She slides into the passenger seat and puts on her big sunglasses, totally unnecessary since the sun is low on the horizon, but it masks whatever is going on behind her eyes.
I take the call, my voice clipped and short on the greeting, and wince at the rushed, slurred words on the other end.
It's worse than I thought, and I have no business pushing my luck in this situation, but I have her in the car, and I have to see her home, then leave, much as it kills me.
It's going to be a long fucking night.
Evan 5
"And then what?" Brenna's voice circles around becoming a scream of pure, sickening frustration.
And it's just about to get more screamy and frustrated, because the end of my story would make any rational person fly into a throw-down, fall-out tantrum.
It's the kind of crazy that makes me want to wrap my arms around her so we can scream together until our voices are hoarse, then split a pint of New York Super Fudge Chunk and a bottle of something strong and sweet and brain-dumbing.
"And then he walked me to the door, gave me this little peck, his goddamn, piece of shit, idiot-ass fucking phone rang again, and he told me he had to go."
I sigh and flop back on my bed. Perfectly made. My closet has been micro-organized. All my homework is done. I reorganized my freaking nail polish drawer. Because I need to keep busy. Because--
"So he hasn't called?" Brenna lets out some kind of adorably guttural sound that walks the line between a sigh and a vicious growl. "It's been a week. Is he insane? Does he think you're just going to sit around in your room waiting for his call?"
"Honey, I am sitting in my room waiting for his call."
I pace over to my computer chair, fall into it, and twirl faster and faster, until I'm completely disoriented and woozy.
"Can't you go out? I wish we lived closer." This particular lament of Brenna's gets repeated at least twice a week, and I would kill for the ability to get into a time/space phone booth and whisk myself to her every time she says it. "We would have the most amazing girl date and wear our sexiest things and shake our fine asses...and we'd put pictures of our hot young selves all over Facebook! Still nothing on that front?"
I stop spinning and pluck a picture of her and me getting ready to go dancing in Ireland off my vanity mirror. We look so carefree and fun-loving in our tiny, tight dresses and fuck-me shoes. I had no idea on that sweet summer night so many months ago that I’d leave Brenna and come back to some prim, stick-up-its-ass school brimming with bitchy girls I would never want to get to know, a criminal record, and a demolished social life.
"He's a ghost. If he even has an account, he's unsearchable, and I have no clue how else I could possibly connect to him. I have no idea who any of his friends are, where he goes to school. Or college. Is he in college?" If pure humiliation could be expressed in a single sound, that sound would be my groan. "How do I always manage to get to the sticking-my-tongue-down-their-throat-stage without getting basic information first?"
"Because you're more of a romantic that you like to pretend."
“Or more of a slut,” I sigh.
“Don’t call yourself a slut. It’s degrading. Plus that, a slut wouldn’t care who the hell she kissed and left. She’d be on to the next guy already. You, my love, are a romantic,” Brenna clucks, her voice marinated in triumph. Brenna is the patron saint of romance, and she holds herself proudly accountable for what she perceives as my conversion. "So, what's the plan, babycakes? Because sulking is totally unacceptable. One thousand percent. Who can you call? Where can you go?"
"No one. Nowhere." I flick a chip of nail polish off my fingernail and let one tiny, baby, secret tear wobble in a makeup-tinged streak down my cheek. "This is what I deserve. I drove everyone crazy and got in trouble. I shouldn't be cruising with some hot guy. So hot. So freaking hot."
Brenna's laugh is the chocolate fudge, whipped cream, and double cherry on top to the sad vanilla boringness of my life.
"Stop that right now. You got carried away, but you don't have a mean bone in your gorgeous body, okay? I'm not going to hear you sulk. There must be somewhere you can go. I hate that you're so sad...oh no! You're in your school uniform aren't you?"
I actually swivel my neck checking to see if Brenna had some sort of video camera set up to spy on me.
"School just got out a few hours ago," I mumble.
"Get out of that polyester horror! Now!" Brenna's bark is all fashion-drill-sergeant-strict, and it kicks my ass into disrobing action. When I'm down to my under-things, I actually do feel better. Brenna’s voice dictates through the phone. "It's like I can hear your mood improving already. Okay, you need a bitching outfit. Wear the stiletto boots. You know the ones. Pair them with something soft and sweet. And I don't care what you do or where you go, but you need to get out!"
She sighs, and I can picture her leaning her elbows on her windowsill, gazing dreamily at the road where her sexy boyfriend Jake will roar down in his big truck and take her...somewhere terrible like the bowling alley or on a hike. I'm instantly overwhelmed with guilt for crying over my sorry life when Brenna has to live in the backwoods of rural New Jersey.
"Okay, hun. I'm laying an outfit for tonight on the bed right now. And, oh! I just remembered that Granddaddy asked me to come with them to some art gallery opening. I think it will be boring, and I
