“I’m thinking about how my dad needs to get rid of that old thing because the only person who uses it is the little kid next door.”
9
BLYTHE
Monday morning. It’s not difficult to find her.
In a matter of asking three juniors, I learn that Ali Greenleaf has fourth period class right down the hall from me. I’ve got my leather tote bag packed—I haven’t worn a backpack since freshman year—so when the bell rings, I zip right for the door and zoom down the hall, waiting in front of her classroom like I’ve been there all my life. Her face looks drawn and tired. She has greenish bags under her eyes. And something else. These too-short bangs that are different from that loose-curl-over-the-eye look I saw her with the other night.
She’s fumbling with her books as she walks out. I tickle the back of her arm to get her attention and she turns around. She’s wearing faded jeans, Converse sneakers, and a black T-shirt. I see why Sean thought she was cute. She’s a little rebel. Nothing like me.
ALI
Blythe Jensen is standing in front of me. Smiling. Blythe’s best friends with Sean Nessel. So if she’s talking to me, then it means it has something to do with him. And it has something to do with what happened. I take a step back. My heart stops, almost.
BLYTHE
“Ali, right? You’re friends with Cherie’s little sister.”
She stops and nods at me. Says nothing, her eyes vacant. I wonder if she remembers me from the party.
“Hel-lo?” I laugh. She’s still staring. Like I’m a ghost. “Do you smoke?”
“Smoke . . . weed?”
“You’re funny—uh, no, do you smoke cigarettes?”
She looks at me. Watching me. Her eyes like green sapphires. She takes a deep pause.
“As long as they’re unfiltered.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No, I’m just tough like that. I break the filters off before I smoke,” she says, almost slurring, and stares at me blankly. Then smirks. “Of course I don’t smoke unfiltered. What am I, a maniac?”
I laugh, and I didn’t expect to laugh. Maybe I’ve underestimated her. I ask her if she wants to come with me somewhere that we can talk. She says sure.
Ali trails me as we walk over to the C-wing. “You don’t have to walk five feet behind me. You’re not a servant,” I say. So she scoots next to me, just staring. Which is fine for now. It can’t stay that way—it’s too annoying. Besides, the other girls won’t like it. They’ll see it as a weakness.
I think about texting Cate and Suki so that I can give them a heads-up about Ali, but surprising them will be a better tactic. Anyway, I need to keep those bitches on their toes. I can bring anyone into the C-wing bathroom I want.
ALI
Have you ever walked next to a girl like Blythe Jensen? Her hair is a commercial. It’s blond and has a wave and somehow no frizz. It swings from side to side. Her skin is so smooth that she has no bumps. It’s glowy and flawless. I rub my own scaly elbows and make a note to myself: use more moisturizer.
I’m going to have a minor breakdown. She’s bringing me into the C-wing bathroom. The C-wing is designated as a senior bathroom. This is not a school designation. This is just a known fact. If you’re not a senior and you have a class in C-wing, you do not use that bathroom or else you might as well transfer to another school. A select group of senior girls smoke cigarettes in there. (Everyone’s gone back to cigarettes. Because if vaping is going to kill you, you might as well just smoke the old-fashioned way.)
There’s some code. You have to knock a few times. But I’ve never even tried to get in. I know this sounds implausible—hello, this is a school—but we have a big school. Three wings! Three floors in each wing. Two bathrooms on each floor. Three different vice principals even. No one gets busted for smoking up in C-wing. Teachers aren’t interested in going up there, to the third floor, all the way down the hall. Practically nowhere. They’ve gotten away with it for years. And I’ve learned to just fear it. To stay away.
BLYTHE
Even though no one has caught us smoking in the C-wing bathroom, we’re all still a little on edge about someone busting in. You just need to say, “It’s cool,” or rap on the wall a few times before you walk in, but I never see anyone new here. People are scared. It’s fine with me. The fewer people who come, the less attention it gets. It should be exclusive. It should be hard to find.
I turn to Ali outside the bathroom door and place my index finger on my lips. I whisper: “Don’t say a word.”
I kick open the bathroom door, and Suki, Cate, and Donnie all gasp. Suki chokes, coughing on her inhale. They shove their cigarettes behind their backs, as if that would help their asses if they had gotten caught.
ALI
It’s the Core Four. Suki Fields. Cate Sandoval. Donnie Alperstein. Blythe Jensen, their fourth.
I take a quick look around. Cate has these big gold hoop earrings with her name spelled through the middle: CATE.
Suki is wearing a floral skirt down to her calves. A tiny T-shirt that says SO TIRED.
Donnie Alperstein in denim shorts. Button-up shirt to the collar. Black Converse high-tops. She has smoky blue tips in her curly hair, and I flash back to seeing her at Sophie Miller’s party, laughing in a crowd of people.
The party. That night.
Sean Nessel on top of me.
Shake it off. Close your eyes and make it go away. Breathe, Ali. Breathe.
The girls collectively hold their breaths and hide their smokes behind their backs. When they see it’s just Blythe, they exhale, and a massive cloud of smoke hits my face.
