P.S. I Loathe You (7 page)

Am I too fat?

Dylan spit out her wad of Twisted Tornado Bubblicious, hoping to lighten the load. Still, the bike swayed from side to side.

“I should get off,” Dylan managed, despite the lump in her throat.

“Good idea.” Derrington slammed on the brakes.

“What?”

“My ankle.” He began loosening his laces.

“Oh!” The throat lump disintegrated. “Want me to pedal?”

He folded his arms across his chest and shrugged.

“Trade places,” Dylan insisted, feeling revitalized and fabulously in control. She straddled the banana seat and honked his horn. “Clear the road!”

She sucked in her abs when he gripped her waist and managed to hold them in as she power-pedaled for the next eight blocks.

Rosemary mint shampoo wafted off Dylan’s hair and enveloped them in what she pictured to be an invisible scented heart. . . . Then a vision of Massie formed in her head, or rather, what the alpha would do if she saw them right now. And the heart scattered like glitter in the wind.

“You’re strong,” Derrington mused, thumb-drumming on her back as they rounded the corner onto Main Street.

OMG, he thinks I’m a man. Massie would never pedal a boy. Not even for charity!

“He’s injured,
okay
?” Dylan shouted at a gawking toddler in a pink fleece–lined stroller.

Derrington leaned forward and honked his horn as they weaved through the foot traffic.

Beep beep beep beeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Beep beep beep beep beeeeeeeep. Beep beep beep beeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Beep beep beep beep beeeeeeeep.

They cut through the middle of the sidewalk, forcing pedestrians to pick a side or perish. Shopping bags, children, and teacup dogs were yanked out of harm’s way with such urgency Dylan couldn’t stop pedal-laughing. Or was the giddiness a side effect directly related to Derrington’s chest being pressed up against her back? Either way, she needed to get off the black bike and show this boy that despite her strong legs and extreme mouth gas, she was all lady. And she would start by calling him
Derrick
.

“Here we are,
Derrick
.” She hit the brakes in front of Amazing Lace, a small boutique with big prices. “Shall we go in,
Derrick
?”

Saying his real name gave her that awkward French-class feeling. Like when Madame Vallon made her speak with the correct accent—
It’s not jam-bone; it’s jahhhhhm-bon!
It sounded forced and unnatural coming from her mouth. But Dylan wanted
Derrick
to know that, unlike Massie,
she
respected him. At the very least it might make up for her manly strength.

Derrington straddle-backed off the bike with the grace of someone who peed his pants. He limped over to the store window.

“What is this place?” he asked, pig-pressing his nose to the glass and fogging it up. Then he winked at the mannequin. “Hey, hottie.”

OMG, does he think she’s cuter than me? Is it her feminine dress? Her fat-free body? Her hard plaster stomach? Her pointy braless—

“Are you sure this place is right for my sister?” he asked, a look of concern in his eyes.

Truth be told, Dylan had no clue whether this store was right for his sister. Until yesterday, she hadn’t even known he had a sister. But she
did
know their dresses were imported. And that meant their sizing was all over the place. Sixes were often fours, fours were twos, and twos were zeros. What better way to remind him that she was a girl than to try on frilly outfits in petite sizes?

“I think your sister will love their stuff. Why don’t I try a few things on so you can see how they look?” Dylan held the door open and Derrington limped in.

Hold awn! Wasn’t the girl supposed to wait for the boy to open the door? Or were the rules different if the boy was injured?

It was funny. The person she wanted to ask was the same person she was hoping to avoid. She’d always gone to Massie with her crush questions, but clearly that was no longer an option.

The smell of soap and candles soothed Dylan instantly. “Is Katya here?” she asked the posture-perfect blonde dusting the glass jewelry display case.

“Vacation.” The woman lowered her head and peered out over her glasses. “My name is Camille. Camille Onuoha. Can I hulp you?” she asked like someone swallowing a pill without water.

“Just looking.” Dylan bit her lip, trying not to laugh at her accent.

“Gross!” Derrington pushed a bowl of potpourri aside and then promptly sneezed. Dozens of dried flower buds blew to the floor. “That smelled exactly like Principal Burns.”

“Ew!” Dylan burst out laughing.

“Lets get outta here.” Derrington smashed into a table of silk scarves on his way to the exit.

“Wait!” Dylan’s smile faded quickly. “I’m just gonna grab a few size-
four
dresses and slip them on. You know, to help you get an idea of what your sister will like.”

“The only thing you’re
grabbing
is that potpourri.” Camille pinched the bowl and marched it over to the register. “
If
you can afford it.”

Dylan’s heart began to pound. Had she not been humiliated enough for one day? Pigeon poo–covered sweats? Biking a boy though town? And now mistaken for a vagrant?

“How much is it?” Derrington pulled a crumpled twenty out of his jeans. “I guess my sister could use it in her bathroom.” He fanned the air in front of his nose. “She’s a total bran lover.”

Dylan cracked up.

“It’s
sixty
dollars.” The woman scowled, folding her thin arms across her flat chest. “You need forty more.”

“I got it.” Dylan slapped down her ultra-exclusive American Express black card.

Camille lifted the card to her face. “You are
hardly
Merri-Lee Marvil.” She reached for the phone.

“True.” Dylan grinned. “But my
mother
is.”

“Score!” Derrington wiggled his butt.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Marvil.” The woman managed a smile as she put the phone back down. “It’s just, with credit card fraud being what it is . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “Let me help you start a room. We have some lovely things from Brazil. And of course we can forget about the potpourri mishap.”

“Maybe
you
can”—Dylan fake-sniffled—“but I can’t. And neither will my mother.”

“But—”

“Butts are for kissing!” Dylan shouted back. “So kiss this!” She wiggled her rear while Derrington stuck the mannequin’s bony fingers up her perfect mannequin nose. And with a flip of her rosemary-mint scented hair, Dylan marched out.

They laughed all the way to the dollar store. They laughed while they picked out sixteen “sweet” presents for his sister— a massive jawbreaker, caramel-scented car-freshener, and earmuffs shaped like lambs. They laughed while he bought Pinkberry with the change. And they laughed while they shared it.

So what if her size-four fashion show never got off the ground? The rest of her was soaring.

THE PINEWOOD

KRISTEN’S BEDROOM

Friday, September 25th
6:57 P.M.

“Come awn, Beckham, just wear it!” Kristen finally managed to slip the black satin bow tie over her cat’s joggling head. “There.” She collapsed onto her lime green beanbag after the eighteen-minute struggle. “You look ah-dorable. If cats could see their reflections, I’d show you. You’ll just have to trust me.”

The white Persian leapt up on the bed and burrowed under the green throw pillows.

“I know you’re mad.” Kristen raced to smooth the Beckham- shaped dent in her comforter. “But when everyone says how handsome you look, you’ll thank me.”

Beckham sneezed.

“This is the first time I’ve ever hosted a Friday night sleepover,” Kristen tried. But the significance of this milestone was lost on the fluffy cat. “Don’t you get it? This is the first time anyone’s ever seen our room. The first time you’re going to meet the Pretty Committee. Becks, you could be the new
Bean
!”

Beckham emerged cautiously. “That’s better.” Kristen kissed the top of his head, then ran through her checklist—
ah
-
gain
—to make sure her twenty-dollar catering budget (jeez, thanks, Mom
) read more like fifty.

FRIDAY NIGHT SLEEPOVER CHECKLIST

1) Five red Crate and Barrel plates placed exactly three inches apart on my desk, just like at Massie’s house. Each piled high with a different snack and labeled accordingly.

2) Edamame (frozen kind)

3) Hummus platter (hummus, pita, and four black olives left over from Mom’s Wednesday night book club)

4) Sweet ’n’ Salty Surprise (three Hershey’s bars melted over two bags of Rold Golds from the vending machine near Mom’s desk at Mercy Me—aka Mercy Memorial Hospital)

5) “Gourmet Italian popcorn” (Pop Secret doused in Kraft grated parmesan cheese)

6) Gummy in My Tummy (a sweaty heap of worms and feet from 7-Eleven)

7) Crème brûlée–scented room spray

8) Lavender-scented sheet spray (for sleeping bags— a stocking stuffer from Massie last Christmas)

9) SOS (Sleep Over Songs)

• “A Little Bit Longer” —Jonas Brothers

• “Tell Me Something I Don’t Know” —Selena Gomez

• “Wake Up Call” —Hayden Panettiere

• “I’m Yours” —Jason Mraz

• “First Love” —Karina

• “One Love” —Jordan Pruitt

• “Footballer’s Wife” —Amy MacDonald

• “Losing Grip” —Avril Lavigne

• “You Think” —Clique Girlz

“Heyyyyyy,” a familiar voice bellowed from the hallway.

Before Kristen could check the thermostat to confirm that the apartment was Massie-warm at a balmy seventy-six degrees, her bedroom door burst open.

Massie appeared, her amber eyes scanning the room like teeth on a corncob.

“I didn’t even hear—”

“Your mom let us in,” she offered, practically reading Kristen’s mind. “Is it cold in here?” She shuddered.

“Opposite.” Alicia rested her chin on Massie’s shoulder and fanned her flushed cheeks. “I think the
coziness
of this place makes it feel kind of warm. Don’t you?”

“I like it.” Claire poked her head out from behind Alicia. Her smile was genuine and helped Kristen relax . . . a little.

“Cozzzzzyyyyyyy,” Dylan burped from the hallway. “Ugh, green pepper.”

“Ewwww!” Everyone giggle-rushed into Kristen’s bedroom to avoid the fumes.

So far so good
. Kristen sighed happily. They were laughing. That meant they were having fun and making memories. And memories, when fermented, become inside jokes, which by the way are
the
highest form of flattery. Kristen could hear it all now. They’d be walking to class on Monday and Massie would say, “Remember Kristen’s sleepover when Dylan burped and we all ran away from her green pepper breath?”

Everyone would lose themselves laughing and associate Kristen and her house with ah-mazing times. And this was just the beginning. The night had yet to realize its “ah-mazing time” potential. Dozens of inside jokes were out there, floating around, just waiting to be discovered.

“Snacks?” Kristen pressed play on her bedside iPod.

“Jonas Brothers!” Dylan clapped with unexpected delight.

The girls stepped onto the blue shag area rug and dropped their sleeping bags. Something about the way they looked in her room—cloaked in fine silk sleepwear (except Claire, who was in cotton thermals), their long layers held back with color-coordinated sleep masks—reminded Kristen of the time she’d visited her old kindergarten teacher. She had felt gigantic next to the mini-chairs and knee-high snack tables. Was that how the PC felt right now?

“This is Beckham.” She scooped up her cat and swung him back and forth like he was on an invisible ship in a raging storm.

“I didn’t know you had one of those.” Massie hooked her black quilted Marc Jacobs tote over her shoulder, even though it was already hooked.

“What about all those pictures on my phone and in my wallet and in my binders and—”

“I thought they came with the frames.” Massie adjusted her lilac
In Your Dreams
sleep mask.

“I always thought Beckham was your imaginary boyfriend.” Alicia flopped down on Kristen’s bed.

“Just like Josh is yours?” Dylan joked.

“Just like
no one
is yours?” Alicia raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows.

“Awwwwww, he’s cute.” Claire petted him. “Come feel how soft he is.”

“He smells like coconuts.” Kristen buried her nose in his white fur.

A low grumble came from Massie’s black quilted Marc Jacobs tote. At first Kristen thought it was the alpha’s stomach . . . until the grumble barked.

“Lady behavior, Bean!” Massie commanded. But the black pug, who was dressed in a moss green silk cami and boy shorts, ignored her. Instead she jumped out of the bag and leapt toward Beckham.

“Ahhhhhh!” Kristen shouted, startled by the sudden attack.

Beckham jumped out of Kristen’s arms and landed feetfirst on the bed. Bean hopped up three times, trying to get up on the bed, while Beckham hiss-paced frantically.

Claire, Alicia, and Dylan clung to each other for safety.

“Awww, baby, want some help?” Massie cooed, then lifted Bean onto the bed.