Rebels Like Us. Liz Reinhardt

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СКАЧАТЬ make me laugh to the guy who pulverized my heart?”

      “I know,” she says.

      “I was scared, really scared to leave home and Newington and you,” I say as I lick a few salty tears off my cracked lips. “But I was more scared of staying and facing him every day, because what he did to me is unacceptable—but sometimes I forget because I’m busy remembering how sweet he can be. How can he be such a snake in the grass and legitimately one of the most interesting, caring people I’ve ever met? He messed up so badly, but I know he still cares about me. That’s dangerous.” I take a deep breath and look at Ollie’s face, just a screen away. “I was scared of falling for him again after everything he put me through. Because a little part of me is always going to love the goofy, smart, sweet guy I fell in love with two years ago.”

      “Oh, Nes.” I know Ollie would hug me if we were together, and I want to cash in on that hug more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

      “I’m a coward.” I close my eyes.

      “Stop it. Right now. You’re the bravest person I know. I love you.”

      “I love you, Olls. And I’m going to be okay, promise. I’m letting all the gross feelings come out, just in little drips and drabs. Did I produce enough tears for you today? Can I go back to pretending I’m hard-hearted and cool?” I joke. Or half joke.

      I know Ollie still wants a full rundown of my first day of school, but I don’t have any energy to tell her about all the crazy crap that kind of threw me for a loop today. It’s childish, but I want to pretend I started the second semester of our senior year at Newington Academy with her. We met in the friendly halls of our Quaker school when we were in second grade and she yelled that she loved my glittery stockings and I yelled that I loved her heart necklace and our teachers shushed us as we tried to yell more compliments back and forth. We found each other at recess, and we’ve been madly, completely best friends in love since then.

      “I miss you like butter misses popcorn,” she mourns, and the sight of her tears firms up my backbone.

      “Stop crying! Did Parson give you permission to run your bead-and-bracelet biz in the front hall?” I change the subject fast, and it works. Sort of.

      “Yes! The middle school girls were all primped out in their Christmas/Hanukkah duds... Nes, they’re crimping their hair! Why didn’t I ask Santa for a crimper too? I both want to scorn them and buy a crimper with all the fat moneys I’m making weaving little unicorn beads into their hair. Advice?” She wipes the tears away with the tip of her fingers.

      “No scorn. They’re littles. Remember how much the scorn of the cool upper-class girls hurt our souls back when we were tiny? Also, no crimper. If you want your hair to look like Bride of Frankenstein’s, just braid it when it’s damp.” I tap my finger on the screen, over her face. She opens her mouth like she’s going to bite it.

      Our laughs are sadder than I want them to be.

      “And, I almost forgot to tell you... No, I’m going to make you guess. Guess how else my life is turning to crap,” Ollie orders.

      Her words stab more than a little. I know I’m one of the main reasons the tail end of her senior year is going to look nothing like what we’d been planning since elementary school.

      “Thao is moving back across the hall.” She rolls her neck the way she always does after a grueling bassoon session to get the tension out.

      “And I’m not even there to help you booby-trap your house like we did in fifth grade! What kind of crap friend am I?” I laugh around the next words because the idea of Thao being anything but a nose-picking cretin is hilarious. “Maybe he’s changed since you last saw him? Or maybe your parents won’t make you two hang out every time they get together. I mean, you’re not little kids anymore. You have a life. Thao probably does too. If you count sneak-attack farting on people a life...”

      “That’s right.” Ollie nods enthusiastically. “I do have a life. A life that does not involve disgusting boys who think it’s cool to squirt milk out of their eyeballs.”

      I gag at the memory. “I’m telling you, I became lactose intolerant right after that.”

      We both crack up remembering gross Thao.

      “You know I want to talk to you for a jillion hours, but Darcy gave us a paper assignment. Already. I can’t believe him. Will you be able to talk later?” She eyes the phone hopefully.

      Darcy. My favorite teacher. Ollie’s too. She’s pissed because she can’t charm him out of giving actual work-based assignments instead of the fluffy busywork so many other teachers tend to assign during the last half of senior year. Well, giving her actual, work-based assignments. I live in a Darcy-free world now. All I have is Ma’am Lovett.

      “Love you, doll. We can chat all night if you call later.” I don’t cry when I disconnect with Ollie, I don’t cry when I look around at the institutionally bare walls of my room, and I don’t cry when I struggle to get into my complicated, strappy bikini, which is as frustrating as playing Chinese jump rope.

      I walk through the echoey house. It’s got all the mundane architecture and lack of character you can expect from a last-minute rental in suburban Georgia. The tiny amount of furniture we brought from New York didn’t begin to fill this place, so Mom set up an order from the local furniture store. Even with a truckload of brand-new couches, coffee tables, rugs, and paintings, it’s surprisingly hard to fill three thousand square feet of house with stuff when you’re used to living in an apartment one-sixth that size.

      Even though I know I could never call this place home, I wonder who might someday. And I feel bad for them. Though the future owners do get a pool. That’s pretty rad, to just walk out of your house and—blam—there’s a pool.

      That you can swim in.

      In January.

      I guess this place isn’t all bad.

      It still blows my mind, because private pools are like unicorns where I come from. Mom tried to use the pool as incentive to get me to like the idea of coming here. Because leaving a city full of culture and art and beauty and ferocious ambition can so be made better with a concrete hole filled with chlorinated water.

      I expect the backyard to be serenely empty when I turn the corner, and nearly have a heart attack when I run into a random stranger holding a hose.

      “What are you doing in my backyard?” I yell, taking an aggressive stance and gripping my phone hard in case I need to chuck it at his head. Or call 911. I scan the yard for weapons and notice a pool skimmer the cleaning service left on the patio. Maybe I could smack this guy into the water if he tries anything funny?

      “’Scuse me. So sorry. I didn’t realize the renters already moved in.”

      The voice drawls rough, quiet...familiar. Where have I heard it before? The half-naked male attached to it is practically ripping new armholes in his T-shirt in an attempt to cover up.

      I relax my stance and realize he’s not some hulking intruder, but a freaked-out guy about my age, and the T-shirt he’s putting on backward reads Rahn Lawn Care and Maintenance.

      “Most days my grandpa and cousin’d be out here during the day, so as not to disturb y’all. I jest head out to the places where there’s no renters in СКАЧАТЬ