“How do they expect us to be healthy when they serve crap like gourmet pizza and pasta?” Britney whines before pointing a finger at her friend stationed across the table. “Don’t eat that, Hayley. You were sloppy at cheer practice yesterday. Lay off the carbs.”
If I was Hayley, I’d tell Britney to shut the fuck up and eat my snatch. But like the loyal, pathetic Britney follower she is, Hayley puts her forkful of linguine down. “Yeah, you’re right.” She gives Oakley, who’s sitting beside her, the stink eye as she pushes her tray forward. “I’ve just been really stressed lately.”
High as hell and perceptive as fuck, Oak lunges for her plate. “More for me.”
“It’s totally understandable,” Britney coos sympathetically. “But just because your life is a train wreck, doesn’t mean you have to look like one.” Her gaze catches on something and she laughs. “Exhibit A.”
Old habits die hard because my initial reaction is to put Britney in her place. Fortunately, I come to my senses.
I’ll give my old pal credit. She’s lasted longer than most.
I tamp down the urge to laugh as I watch her look around the cafeteria for a place to sit. She’s not at her breaking point yet, but she looks out of her element.
And nervous.
The earbuds in her ears and the fact she’s absently mouthing the lyrics to one of her favorite songs are dead giveaways.
“The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World. The song was released the same day she was born. And eight years before her mom died.
But no one else would know those things about Dylan.
Not unless they know her like I do. Like I thought I did.
Britney grimaces. “Her bag is ancient, her Doc Martens are an emo fashion disaster, and that mop on top of her head looks like a blue snow cone…after someone pukes it up.”
All that shit might be true, but I guarantee Dylan doesn’t give a single fuck what anyone thinks about her appearance.
“I know,” Hayley chirps. “Seriously, who the hell wears combat boots? Is she like…joining the army?”
“One can only hope,” Britney mutters with a dramatic roll of her eyes.
Her friend Morgan laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “The girl is such a loser. Such a tragedy that her uniform is the most stylish thing she owns.”
Britney picks up her phone and snaps a photo of Dylan. “I have to post this on Instagram.” She smiles down at the screen. “RHA’s favorite cousin-fucker—Dylan Taylor.” Her nose crinkles as her friends reach for their own phones. “I didn’t want to be rude, so I tagged her. Think she’ll mind?”
I barely manage to halt the groan lodged in my throat. Usually I’m able to tune out all their dumb bullshit, but their topic of discussion happens to be the girl I hate.
It’s taking nearly every ounce of my willpower not to put my fist through the table and then beat the nearest person over the head with it.
Instead, I do the next best thing. I watch as Dylan loads up her tray, looking at the cashier with wide eyes as she pays—because the gourmet shit they serve here is expensive as fuck, even by our standards—then wait for her to pass me.
A second before she does, I punt Britney’s messenger bag from underneath the table.
Dylan goes down like a stack of dominos.
