P.S. I Loathe You (5 page)
C) Friends with LBR Rachel Walker, who dressed up as Oprah.
D) Friends with LBR Aimee Snyder, who dressed up as Shakespeare.
E) Friends with LBR Danh Bondok, who dressed up as Bill Gates (and who Massie called Candy Corn).
F) All of the above.
Massie would cover her in meat-flavored Glossip Girl and feed her to Bean.
“We need to talk,” Layne insisted. “Not Einstein and Cleopatra. As
us.
”
“But—”
“Butts are for sitting!” Layne interrupted. “School has been in session for weeks, and I haven’t made any progress with
Dempsey
.” She whispered her lifelong crush’s name like he was a wanted criminal. “None. I thought the
Wizard of Claus
callbacks would be my chance for romance, but Massie was there and completely Block-blocked me!”
“What? Why was
she
there?” Kristen’s forehead barfed sweat. Her best friend and her secret best friend were crushing on the same boy. Her two worlds were hurtling toward each other like Heidi and L.C., doomed to collide. “She wasn’t
auditioning
, was she?”
“No, Joe, she was giving Dempsey
acting
advice,” Layne scoffed.
“How does she know—”
“She said she learned a lot on the set of
Dial L for Loser
. Can you believe it?”
“Yep.” Kristen nodded as if Layne could actually see her. When Massie Block wanted something, the truth was a ball and she could bend it like Beckham (the soccer player, not the cat).
“Wanna see?” There were a few beeps and then: “Check out the video.”
A quaking shot of Massie and Dempsey’s backs filled the Razr’s tiny screen. They were seated in the rear of the auditorium giggling at some guy’s off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
“Zero presence,” she could hear Massie mutter. “Zero connection with the audience.
Zee
-ro! I don’t believe he’s really wishing someone a happy birthday. I don’t believe he
cares
.”
“Yeah, I totally see that.” Dempsey nodded.
“You need to cuh-nect,” Massie insisted, “or you’ll never make it in this business.”
The video ended abruptly.
“She doesn’t like him, does she?” Layne squeaked. “Because if she does, you
have
to break them apart. You promised me. I helped you get Skye Hamilton away from Dune this summer, and you promised you’d help me get Dempsey. Remember?”
Kristen bit her throbbing hangnail.
“Re-mem-ber?”
Of course she remembered. That was why she’d spent all morning trying to convince Massie that her new crush was an LBR.
Kristen paced across her green shag rug. The fibers that usually tickled her feet seemed unusually coarse.
“Reeeee-meeeemmmmm-berrrrrrrr?”
She stomped her foot.
“Yes. Yes, I remember, okay? But it’s not that easy.”
“Neither was breaking into the country club, filling the pool with Jell-O, creating a video reflection so it looked like water, and timing it so that Skye jumped in before Dune. But I did it. And now if you’d kindly place your hand on your neck and feel the shark tooth, I think you’ll agree that the plan worked and—”
“Okay, okay! What do you want me to do?”
“Find out if he likes me,” Layne cooed sweetly. “And if he says no, then
make
him change his mind.”
Kristen’s ears began to ring. It was hell calling.
“Layne, I totally want to help, but I hardly even know the guy,” she tried. “Can’t you just have an honest conversation with Dempsey? You’ve been opposite-sex best friends for years.”
“We
were
opposite-sex best friends.” Layne sighed. “Now that I like him, I can’t talk to him anymore. I’m too—”
“Hold on,” Kristen interrupted. “What, Mom?” she called into her empty apartment. “I’m on the phone!” She paused like she was listening to her mother. But the only shouting woman she could actually hear was the new stressed-out neighbor next door. “
Okay
! Stop yelling. I’ll be right there.” After an extra-long sigh Kristen moaned, “I gotta go.”
“No prob, slob,” Layne replied. “Looking forward to the good word, yellow bird. I’ll check in tomorrow.”
The line went dead.
With shaking hands, Kristen reached under the bed and grabbed her soccer ball—the only thing she could kick repeatedly without being arrested.
ROOF
Monday, September 21st
4:46 P.M.
The rooftop of the Pinewood was paved with uneven bricks, cigarette butts, and flattened beer cans. But it had a tall concrete wall around its perimeter that overlooked the building’s grassy courtyard and could sustain the force of a stress-kicked soccer ball. It was Kristen’s go-to place when things got complicated, like Massie had Bean . . . Alicia had her dance studio . . . Claire had her fingernails . . . and Dylan had her fridge. And things
were
complicated.
Kick!
The ball slammed against the concrete wall and shot back to her. She kicked it again.
Slam!
She’d
promised
Layne she’d help her get Dempsey. They’d made a deal.
Slam!
If she reneged, she would destroy her good name and honor in the eyes of the Witty Committee.
Slam!
But how could she sabotage Massie’s new crush? She had made a pledge. She had taken a vow.
This time we’ll do it right. . . . Our friendships come first. . . . PC support, day or night . . . Or that member will be cursed. CURSED!
Kick!
Slam!
Kick!
It was a lose-lose situation. And the only neutral person she could turn to for advice was surfing on a heart-shaped island with no cell service.
Kick!
Kick!
Kick!
Like a loyal dog, the ball landed at her turquoise and white Adidas cleats. Kristen stepped on it and lifted her gaze.
A sudden gust of wind broke a solid mass of gray clouds into a smiley face that seemed to say,
Let the Big Guy help.
Swept up in a rush of divine inspiration, she began gathering beer cans. Once her hands were full she built two towers, paying little mind to the burp-scented liquid that dribbled down her wrist while she stacked.
“Okay.” She sighed aloud. “If I hit the one on the right, you want me to help Massie. If I hit the one on the left, you want me to help Layne.” Kristen glanced up at the smiley cloud, making sure it was still watching. “Ready?”
She spun three times, squeezed her lids shut, and kicked!
On the street below, the brakes on a passing truck wheezed to a stop. A dog barked. Two little boys giggle-ran through the courtyard. But no cans crashed to the ground. And no ball slammed against the concrete wall.
Kristen opened her eyes.
And then she blushed.
Dempsey Solomon appeared in front of her wearing mirrored aviators, spinning the soccer ball between his two index fingers, and grinning.
“What’re you doing here?” she asked, feeling slightly embarrassed. Like that time she had a lip-kiss dream about Danh and then saw him the next morning.
“I’ll tell you if you can go
around the world
.”
Demonstrating, he kicked the ball from his right foot to his thigh to his shoulder to his head to his left shoulder to his left thigh to his left foot to Kristen.
“Done.” She stopped the ball with her heel and then took it where it needed to go.
When she was done, Kristen giggled for a second longer than normal, while her mind recalibrated and reevaluated all previous notions of Dempsey. He was more than just a wannabe actor who’d lost weight over the summer, invested in contacts, tanned evenly, dressed like a rugged safari guide, and steeped himself in African culture, thereby enriching his soul and broadening his global perspective—he was soccerlicious!
Kristen could now see why Massie and Layne had picked him as their C-plus.
“Where did you learn that?” Kristen blurted. “I always thought you were—” She paused, not wanting to insult him, but also not knowing what to say.
“A couch potato theater dork?” he finished for her.
Kristen blushed again.
“I was.” His confident smile told her that he was okay with that. “I mean, I’m still into theater. But I’m also super into
football
.”
Kristen twirled her shark-tooth necklace, oddly charmed by his use of the British term, something she usually found beyond pretentious. “Since
when
?”
“Since Africa.” He tugged the zipper on his olive green hoodie. “My family volunteered at an orphanage in Tanzania, and the older kids taught my brother and I how to play.”
My brother and me,
Kristen thought with some relief. Her mom had warned her about boys who were too perfect: They were not to be trusted. And until this minor grammatical infraction, his picture had been on all twelve pages of the “too perfect” calendar.
“So what
are
you doing here, anyway?” She bounced the ball on her knee. Dempsey caught it with his foot, knocked it to his head, and shot it forward like a dolphin at SeaWorld.
Both beer towers crashed to the ground. “I’m your new neighbor.”
“Seriously?” she gasped.
“Yeah. After living in African mud huts, my parents walked into our house on Tuxedo Way and thought it was too much. So they sold it and bought something cozier.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his worn khaki cargos. “And sent the leftover money to them.” He pointed east.
Kristen grin-nodded like she was warmed by their generous decision, not offended that her home had been compared to an African mud hut.
“So we’ve been moving in all day, and everything was going fine until the red river–clay dishes broke,” Dempsey continued. “And my mom started freaking out. And the apartment started feeling really small and cramped. So I came up here.” He shrugged. “Africa is so big and open. And ever since I got back, I’ve felt trapped, you know? Like everything is closing in on me. And all I want to do is be free.”
The image of Layne and Massie on either side of Dempsey, crushing their crush into a panini, gave Kristen pause. Maybe, out of respect for his claustrophobia, it would be best to give him some space. And then, once he acclimated, she could talk to him about the
Lassie
situation.
Satisfied, Kristen kicked the ball. The instant it bounced back, Dempsey toe-lifted it onto his knee and took it around the world again.
Gawd, couldn’t he miss once?
NEW GREEN CAFÉ
Tuesday, September 22nd
12:32 P.M.
“We’re back!” Massie bit into a crisp organic carrot and settled into the bamboo chair at the head of number eighteen.
“We’re back!” The Pretty Committee rose out of their seats, lifted their farm-fresh vegetables, and clinked them together like champagne flutes.
The New Green Café, which had been transformed into a sun-soaked greenhouse over the summer, was teeming with lunching coeds. They all stole glances at the Pretty Committee over plates of fresh produce and frothing glasses of skin-purifying Borba juice.
“Our days of eating low-fat turkey Subway sandwiches in the overflow trailers are over.” Massie unscrewed the top off a bottle of Rodeo Drive, Chanel’s latest purple polish. “Time to mark our territory.” She crouched down and began painting
BFFWC
under the bamboo table. And then she spotted the happy little pen hearts Claire had drawn on the rubber toe of her red Converse and gagged carrot.
What was it about friends in love that made them so annoying?
“Hey there.” A familiar pair of scuffed-up Timberlands stopped at their table. “What’s up, neighbor?”
Neighbor?
Massie suddenly forgot all about Claire’s hearts. Her own was much more important.
“Neighborrrrrrrrr,” Dylan burped.
“Ewwww.” Kristen giggle-waved the air. “Egg!”
“Egg
whites
,” Dylan proudly corrected.
“Dempsey.” Massie ran her fingers over her low side-pony and stood with a smile.
He smiled back, his worn white crewneck accentuating his Tanzania tan. He rested his hand on the back of Kristen’s chair.
“You’re moving to table seventeen?” Massie looked left, wondering why he or anyone else would ever want to sit with BOGUSS (Briarwood-Octavian Government Unification Students’ Society). The table was permanently empty. They didn’t even want to sit with themselves.
“No.” Dempsey snickered, his dimples carving mini-smiles in his cheeks. “I mean me and Kristen are neighbors.”
Kristen and I,
Massie thought, but didn’t bother correcting him. He had just come from Africa and was probably still readjusting to the language.
And then it hit her.
“Neighbors?”
she squealed. “As in, you live in an
apartment
?”
“Yeah.” He beamed. “It’s cozy. I like it.”
Massie purposely ignored Kristen’s triumphant grin.
“EhMa-
cute
!” She smoothed the brown faux fur on her Juicy swing coat and
why-didn’t-you-tell-me-that?
glared at Kristen. “I ah-dore the Pinewood.”
Kristen fake-coughed.
