia. Dempsey smiled for one of them. And Derrington, who was sitting in the stands again with Kristen and Dune, smiled for . . . Massie followed his gaze. It led straight to . . .
Ehmaaaaaga—
Someone’s bony finger poked her in the ribs.
“Let’s
gooooo
!” Alicia hissed. “The game started and you’re just standing there. How ’bout we do Score Galore, with the dance sequence from
Stomp the Yard
.”
Massie’s nostrils flared, wishing she could inhale Alicia and her cocky know-it-all dancer attitude and sneeze her out into Pigeon Parking Lot, where she would lie in a snotty, bird poo–covered heap until cheerleading season was over.
“We’re doing Cleat Feet.” Massie turned to her team and shouted, “Ready? And!”
“CLEATS!”
(clap-clap)
“ON YOUR FEET!”
(clap-clap)
“SWEAT!”
(clap-clap)
“ON THE NET!”
(clap-clap)
“SCORE!”
(clap-clap)
“ONE MORE!!!!!!”
(clap-clap)
Derrington pulled himself up onto one leg and wiggled his butt in praise. And then smiled again . . . at
her.
Dylan—
yes, Dylan
—responded with a flirty ponytail toss and a lower-lip nibble. Normally, Massie would have suspected Derrington’s Dylan-smiles were misfires: the result of a lazy eye or an attempt to inspire jealousy. But they
had
been spending a lot of time together. Derrington
was
rumored to be with another girl. And they both thought burps were funny. Annnnnd, come to think of it, Dylan
was
showing a lot of interest in the Chanel No. 19 hold, or rather, its release.