“What a load of crap,” I say.
I sit up and drag my backpack toward me, zipping it up after I make sure my fake project worksheet is inside. I tuck my phone in my back pocket and double knot the laces on my boots, then grab a flannel from the hook behind my door before heading downstairs. While the days still feel very much like summer, the mornings and late afternoons are fall and I hate being cold. I poke my arms through the unbuttoned shirt and pause as I look down at the plaid pattern. It’s too much like Ava’s. Newly committed to being chilly instead, I pull my arms free again and roll the shirt up, tossing it into a deep corner in the laundry-slash-mud room. I really want to throw it away but mom only bought it for me last month.
With my backpack slung over one shoulder, I snag a granola bar from the cabinet and a strawberry milk from the fridge, holding the bar in my teeth while I lock the side door behind me. I’m almost looking forward to my lazy drive to school with my favorite breakfast. I know Mom picked up the strawberry milks so I won’t miss her so much. I smile as I twist the cap loose.
As I approach my car, I notice something resting on the windshield. It’s mostly white, and almost looks like a scrunchie wrapped around my wiper blade. I unlock my door and toss my bag across to the passenger seat, then reach for the twisted piece of cloth. I realize what it is right before my hand makes contact and I pause, breathing out hard, short puffs through my nose to the familiar beat of the last Kanye song I heard. I pull my keys from my pocket and poke the long one meant for my ignition through the lacey item that’s barely within my reach. I drag the material toward me and pinch it to hold up for inspection.
The panties are mostly white with little black hearts sewn everywhere, and the coverage they would provide is minimal. It’s the bottom part that matches the bra I got a glimpse of; at least, I’m pretty sure it is. Last night’s hurt and fury stirs in my belly. I twist to take in the still house behind me, the garage closed and the downstairs as quiet as it was last night. Lucas’s truck is gone, which probably means I am not being watched. I carry the thong—held by my thumb and middle finger—into my car and unzip my backpack to tuck it inside. I back down the driveway, squealing my tires a little when I hit the road.
I buckle up while moving, then reach to zip my bag closed again. There’s a chance I missed one of the four-way stops leaving my neighborhood, and I’m not sure how I got to where I am, a block from school. All I can think about are the underwear; it’s basically tunnel vision for my thoughts.
Ava’s panties are in my backpack. What the ever-loving fuck?
Abby is waiting for me in her car, her music loud enough that I can hear it through both of our closed windows and with my engine on. She’s happy. That’s her personality. Very little to find fault with in the world according to my best friend, even though she’s getting hauled into court again next week as part of her parents’ constant and bitter custody battle. Her dad, who has seen her maybe twice since she and I have been best friends, lives in Miami now. He wants custody because he wants the money she earns modeling, and she’s not eighteen for six more months. Her mom recently put it all into an S-Corp, Abigail Cortez LLC. My friend is an LLC. Her father wants it dissolved. It’s a Netflix documentary-worthy mess.
Maybe having some chick’s underpants in my backpack isn’t so bad.
I glance at the zipper and give one last thought to what’s hidden behind it, then pull the bag into my lap, kill my engine, and get out to wait for Abby to finish crimping her eyelashes. She’s still singing the last few lines of the song when she gets out and joins me on the hood of her car to stare at other people and make judgements about them we would never say to their faces. That’s a lie. She would say it. Me, never. Except maybe . . .
“Ava Pryor looks like she had a boob job,” my friend says, both of our necks craned to the left, watching the platinum blonde mean girl hop out of Lucas’s truck. I wonder if she slept at his house or if he picked her up this morning.
“I have her panties in my backpack,” I say, all monotone as I zone out watching my apparent arch nemesis shimmy down her barely existent corduroy skirt. I wait for them to kiss, ignoring my friend’s elbow that has now nudged me twice. But from the moment they exit the truck it’s as if they aren’t even acquainted. Lucas peels off and joins the twins and this guy Cannon who came here junior year when I was gone. Abby is obsessed with him, but he never ever does anything social, or dates, or smiles. He clearly talks, because I’m watching that happen, but talking to Abby is another thing. I have the distinct feeling he is the reason I’m driving out to the creek Friday night.
“Panties. Spill it.” She pushes me hard enough that I lose my balance and stumble a few steps to my right. I smirk, though, and bring my bag to the front of my chest, unzipping the top for her to peer inside. I don’t expect her to reach in and grab them. Stupid of me.
“Get out!”
I blush a little because her volume draws attention, and she’s unfurled a thong to display in front of us.
“Abs, those ain’t washed,” I warn, and she tosses them back in my bag, immediately digging in her purse for her orange-scented hand sanitizer.
“How did you end up with those?”
I’m not completely sure, but I have a pretty good idea. I tell my friend only the facts so I don’t have to delve into the intricacies of me walking in on her and Lucas, which would undoubtedly lead to me doing our assignment on my own, and him taking advantage of me, and me pining . . .
“I found them on my car this morning.” I meet her wide stare with a solid one of my own, my mouth a hard line touched with a hint of a smile that says, “I can’t make this shit up.”
Abby nods slowly and the first bell sounds from the school speakers.
“Guess that’s better than dog shit,” she says.
We kick off from her car and head toward the main doors, Lucas and the twins a few paces in front of us. This time, though, I don’t bother walking slow. I let it all play out so my steps are only a few behind his, and when he glances back enough that I see his jaw and the flick of his lashes, I let a slow, deep grin take over my face.
When we arrive at the science building, I’m close enough behind Lucas that, if he were a gentleman, he’d hold the double doors open for me. I’m not surprised when they slam shut behind him; it only strengthens my resolve for how I’m going to handle this—handle him.
I slow my stride enough that he gets into our classroom and his seat before me. I want him sitting for this, and I want other people around to witness. His big frame is stuffed into the desk when I enter the classroom, his black bag on the floor next to one foot, his right leg stretched out into the aisle next to my seat. His notebook is out and he’s slowly spinning a pen in his right hand, his eyes red from what I imagine was a late night. His focus on the whiteboard seems forced, reluctant. His concentration breaks only for a breath, and that’s when his gaze flits to me. His pen never stops turning, but his eyes follow my movement, his expression almost hostile. He’s wearing the same clothes I saw him in last night, and I force myself to soothe the burn and scorn eating at my insides with this newfound hatred that I’ve decided to nurture.
Pausing right in front of my seat, I dump my heavy bag on my chair, then unzip the top and look my former friend right in the face. His eyes move from my hands to my gaze in one blink. The blue is muddied by alcohol, lack of sleep, Ava—whatever. It’s not as effective on me as it once was. What was once so beautiful has become ugly. I wait for him to believe this is it, I’m just going to glare. Finally, he shakes his head and shrugs.