Have I mentioned I hate Alexander Gustavo Macklin? (And fine, hate is a strong word considering I don’t actually know him, but like who even has a name like that?)
“Dude, this car is SO COOL!” Jax says. Bro can hardly see over the dang dashboard. “And are those fidget spinners?!”
I peek between the seats to follow Jaxy’s eyes. There in one of the between-seat cup holders is a literal stack of the (variously colored) things.
“They are,” Zan say. “You want one?”
“Uhh, YEAH!”
“Go ahead. Take your pick.”
Jax grabs a royal blue one that has little spikes all over it.
“And thanks for the compliment on the Jeep.” Zan starts the engine, and I swear the whole parking lot shakes from the rumble. “I bought it myself.”
“You did?” Jax snatches the question straight from my lips.
“Yep. Hard work pays off, you know?”
“You have a job?” I blurt.
Zander looks at me in the rearview. Bah, stupid (serpentine!) green eyes. “Been working since fifteen, IQ.”
“Doing what?”
“Started out bagging at Publix. When I turned sixteen, my dad put me to work at the family business.”
“Ah, that doesn’t count.” I look out the window.
Zan laughs, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sound forced. Did what I said bother him?
“I can almost guarantee you make more per hour than I do,” he replies.
I snort. “Doubtful.”
“I’m serious. Minimum wage-er up here.”
So I have him beat by fifty cents. Big whoop. “Why don’t they pay you more?”
“Not how my dad rolls.”
Hmph.
Not like any of it matters, though. Job or not, he certainly didn’t have to help pay any bills. I wish my income could go toward buying myself a monster truck.
Grumpy now.
“Jax, your sister’s a really hard worker. You should definitely follow her example,” Zan continues.
“I know, man. If it wasn’t for Rico, we’d prolly be homeless. She makes the budget and really keeps us afloat. Our mom’s terrible with money.”
“Jax!” Is he for real right now?!
“You know it’s true, Rico!”
Zan laughs, which kind of makes me want to set this precious toy truck of his on fire.
“It’s a hard-knock life,” Jax goes on, and I expect Zan to laugh again….
But instead he says: “I get it, little dude. My mom’s pretty awful with money too.”
For the rest of the week, Zanny Gusto, as I call him in my head, sits beside me in history and infiltrates my Castaway-esque cafeteria island.
But still: when he pulls up in front of my apartment building Saturday morning, I’m so nervous, I could collapse. I’m wearing the second-most-expensive thing from my closet: a maroon V-neck sweater dress that Mama splurged on for my Sweet Sixteen birthday dinner (that she also splurged on—definitely bad with money). Black tights, Goodwill coat, church-drive Doc Martens.
I still feel like a pauper.
Also not helping: pretty sure I caught Zomeboy semi-checking me out two days ago and now I feel like my ass has gotten bigger. When he pulls up, I’m waiting out front because the last thing I want is for Jax to invite him in to look at his Lego collection. It would involve him discovering that I, a high school senior on the cusp of full womanhood, share a room with my nine-year-old brother.
He whips his Tonka truck into a parking space—nearly sideswiping Mama’s rust bucket in the process—and then hops out and runs around the car to open the door for me. He’s wearing a button-down beneath a nice cardigan, dark jeans, brown Clarks Wallabee boots, and a navy peacoat with gold buttons.
He looks me over. “Thou art lovely as a freshly bloomed rose this morn, m’lady,” he says with a bow.
“You are so much weirder than I expected.”
With a grin, he extends his hand to help me into the Jeep. The interior smells extra like his cologne today, aka warm sunlight and dizzy spins through an enchanted forest all while inhaling the holographic rainbow dust of hypermasculine unicorn fairies.
I buckle my seat belt as he pushes my door shut, and then close my eyes and breathe in super deep, even though I should really be trying to stay focused. (TICKET, Rico!)
That’s when I hear what I guess are chicken sounds—bawk bawk!—coming from the speakers.
He climbs in and pulls his door shut. Buckles up.
“What the holy hell are you listening to?”
“Project Pat, fool!” he says.
I just stare at him.
“Cardi B sampled the track for a semi-remix, but the original can never be topped.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re talking about, Macklin.”
“Seriously?”
“Quite.”
He gapes at me like I just confessed to not knowing the name of the first black president. “I know it’s a little old-school, but…you really don’t know Project Pat?”
Still staring. I blink.
“Three-Six-Mafia?”
“Oh, them.” I look out my window as he finally backs out of the space. “Weren’t they like devil worshippers or something?”
“Devil worshippers?”
“Yeah,” I say. “ ‘Triple-Six’ Mafia, as in 666, the number of Satan?”
“I dunno about all that, IQ—”
BAWK, BAWK! Chicken head…
“What is this guy talking about?” I say.
“Father in heaven, what am I going to do with you, Danger?” Zan shakes his head. “The song is called ‘Chicken Head,’ which was a derisive term for girl who—” He stops and presses his lips together. “Mmmm…Well, we’ll just say she’s a rap groupie. I think the modern-day equivalent is THOT.”
“How do you even understand what they’re saying?”
He looks at me with his caterpillar brows drawn together (note to self: when I work up the courage, I must ask if he gets them threaded), then back at the road. “Okay, I’ve avoided asking you this because Ness told me it might be offensive—something about a microaggression. But your downright baffling response to this formerly very popular rap song has me really wondering.” We stop at a light, and he looks at me. “What are you, Danger?”