She Drives Me Crazy(9)

It takes me a moment to speak. “Right,” I say tersely. “Obviously. I just figured we’d text.”

“Calling’s more efficient.”

I clear my throat, trying to stop myself from screaming at her. “How’s your car? What’d the mechanic say?”

She ignores the question. “What time are you picking me up in the morning? I usually leave by seven twenty-five.”

I’m still trying to get my footing in the conversation, and it takes me a second to realize what she’s asking. Seven twenty-five? Our school is only ten minutes away, and class doesn’t start until 8:05.

“I usually leave at seven forty,” I say pointedly.

She makes an impatient noise. “I have things to do in the morning. If I had my own car, I’d leave at seven fifteen.”

“I guess you should have thought about that before you rammed your car into mine, huh?”

There’s a stiff silence. “Are you picking me up at seven twenty-five, or not?”

I grit my teeth. “I’ll be there.”

“Great. I’ll text you my address.”

“Great. Isn’t texting so efficient?”

A beat passes. “Cute,” she says in the most acidic voice I’ve ever heard. Then she hangs up. I stare at my phone in outrage.

“Who the hell was that?” Thora asks.

“My nemesis,” I say, only half joking.

“I thought Tally was your nemesis,” Daphne says. Thora elbows her in the side.

“Scots,” Thora says, grabbing the remote from me, “I don’t know what this says about me, but your drama is becoming the most entertaining part of my life.”





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.”