P.S. I Loathe You (14 page)
“What?”
Kristen shouted back, not wanting to believe it.
“Stand up!” Dune gripped her elbow and lifted Kristen into a squat.
“I don’t want tooooooooooooooo!” she yelled as they shot down at stomach-roiling speed.
“Ahhhhhhhhh!” everyone shrieked.
Kristen fought to keep her balance in a position usually used for pooing outdoors.
Like Leo on the bow of the
Titanic,
Dune’s hair was blowing and his arms were wide, embracing all of nature’s goodness in this moment meant just for him. “Riiiiiiide it!”
Three cars ahead, Dempsey’s arms were wrapped around Massie, and her face was buried in his chest. A sudden shock of jealousy bolted through Kristen. She wished Dune would put his arm around her like that, instead of making her crouch-stand next to him. For a second she imagined herself leaping from head to head, car to car, like a frog in a lily pond until she got close enough to tear them apart. But why? Was she that sympathetic toward Layne? That able to
feel
the heartache of the people she loved? Compassionate to a dangerous degree? Kristen was about to check on Layne when everything went dark. The car shot into a tunnel, amplifying their screams and distorting their senses. Was this how blind kids felt on Halloween?
“Whooo-hooooo!” Dune finally let go of his grip, allowing Kristen to fall back in her seat and massage her burning quads.
All of a sudden, a giant hand of sunshine smacked her in the eyes. The car was back outside, soaring and sinking over a series of mini-hills.
Up ahead, Layne was leaning forward, straining her head as if trying to tell Massie a secret.
And then, like an unplugged fire hydrant, a rush of bile-soaked falafel sprayed from her mouth.
Massie slumped forward like a hunchback, too disgusted to move. Finally, she tried to turn around, but the car whipped around the tracks so forcefully she got slammed against the side. Dempsey managed to ask Layne if she was okay. She replied with an enthusiastic head-nod and two thumbs-up.
Kristen smacked Dune’s leg repeatedly, trying to show him the spectacle. But he was standing again, and didn’t seem to notice.
Finally, the car click-clacked to a stop and everyone stopped screaming, except Massie.
“I am so suing you!” She peeled off her ivory, now-falafel-flavored cashmere cardigan and whipped it onto the track.
“Sorry.” Layne grimaced. “I just feel-
afel
.”
“Here.” Dempsey handed Layne his canteen without the slightest concern for puke-chunk backwash.
“Keep that LBR away from me,” Massie hissed in Kristen’s ear as they stepped onto the wooden platform.
“Me?”
Kristen asked feeling slightly wobbly. “How am I—”
“Nike!”
Massie insisted.
“Huh?”
“Just
do
it!” she hissed.
The deck shook with the stampede of new people rushing to claim their seats.
“What am I supposed to
do
with her?”
“I dunno.” Massie stomped her foot. “Just think of—”
“See ya!” Layne shouted from the back of the dragon’s tail. She and Dempsey were seated thigh to thigh as a padded bar lowered across their chests.
“Hey, that’s not fair!” Massie made her way toward them.
The pierced guy stopped her with the handle of his mop. “There’s a line!”
“Well,
she
didn’t wait in it!”
He lowered the wood lever, starting the ride. “Pukers coast again. Plus one.” He shrugged. “Park policy.”
“Well, what do
I
get?”
“Whaddaya want?” He raised his pierced eyebrow, implying himself.
“
Ew
, nawt
that
.” Massie turned on her heel.
“There’s gotta be something I can do to make you feel better.” He rubbed his stubbly head.
“It’s too late, thanks to
her
.” She pointed at Kristen and then stormed off.
Kristen stood on the platform, stiff with shock.
How had this become her fault?
She could feel Dune’s eyes on her. Waiting for her to speak? Searching for something to say? Plotting Massie’s demise?
The car rolled back into the loading area.
“Awwww, you waited for us?” Layne gushed, as Dempsey unwrapped himself from her protective hold.
Kristen tried to smile, her mouth twitching like a dying worm.
“What’s wrong?” Dempsey lifted the bar and stepped onto the platform. He placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “You look like you lost your best friend.”
“She did,” Dune chuckled with amusement. But Kristen failed to see the humor. In fact, she failed to see anything. Her vision blurred instantly with tears.
DYLAN’S BEDROOM
Sunday, October 4th
7:27 P.M.
Dylan sniffed her arm.
Faint traces of Derrick’s sweatshirt—or rather, his spicy deodorant—lingered on her skin like fine French parfum. She wanted to sniff it all night but paced herself, fearing each inhalation would suck the smell from her pores, like a DustBuster on shag, until the scented crumbs were gone.
Lifting a cobalt blue velvet throw pillow off her gray chaise, she buried her arm for the same reason her mother would lock up the Dove chocolates: to avoid temptation. Then she gazed up at her peach-colored ceiling as if it were a flat-screen TV, replaying every perfect detail of her perfect day at Rye Playland. How she and Derrick had managed to lose the group the minute they’d gotten there.
Oops!
And how they’d laughed their way to stronger abs. And fed each other snacks like Siamese twins joined at the mouth. They’d even ridden every ride—twice! And they’d done it all without seeing Massie.
Ding.
Dylan felt like a lamp that had just gotten plugged in. The text was from
him.
She could just tell.
Derrick: WANNA double to SKL 2morrow?
Dylan bicycled her bare feet in the air. And then she turned him down.
Dylan: Can’t
Derrick: Lunch @ the trailers?
Her fingers practically cramped in protest.
Dylan: Can’t
Derrick: Study?
Dylan hit send on another sad face.
Her heart pounded, waiting for him to respond.
Derrick: Didn’t u have fun today?
Dylan’s heart felt like an obese person trying to jump.
Dylan: Given.
Derrick: Then?????
Dylan quickly unfastened the clasp on her gold chain necklace and slid off her diamond
D
charm.
Rock side up, I tell him the truth. Rock side down, I lie.
She took a deep breath. With the flick of her thumb Dylan launched the charm above her. It landed on her chaise with a muted thud.
Diamond side up.
Dylan: Truth?
Derrick: Y
Dylan: U still belong 2 MB
Derrick: Belong?????????
Dylan shook her head while she typed, finding it hard to believe she was going to reveal one of Massie’s secret rituals. And even harder to believe she was honoring it.
Dylan: She sprayed u w/Chanel NO 19. That means she has a hold on u.
Derrick: Nsane!
Dylan: NOT 2 HER. CAN’T VIOLATE OR IL BE OUT OF THE PC. ONLY WAY 2 BREAK IT IS IF SHE THROWS H2O ON YOU.
Derrick: Tell her 2 do it.
Dylan: Can only do it when shez ready.
Derrick: So can u hang out?
Dylan: Not legally.
There was no screen activity for at least twenty seconds. And Dylan was certain she had lost him for good this time. Until . . .
Derrick: 1 Solution, 9 Letters.
After a solid minute of serious brain activity, Dylan finally figured it out.
DYLAN:
THE HALL
Monday, October 5th
9:25 A.M.
One word . . . nine letters . . . two ah-dorable.
Detention
.
It was so juh-eeen-yus. All Dylan and Derrick had to do was get in trouble every day. Then they could be together from three thirty to four thirty in the afternoon, Monday through Friday. They’d be
après
-school soul mates. Detention Daters. Incarcerated Crushes. And they would stay that way until Massie released Derrington and gave them her blessing. Which was bound to happen . . . eventually.
The plan was set. The crime was simple. The time was now.
First period was over and the halls were rife with slamming lockers, hushed gossip exchanges, and speed-gloss sessions. But no one dared talk on cell phones. Because “nonemergency mobile use” was strictly forbidden between classes. And anyone caught using would get an immediate detention.
No.
Questions.
Asked.
Derrick was positioned outside Principal Burns’s office when Dylan arrived. As discussed, they were dressed in black, sending a message to the authorities that they were rebels.
Their eyes met, a flicker of acknowledgment passing between them like CIA operatives on assignment.
As usual, the frosted glass door of Principal Burns’s office clicked open at 9:28 A.M. Out she bounded, en route to her weekly board meeting, her gangly body coasting among the students like a giraffe through a herd of gazelle, her gray bob holding firm despite her long, breezy steps.
Students slowed, letting her pass, like drivers making room for a wailing ambulance.
Derrick nodded once.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he lifted his black and green Sidekick, leaned against a locker, and began shout-talking like he was standing by the speakers at a Megadeth concert.
“You serious, man?” he yelled, examining his cuticles. “’Cause he told me seven goals in one game was the record. And now you’re telling me it’s nine?” He paused. “Show me proof, goof!” He paused and then burst out laughing.
Principal Burns hurried toward Derrick, wagging her finger. Dylan quickly pulled out her cell phone, but her palms were slick with stress-sweat, and it crashed to the floor. The battery slid one way and the phone slid the other. By the time she had everything back together it was too late. Principal Burns had grabbed the Sidekick out of Derrick’s hand and given him two detentions. One for having a nonemergency conversation, and the other for being in the main building when he was a trailer student.
One word. Nine letters.
backfired
.
PIGEON PARKING LOT
Wednesday, October 7th
8:42 A.M.
Determined to start detention-dating as soon as possible, Dylan and Derrick tried a new tack the morning after he had finished his two detentions.
Using the standard “bad sushi” excuse, Dylan broke away from the Pretty Committee and raced toward the bathrooms. And then she snuck out back and scrambled over to Pigeon Parking Lot, where she and Derrick had an early morning date with two bags of birdseed and a hungry flock of fowl.
They greeted each other with giggle-high-fives and hopeful smiles that refused to settle, as if nailed in place.
First period would begin in three minutes. Which meant Ms. Dunkel, the overflow trailer teacher, would be making her way across PPL in one minute and thirty seconds.