P.S. I Loathe You (4 page)

Dylan’s stomach base-jumped. Why did he want to be done so quickly? Wasn’t he having fun? Didn’t he like her? If Massie were there, would he want to be done in an hour?

“Ready?” he asked, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “One . . . two . . . threeeeeee . . . Go!”

Dylan pressed play. The song started and they began bobbing their heads at the same time. Derrington got right to work.

He lifted the nubby pink sponge out of the bucket with zero regard for the dripping sudsy water or what it might do to his hands. Then he slapped it down on a black Jeep Liberty and began scrubbing.

Ehmagawd!
He knew how to wash a car. And more than that, he didn’t seem to think anything was wrong with that. It was blue-collar hawt.

Inspired, Dylan dunked her sponge with the same certainty.

Side by side they scrubbed, bobbing their heads and stealing occasional glances at each other. Whenever Derrington looked at Dylan, she’d smile serenely, like washing cars was her yoga. And whenever she looked at him, he scrubbed harder.

Ehma-shocking!
Dylan thought, making soap hearts with her sponge. There she was doing manual labor and loving it. What next? A craving for beef jerky? The urge to shoot hoops after school? A belly shirt? How could a mere mortal trick her brain into thinking this was fun? Did Tom Cruise have that bewitching effect on Katie Holmes? Was that why she wore her hair like that?

Suddenly, an earthquake-size realization rattled Dylan. She and Derrington were soul mates! It was so ah-bvious. They had the same sense of humor. The same fair skin. The same ability to burp words. She recalled the days she and Kristen had fought over him. And how Massie settled the dispute by taking him for herself.

From then on, Dylan had hid her feelings like a skid-marked thong. Because coveting an alpha’s crush was unethical. And
competing
with an alpha? Well, that was impossible. Besides, wasn’t going from Massie to Dylan the same as switching from Gucci to Gap? George Clooney to George Bush? DSL to dial-up?

Dylan dipped her sponge and slapped it on a soiled white Acura. This time, the soap spilled down the hood like tears . . .

Ehmagawd!
It was a sign! The universe was urging her to stop crushing on uncrushables. And if she didn’t, she would ooze and gush and leak like a fat sponge. Just like she had when Massie had love-napped Derrington. Just like she had when Kemp and Plovert had ditched her because she’d overburped. Just like she had in Hawaii when J.T. had chosen Svetlana.

Well, those days were over, starting . . . NOW. No more reaching for the stars. From this moment on, Dylan would happily remain the kind of girl guys liked as friends. The girlfriend’s girlfriend. The sad clown. She would never get hurt or embarrassed again. What was that expression? Once bitten twice shy?

Once bit-ten twice shy. Once bit-ten twice shy. Once bit-ten twice shy . . .

For the next twenty minutes, Dylan scrubbed the same spot to the rhythm of her new mantra.

Once bit-ten twice shy. Once bit-ten twice shy. Once bit-ten twice shy . . .

Her trance was interrupted by a text message sent from five cars away.

Derrington: U R a girl, right?

Dylan bit her bottom lip, hating herself for not glossing. Hating herself for not wearing prettier clothes. Hating herself for not being the kind of girl who normally thought washing cars was fun.

Dylan: looking for proof? Cuz u can forget it.

Derrington: LOL!

Dylan casually pulled a white earbud out of her ear and listened. He really was laughing out loud.

Once bit-ten twice whatever!
Since when was she the shy type? Yes, she was funny, but not
every
guy saw that as a threat. And since they were soul mates, he ah-bviously appreciated her—

Derrington sent another text.

Derrington: U know what a 16-yr-old grl would want 4 her bday?

Dylan’s chest deflated like a popped water bra. Of course he had a girlfriend. He just wanted to be friends. Same story, different outfit. Who was she kidding thinking that an alpha-dater would ever in a million years like a—

Derrington: Hu-llo? Answer pls.

Oops.
What was the question? Dylan quickly scanned the conversation bubbles on her screen and then forced a convincing sad-clown smile.

Dylan: easy. A 16-yr-old grl wants an 18-yr-old boy.

Ha! Let him think I’m racy and experienced too.

She peeked at him through the side of her dVbs. He was laugh-typing.

Derrington: Ew! Not 4 my sister!!!

Dylan exhaled. She had to have more faith. According to Massie—or was it
Family Feud
—after “funny,” the number two thing that turned boys off was “insecurity.”

Dylan: Massie never told me u have a sister.

Derrington: There are a lot of things massie doesn’t know.

Dylan: Like ???

Derrington: My name is Derrick. Not derrington. I wore shorts last winter cuz I lost a bet. I think red hair is cool.

Dylan lifted her eyes, silently asking the universe if maybe it had sent the wrong message. Maybe the suds had been a
good
sign. Representing a clean fresh start, not tears.

Derrington: So will you b-day shop with me tomorrow after doodie duty?

Dylan: Given.

She dunked her sponge, squeezed out the excess water, and happily moved on to another car. But the more she scoured, the more insecurity frothed and foamed inside her brain like an overloaded bubble bath. Had Derrington asked her to shop because he wanted to hang, or because he wanted to make Massie jealous?

The more Dylan scrubbed, the more these doubts bubbled, until they spilled from her eyes and tasted like salt. Was this pendulum swing of emotion a normal by-product of meeting one’s soul mate? Or was it her gut instinct, warning her not to get her hopes up? Fool in love, or just a fool? The facts were in, but the jury was out.

THE PINEWOOD

STAIRWELL B

Monday, September 21st
4:04 P.M.

After waiting in the lobby for fourteen minutes, Kristen began climbing the two hundred and ten steps to her apartment, wondering the whole time if her mother had spite-stalled the elevator because she’d found out her daughter was showing leg.

Once her horror-film panting downgraded to human breathing, Kristen exited the stairwell and scanned the dimly lit hall for signs of her mom’s early arrival, keeping an eye out for giveaways like:

A) White nurse shoes on the teak welcome mat.

B) A forgotten grocery bag dangling from the doorknob.

C) David Beckham running loose in the hall.

D) The smell of tomato sauce and/or fabric softener.

Thankfully, Kristen noted none of the above. Apartment 10F and its perimeter were secure. The only things that stood out were the new neighbor’s creepy totem pole and the team of First Rate Movers who were force-jamming it into the narrow entryway. Then she saw the
elevator
. It was stuffed with boxes and propped open by an elephant-tusk coffee table.

Kristen turned her key with silent precision. She vowed that if she made it across the parquet floor to her bedroom undetected, she’d never risk wearing her Range Rover–replaced outfit home again.

Marsha Purdy Gregory + plaid short shorts + a gray V-neck bell-sleeve sweater + knee-high black moccasins = being forced to don a burka until college graduation.

“Heeeey, Beckham,” Kristen whisper-squealed when she saw the fluffy white Persian curled on her twin bed like a croissant. The kitty lifted his head, but Kristen denied him love until her knee-length sweat shorts and loose matching gray T-shirt were on and her illegal fly-arrhea-stained outfit was gone.

“Safe!” She fell back on her blue and green polka-dot duvet and spoon-hugged Beckham. Then she tried to imagine the Pretty Committee hanging in her bedroom.

The lime green bedside lamp was the same lime as the beanbag, which was the same lime as the polka dots on her duvet, which were the same lime as the walls. The room was so thoroughly coordinated she could probably convince them that someone other than the online shopping assistant at potterybarn.com had decorated it.

“Not that I’d ever have the chance.” Kristen sighed aloud. “We’re ah-bviously not good enough for them.” She squeezed Beckham’s warm belly and buried her face in his fur. He smelled like coconut shampoo, a little something she’d invested in to remind them of Dune.

“Seven more sleeps and he’ll be back.”

Beckham sighed.

Kristen rolled onto her back and blew a kiss at the photo of Dune Baxter taped to her ceiling. The sun was setting behind him, drenching the background in golden light that matched his skin. He was lying on a longboard, brown eyes staring straight into the camera, his smile relaxed yet stoked. For a moment, Kristen could smell his tropical fruit–scented sunscreen.

Dune grinned back, like he was thanking her for being smart enough to have scored a summer job tutoring his younger sister, Ripple, so they could meet and become C-pluses. Well, at least that’s what she
liked
to believe his grin was saying.

“You’re welcome,” Kristen mouthed back. “Thanks for being a CLAM,” she whispered to her cute, loyal, athletic, middle-class crush.

“
He
likes coming over,” she mumbled in Beckham’s triangular ear. “
He’s
not a snob like certain OCDivas we know,” she said, recalling Dune’s nickname for the Pretty Committee. Her insides warmed just using his term. It made her feel closer to him, like he wasn’t surf-modeling on some heart-shaped, impossible-to-get-cell-service-on island in the South Pacific, but right there beside her.

A startling crash, immediately followed by a muffled shouting match between an angry woman and an apologetic Russian First Rate Mover, came from next door.

“Reeee-ow!” Beckham bolted under the bed.

Kristen buried her face in a pillow. “Thank Gawd,” she mumbled, suddenly relieved that Massie had turned down her
après
-school invitation after all. Thin was in when it came to waists, nawt walls.

Her black Razr rang “Need U Bad”
by Jazmine Sullivan—something it only did in extreme emergencies.

Boy I need U bad as my heartbeat,

Bad like the food I eat . . .

Kristen shot up and speed-answered. “Why aren’t you using the WCC?” she whisper-hissed. “What if Massie was here? What if we got caught?”

“Relax,”
the girl on the other end whisper-hissed back. “This isn’t official Witty Committee business, so I didn’t want to use the Witty Committee computer. It’s an abuse of power.”

Kristen rolled her eyes. She was just as serious as Layne about their secret underground society of five, who paid homage to their favorite historical Gifted people by dressing up as them and meeting online to discuss all things intellectual. But if Massie ever found out Kristen was:

A) Cleopatra!

B) Friends with LBR Layne Abeley, who dressed up as Albert Einstein.