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Authors: Stacey Kade
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from the steering wheel and squinted at me when I got in on the passenger side. “Dude, you look like hammered shit.”
Juggling my so-called toast, I chucked my backpack into the backseat and pulled my seat belt on. “I always forget—is hammered shit better or worse than non-hammered shit?”
“Funny,” he said through a yawn.
“And you’re one to talk.” I frowned. Trey looked bleary-eyed and half awake, and he hadn’t even been drinking last night.
His jaw dropped in another bone-cracking yawn. “Didn’t get much sleep.”
I wondered if that was my fault. But he’d come to pick me up anyway, which I appreciated, especially after the scene with my dad. Nothing like being able to storm out and go somewhere instead of having to crawl back inside in humiliation.
Trey straightened up and shook his head rapidly, as though the vigorous motion would help him wake up. “Your dad giving you a hard time again?” He nodded toward my house, and I looked up in time to see my dad glaring at me from the doorway before he slammed the door with such force it rattled the car windows.
That was one of the benefits of having the same friends for eleven years. They knew all your crap and you didn’t have to explain it.
“Yeah.” I took a tentative bite of the toast. It was gross, stale-on-the-verge-of-moldy, and charred. But better than nothing.
“Sucks.” Trey put the car in reverse and looked over his shoulder to back out of the driveway. “Dude needs to get over it.”
“Yeah. Right.” Not in my lifetime.
I waited until Trey reached the street to speak again. We didn’t usually talk much in the car—neither of us are morning people—but it was eating at me and I had to know.
“I wasn’t sure you’d show this morning. Thought you might still be pissed.” I’d tried to explain to him last night that the kiss hadn’t meant anything. Rachel was messing with us, her way of entertaining herself.
But he’d waved me off and remained sulking in the shallow end of the pool. I’d had to get a ride home with Cami and Cassi, which was its own form of torture. I’d never been alone with the two of them before, and though they were, theoretically, genetically identical, you’ve never seen two people argue so much. Whether this song sucks or not, if it’s too hot or cold, whose perfume smells better, pink versus red. I didn’t even understand that last one. And they wanted my opinion to settle every single debate. (For the record, I think I came down on the side of pink.) I’d always thought Rachel hung out with them because they told her what she wanted to hear. Now I wondered if they needed her—in a referee capacity—far more than she needed them.
Trey shrugged. “It’s cool.”
I looked at him, surprised and relieved. I relaxed in my seat—as best as I could with the dash digging into my knees—feeling some of the weight on my shoulders roll away. One less thing to worry about.
“Rachel explained it,” he added.
I stiffened. Yeah, I bet she did.
As if confirming my suspicion, he hesitated and then said, “She was happy to see you having fun again. But you know you don’t have anything to prove to us or anybody else.”
Damn it, Rachel. “It isn’t about that,” I said tightly. Poor Zane misses his mommy. Boo-hoo. It was about so much more than that. But people only cared about the surface.
“Whatever, man,” he said. “I just mean I’m here if you want to talk about it.”
What was there to talk about? If my life sucked, what was the point of hashing it out with everyone, asking them to feel sorry for me? It wouldn’t change anything.
“No one knows what’s going on with you,” he added. “And you’re different since your mom—”
“Don’t.” I glared at him, and he clamped his mouth shut, which was wise. I couldn’t believe he was going there. Or rather, that Rachel had more or less pushed him to it. I could picture it, her eyes all faux-sincere, talking about poor
Juggling my so-called toast, I chucked my backpack into the backseat and pulled my seat belt on. “I always forget—is hammered shit better or worse than non-hammered shit?”
“Funny,” he said through a yawn.
“And you’re one to talk.” I frowned. Trey looked bleary-eyed and half awake, and he hadn’t even been drinking last night.
His jaw dropped in another bone-cracking yawn. “Didn’t get much sleep.”
I wondered if that was my fault. But he’d come to pick me up anyway, which I appreciated, especially after the scene with my dad. Nothing like being able to storm out and go somewhere instead of having to crawl back inside in humiliation.
Trey straightened up and shook his head rapidly, as though the vigorous motion would help him wake up. “Your dad giving you a hard time again?” He nodded toward my house, and I looked up in time to see my dad glaring at me from the doorway before he slammed the door with such force it rattled the car windows.
That was one of the benefits of having the same friends for eleven years. They knew all your crap and you didn’t have to explain it.
“Yeah.” I took a tentative bite of the toast. It was gross, stale-on-the-verge-of-moldy, and charred. But better than nothing.
“Sucks.” Trey put the car in reverse and looked over his shoulder to back out of the driveway. “Dude needs to get over it.”
“Yeah. Right.” Not in my lifetime.
I waited until Trey reached the street to speak again. We didn’t usually talk much in the car—neither of us are morning people—but it was eating at me and I had to know.
“I wasn’t sure you’d show this morning. Thought you might still be pissed.” I’d tried to explain to him last night that the kiss hadn’t meant anything. Rachel was messing with us, her way of entertaining herself.
But he’d waved me off and remained sulking in the shallow end of the pool. I’d had to get a ride home with Cami and Cassi, which was its own form of torture. I’d never been alone with the two of them before, and though they were, theoretically, genetically identical, you’ve never seen two people argue so much. Whether this song sucks or not, if it’s too hot or cold, whose perfume smells better, pink versus red. I didn’t even understand that last one. And they wanted my opinion to settle every single debate. (For the record, I think I came down on the side of pink.) I’d always thought Rachel hung out with them because they told her what she wanted to hear. Now I wondered if they needed her—in a referee capacity—far more than she needed them.
Trey shrugged. “It’s cool.”
I looked at him, surprised and relieved. I relaxed in my seat—as best as I could with the dash digging into my knees—feeling some of the weight on my shoulders roll away. One less thing to worry about.
“Rachel explained it,” he added.
I stiffened. Yeah, I bet she did.
As if confirming my suspicion, he hesitated and then said, “She was happy to see you having fun again. But you know you don’t have anything to prove to us or anybody else.”
Damn it, Rachel. “It isn’t about that,” I said tightly. Poor Zane misses his mommy. Boo-hoo. It was about so much more than that. But people only cared about the surface.
“Whatever, man,” he said. “I just mean I’m here if you want to talk about it.”
What was there to talk about? If my life sucked, what was the point of hashing it out with everyone, asking them to feel sorry for me? It wouldn’t change anything.
“No one knows what’s going on with you,” he added. “And you’re different since your mom—”
“Don’t.” I glared at him, and he clamped his mouth shut, which was wise. I couldn’t believe he was going there. Or rather, that Rachel had more or less pushed him to it. I could picture it, her eyes all faux-sincere, talking about poor
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