It
But the best part of the evening came later, after most everybody had left or passed out. Mary Bryan steered me to the back entrance of the warehouse, and we went outside into the cool night air. Keisha and Bitsy, too. Just the four of us. An iron ladder scaled the brick wall, and I followed Mary Bryan when she started climbing.
“Ooo, I can see Jane’s knickers,” Bitsy said as she climbed up behind me.
“Shut up,” I said. Me, to Bitsy. I was heady with glory.
On top of the roof, we leaned against the metal housing of the air conditioning unit and reviewed the evening. Trucks rumbled by on a nearby thoroughfare, their headlights jogging over street signs. Occasionally they made the building shake.
“That was a very good time,” Mary Bryan said.
Keisha wrapped L’Kardos’s jacket more tightly around herself. “L’Kardos told me he loves me,” she said softly.
“Keisha!” Mary Bryan squealed. She gasped and grabbed Keisha’s hand.
“Took him long enough,” Bitsy grumbled. But she reached over and wiggled Keisha’s knee. “That’s fantastic, Keisha. He’s dead yummy, and you know I don’t lie.”
“That’s great,” I said shyly. I thought about Nate’s strong arms, but kept them to myself. “He seems really nice.”
Keisha smiled. She rested her cheek against his jacket.
“Well, nothing nearly so exciting for me,” Bitsy said. “Keisha gets a big romantic moment, and what do I get? A grope on the sofa and Brad’s tongue down my throat.”
“Ew,” Mary Bryan said.
“Not to worry. I gave him the boot.”
“Bitsy!” Mary Bryan exclaimed. “Are you serious?”
Bitsy shrugged. “I’m well shot of him. Anyway, I’ve got my sights on Ryan Overturf. Talk about yummy. Did you see those trousers he had on?”
“‘Those trousers’?” Mary Bryan teased. “Anyway, no, because Pammy Varlotta was using them as a cushion for most of the night. I’d say you’ve got your work cut out for you, Bitsy my luv.”
Bitsy snorted. “What a butter cow.”
“Only Ryan really does seem to like her.” Mary Bryan giggled. “Guess you’ll have to wear a retainer and talk with a lisp like she does. Apparently that’s what he goes for.”
“Is that why she talks like that?” I asked. “She has a retainer?”
“It’s on the inside of her teeth so you can’t see it,” Mary Bryan explained.
“Don’t be mean,” Keisha said.
“What? Saying someone has a retainer isn’t being mean.”
Bitsy stretched, an expansive, hands-over-head movement that pulled her top up to reveal her tummy. She let her arms flop down. “I think I’m up to the challenge of Pammy Varlotta. If not, there are always other ways.”
“No,” Mary Bryan said, feigning shock. “Don’t tell me you’d break your fixation just for the sake of Pammy.”
“As I said, I highly doubt it will come to that.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “What fixation?”
“More like vendetta,” Mary Bryan said.
“Could we please not ruin the evening?” Keisha said.
“And did you hear?” Bitsy went on. “Stuart’s on probation from football, all because of some ridiculous complaint she made. Pompous slag.”
“Who?” I said, totally confused. “Pammy?” Then something clicked in my brain. Stuart, complaint, pompous slag … “Wait a minute. Are you talking about Camilla Jones? How Stuart harassed her that one day?”
“What do
I dreamed about second grade, when Mom signed me up to be a Junior Bird Girl. We made thumbprint owls and microwaved s’mores. On the last day, to symbolize flying from the nest, we were blindfolded one by one and led into a circle of fellow Bird Girls. I folded my arms over my chest as I was passed from girl to girl, feeling their small hands on my shoulders and back. First they whispered bad things about me:
“Hey, Janie-girl. What’s up?”
It was Phil, calling way too early the next morning. I held the phone away as I stretched, then brought it back to my ear.
“Hey, Phil,” I said. “You woke me up.”
“Want to go to Memorial? Have a picnic?”
“Right now?”
“It’s eleven o’clock. I’m starving.”
“You
.”
“Fifteen minutes, then?”
I rubbed my hand over my face. I arched my back and pointed my toes. “Make it twenty.”
I brought the milk. He brought the Krispy Kremes. Breakfast of champions—or in this case lunch.
“So what’s kickin’?” he asked, tossing me a still-warm doughnut.
“‘What’s kickin’?’” I repeated.
“Nate Solomon said he saw you last night at some fancy party.” He made his voice sound mocking. “He said you were
“For real? Are you shitting me?”
“He was like, ‘Sorry you weren’t there,
“Please.”
“Seriously, what’s the story?” He licked a smear of glaze from his thumb, pretending he didn’t really care, but his eyes gave him away.
I tried to calm down, although inside I was jumping all around. But Phil was not the person to share it with.
“Well … I guess it’s because I’m a Bitch,” I said.
“No you’re not. Don’t even say that.”
“No,” I said. “I’m a
“Oh,” Phil said. He didn’t seem terribly happy. “But in reality you’re still plain old Janie. Right?”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No, I just meant that Nate’s never drooled over you before. So why should he drool over you now?”
“You’re kind of digging yourself into a hole, pardner.”