“Rico, will you go to Birmingham with me on Friday?”
He cannot be serious.
“Please?”
Now he’s just making me mad. “I have to work, Zan. I have a job. I mentioned that, but you clearly only heard the part that has to do with you, which is so utterly typical.”
No overbearing rich-boy response this time.
“I’m going inside now.” I start to push the (heavy) door closed, but then:
“Rico, can I please say something?”
“Oh, now you’re asking?”
He sighs. “It just bums me out that one of the people who know I don’t always get what I want would say that I do.”
“What?”
“The only other person who knows the real reason I’m not going to college is Ness.”
Now I’m the one with nothing to say.
Can’t seem to move either.
“Rico?”
GOD, he’s infuriating. “WHAT, Zan?”
“What if you didn’t have to work?”
“Didya miss everything I said about helping my mom?”
“What if you got a paid vacation day?”
“I don’t get those, Macklin. I’m going. Insi—”
“What if you did this week? What if”—his gaze drops to his lap—“it were already arranged?” He braces like he’s expecting me to throw something.
Which I might be considering. “What are you talking about?”
“I might’ve already asked Mr. Z if you could have the afternoon off. With pay.”
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?”
His head drops. “I’m sorry.”
I huff. Hands on hips. (I can instantly hear Jax’s voice in my head: “Eww, you look like Mommy.”)
He looks at me. Sheepishly.
And I have to look away because to be honest, I feel like a gaping, festering wound.
Still don’t trust him any further than I can throw him, but I do want—need—to get to Birmingham, and he is offering to drive.
Hate to admit it, especially after I just detonated on him, but he is nice to be around most of the time.
Not that I should let that part distract me…
One-oh-six, one-oh-six, one-oh-six.
(Plus six zeroes.)
I can cut him off once we get back. “We’ll be leaving right after school?”
His head snaps in my direction. “You’re serious?”
“Zan.” Why is he looking at me like I offered him a trip to the moon?
“Okay, okay. Yeah,” he says. “Straight after.”
“Fine. Good night.”
He smiles. Like really big. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow, shrimp.”
“You did not just call me shrimp.”
“Oh, I did.”
I clench my jaw and slam the door without another word.
Zan is waiting at my locker Friday afternoon, and as much as I want to maintain my force field of anger, excitement about this Birmingham trip manages to seep through.
“You’re such a creep,” I say once I get it open. “How do you even know where my locker is?”
“I find it hysterical that you think you’re invisible, Danger.”
“If you went to a school where nobody ever spoke to you, you’d feel invisible too.”
“Goes both ways, though, doesn’t it?”
“Huh?”
He waits until our eyes meet before he says: “Do you speak to people who don’t look like they want to be spoken to?”
I don’t say anything to that. Just finish swapping out my books and push the locker door shut.
“Ready to rock, Queen of Ice?” he says. “The day is ripe for a glorious adventure!”
“You’re ridiculous.”
He smiles and extends an elbow, and despite my inner protestations, I take it.
I was right to be reluctant: we pass a group of girls—Jessica’s literal (cheerleader) #squad, though she’s not with them—in the parking lot, and they give me stank-eye so intense, I have to fight the urge to do an armpit check.
Pretty sure Zan doesn’t even notice. Which gets my gears spinning. Not that I’ve allowed myself to think of him in any way other than a means to an end (Is that awful? That’s probably awful.), but I’m curious now. “So are you dating anyone?” I say the moment the Jeep doors are shut.
He starts the ignition, and some rap song about various types of checks comes pouring out of the speakers (fitting). He turns the music down and reaches for his seat belt. “Nope.”
Huh. “Dated anyone recently?”
“I have not.”
“When’s the last time you dated someone?”
“What’s with the line of questioning, Detective?” He taps around on the screen in the center of the Jeep’s dashboard until the GPS pops up. Inputs an address and a route appears.
Should I tell him the truth? Guess it couldn’t hurt. “The, uhhh…pep squad didn’t seem too happy to see me with you.”
Zan snorts. “I wouldn’t date those girls. Got nothing in common with any of them.”
I stifle a laugh at the irony. A disgustingly wealthy, good-looking boy having “nothing in common” with disgustingly wealthy, good-looking girls?
Okay.
“I see.”
“They’re about as deep as puddles, Rico. Wouldn’t be too concerned if I were you.”
“Who said I was concerned?”
He doesn’t respond, but I see him grin. Jackass.
He takes the left that will put us on the highway, and reality comes into glaring relief: I’m about to be alone in a car with Zan-the-Man for two-plus hours on what could very well be a wild-goose chase.
Something I hadn’t considered until just now: What if we can’t find this Beau guy? Will Zan be super pissed because he wasted all this gas? Does he even think about gas? According to him, he bought this Jeep…does that mean he pays for the gas too?
And what are we even going to talk about? If anybody has “nothing in common,” it’s him and me.