“Whatever it is,” I tell him. “She’s using you.”
“It’s not like that, Tress,” Hugh says. “Felicity’s got problems you know nothing about.”
“Right,” I agree, turning away from him. “Not like mine; the whole town knows my issues.”
Hugh lets it slide; there’s nothing he can say to that. David has joined Brynn and Gretchen at their table, brow furrowed in intense concentration as he tries to plow through The Waste Land.
“Whoa, dude, you’ve got to beef up this résumé.”
I turn back to my computer to see that Hugh’s looking at my application. “Dick,” I say. “That’s private.”
“No, for real,” he says, reaching out for the keyboard. “Check this out.”
I grudgingly push the keyboard toward him, and he starts typing away with a surprisingly fast hunt-and-peck method.
“So you don’t want to outright lie,” he says. “Because they might follow up. I’m guessing you don’t have any job references?”
I nod, silently thanking him. Hugh knows that I can’t name the Amontillado Animal Attractions as my employer, much less put Cecil down as a reference. Our Facebook page itself would bar me from most campuses in twenty seconds, not to mention probably bring the ASPCA down on our heads. And I can imagine Cecil fielding a phone call from an admissions office, telling them he didn’t raise no pussy that needs air-conditioning—or a higher education.
Self-starter, highly motivated, and adaptable to changing situations, Hugh types.
“Nice,” I say grudgingly. It’s certainly all true, especially being adaptable. Last week I had to relocate my entire store when somebody let the cops know there were drug deals going down in the old barn out on 26. I think learning the patterns of a grumpy ostrich’s mood swings counts as adaptable, too.
“But the extracurriculars need some fluffing.” Hugh eyes the screen, resting his chin on his hand. “I know you don’t play any sports—”
“You mean, you know I can’t afford to play any sports,” I correct him, but he just waves his hand. Amontillado went to pay-to-play a few years ago, taking with it any chance I had of stepping foot onto a court or field. Not that it mattered. Even if I had the cash, I don’t have a car, and there’s no way Cecil would drive my ass back and forth to practices.
“Sports look good on paper,” Hugh says. “But that’s not the only thing people put on their résumés.”
“Right, but all of them require some sort of actual participation,” I tell him, ticking off the clubs on my fingers. “Student council, FFA, even book club. All those kids are constantly doing shit I can’t.”
Basically, anything that requires time and a pair of wheels.
“What about class officer?” Hugh asks. “It’s kind of a bullshit title. You don’t really do much of anything—What?” He breaks off when he sees me rolling my eyes.
“You really think there’s a chance in hell? Class officers are pure popularity contests, and you know it.”
“President and VP, maybe,” he admits.
“And nobody is going to let me handle money,” I tell him. “No way I get treasurer.”
“So run for secretary.”
My mouth is already open for a comeback, but none comes out. I end up settling for, “Yeah right.”
“Why not? Now you’re just being a pain in the ass, and you know it,” Hugh says. “Last year they couldn’t even get anybody to put their name up for it at the class meeting.”
This is true, but the they in question were Gretchen and Brynn—already elected president and VP—and half the reason nobody wanted to fill the other roles was because they didn’t want to put up with Gretchen’s shit. Finally some flunkies had raised their hands and automatically got the positions simply because nobody else offered themselves up as tribute.
I glance over at their table. Brynn I can take; she actually seems kind of cool. Gretchen I can take; as in, take her out at the knees if she starts anything with me. And it would be good to have something on my extracurriculars, since I can’t claim my job without self-incrimination.
“All right,” I say to Hugh. “I’ll give it a shot.”
“Nice,” he says. “Now, let me show you what the internet is actually for.”
Chapter 29
Felicity
Junior Year
“So then David said there was some freshman at two-a-days who passed out, and when they lifted his legs to get the blood to run to his head he wasn’t wearing his jock strap and his balls popped out of his shorts . . . or should I say ball?”
“He only had one?” Brynn asks.
“One,” Gretchen says, holding a finger in the air, in case we don’t get it.
“I’m surprised he had any, the way he hits,” Hugh says, and Brynn winces.
I look down at my lunch, shaking my head. Hugh can never see that she’s not impressed when he says shitty things. Gretchen sure is, though. She stops eating to run both her hands over the expanse of his chest.
“Everything bounces off this brick wall,” she says, practically purring.
Brynn becomes completely entranced by her pizza at that point, and I have to stop myself from clarifying that the only thing that hasn’t bounced off Hugh’s chest is Gretchen. He won’t have anything to do with her, despite her multiple attempts.
I’m stirring my soup—something called “cheesy hamburger” that consists of gelatinous cheese and hunks of meat—when the freshman in question walks by, his face turning a bright red when Hugh shouts, “Uno!”
Hugh jumps up and gives him a high five, which the kid returns half-heartedly, balancing his lunch tray in the other hand and trying not to tip over when Hugh hits him harder than strictly necessary.
“Did you have to do that?” Brynn asks when Hugh comes back to our table.
“What?” Hugh says. “He loved it.”
Brynn gathers up her stuff and walks away, leaving a stricken Hugh behind.
“What’d I do?” he asks, looking at me for clarification.
I could tell him. Explain that Brynn has an ex-boyfriend she could never quite please, how even the affection he showed her always had an edge on it, or a taunt, just like what Hugh did when he called that poor kid Uno. Or . . . I could just shrug, because David is coming over to join us, and he always brings out the worst in Hugh, and I don’t think my voice will carry over his.
“What’s up with you?” Gretchen asks, giving me an elbow right when my spoon is halfway to my mouth. Cheesy hamburger sprays across my lap, the grease soaking in, the cheese leaving a residue.
“Sorry,” she says, handing me a napkin.
“Nothing’s up with me,” I tell her, dabbing at the mess.
“Really? ’Cause those are the first words you’ve said all lunch.”
They might actually be the first words I’ve said all day, but Gretchen doesn’t need to know that. I didn’t have a good night. Something was trying to break through, old memories rising like they’d been filled with helium, fighting their way to the surface. I can feel them, sometimes—floating dread. My therapist says it would be best if I let them into the light, deal with whatever it is trying to come out.