“Well, in all of the Eastside, at least,” I say. “Now I probably won’t get the job in the fall. Which I was really counting on, you know. Money and my college applications.”
I texted all of this to Rachel already, but she hasn’t gotten back to me yet. I guess she’s too busy with her own internship to give me the internship pep talk I so desperately need. Well, I want a pep talk. Maybe what I need is a cold dose of reality.
“Why wouldn’t you get the job?” Maliah asks, and I feel it. I did need a pep talk. “You’re great at all your fashion Tumblr stuff. You were on The Cut!”
“I felt like such a goober today,” I say. “Guess who the other intern is.”
Trevor bounds over to us straight from the pool and wraps his arms around Maliah’s bare stomach. She squeals as he drenches her with cold pool water, and that almost immediately turns into making out. Okay, it’s just kissing, but it’s kissing with a lot of contact, and I’m standing right here, so it’s fair to qualify it as making out.
Seriously, I couldn’t be happier for Maliah, living out her real-life love story. I just occasionally or maybe slightly more than occasionally wish it affected my life slightly less. Also, is this an inevitable part of love, or even of like? It’s a horrifying thought. But since I’m going to be alone forever, at least I won’t become one of them.
Though will I just be surrounded by squealing and PDAs? My future is doomed.
“What were you saying?” Maliah asks as Trevor runs back toward the pool releasing some kind of warrior yell. Boys in big groups remind me of babysitting our next-door neighbors’ twin toddlers. There’s so much chaotic yelling and wrestling—and the sinking feeling that maybe nothing less than full adult supervision is required.
“Wait, what suit are you wearing?” Maliah grabs the skirt of my dress and starts pulling it up. I let out a full-on scream. Even the warrior-yelling boys look over.
“What the hell, Abby.”
“I’m not wearing a suit,” I say. “And I don’t want anyone seeing my underpants. That was a normal reaction for underpants-seeing prevention.”
“It’s a pool party!” she says. “I told you to bring a suit!”
“There was a problem with our washing machine last night,” I say. “So I couldn’t get it ready because I was at my internship all day. And, anyway, speaking of my internship, guess who—”
“You okay over here?” One of Trevor’s buddies makes his way over to us. “Sounded like something violent going down.”
“I’m fine,” I say. This is the one I don’t dislike, because he bought me a Diet Coke once, and didn’t laugh the other week at the girl whose bikini top fell off when she dove into the water. For a lacrosse bro type, I guess he’s harmless enough.
“Be safe,” he says with a smile.
“Jax,” Maliah says with a grin. “You know that hitting on Abbs is hopeless, right?”
Oh my god, that’s right. His name is actually Jax, like he’s an action hero or a for-dudes-only line of deodorant.
“I still need to talk to you about something,” Jax says with a little head nod. I feel like he knows this gesture works on girls and so he’s worked out the intricacies of exactly how much to tilt his head and squint his eyes.
Somehow it even sort of works on me.
“Leave her alone,” Maliah says, though with a smile.
“I’ll text you later,” Jax tells me while walking off.
“Good luck without my number,” I mutter to Maliah, who snorts.
“He’ll probably get it from Trevor,” she says. “Fair warning.”
“Why does Trevor have my number?” I take another sip of beer. It’s not good but it’s cold and free.
“You know,” Maliah says with a little shrug. “Emergencies and stuff. If he can’t get in touch with me, he can try you.”
See, it’s great that I’m doomed to my spinster existence—I literally don’t understand anything that couples do.
“So what are you talking about?” Maliah hops up to sit on the little stone wall that sections off the pool area. “The other intern? Someone exciting?”
“No,” I say. “Jordi Perez. From school.”
Maliah squinches her eyebrows, nose, and mouth all at once. “Jordi Perez? I thought she was in juvie.”
“Juvie?” I burst out laughing. “Is juvie even real? I thought that was something that happened to bad kids in movies from the 1950s.”
“Abby, juvie is completely real, and I can’t believe she’s not still there.”
“She seems fine,” I say. More than fine. Professional! Inspiring! Fashion-serious in all black! Well-spoken! Beautiful!
“I heard she burned down a building. Arson, Abbs.”
“You are my best friend and I love you,” I say, “but that doesn’t sound like something that could have really happened.”
“Be careful.” Maliah grabs my arm and forces me to stare into her eyes. “Promise me.”
“Um, okay. Sure.”
“What’s it like otherwise? Can you use a computer? Then you could still work on your blog.”
“I don’t think so.” I feel a twinge of guilt that in today’s weirdness, I haven’t yet come up with my next post idea. “I don’t even know what I’m writing about.”
“Swimsuits,” she says, forcefully. “And you should take pictures in them. At least in the nautical striped one.”
“Is it too clichéd to write about swimsuits for my second post of the summer?” I ask. “And you know how I feel about putting pictures of myself online that aren’t severely locked down. Why would I start with me in a swimsuit?”
Maliah pokes me in the shoulder. “’Cause you’d look smoking and maybe this is how you find a girlfriend, finally.”
“I don’t want a girlfriend,” I say, because it’s what I always say. It feels good and consistent and right to stick to a story. After all, it’s not embarrassing not to have something you don’t even want.
The thing is, even if I wasn’t already doomed to never know love, it would still seem impossible. I don’t know how to find girls—Lyndsey is proof of that—and
