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I snort. “And I’m poor. Forget my above-average face and rocking rack – no guy could ever see past my lack of money?”
But instead of biting back on the defensive, Danny does look like he feels genuinely bad for throwing my impoverished state in my face. So even though it stings, I let it go.
Ajita clearly shares my train of thought. She pots the black ball, securing our utter annihilation. “Aaaaanyway. Whaddaya fancy doing for your birthday this year, D?”
It’s Danny’s birthday next month, and while mine is usually a subdued affair, due to my lack of funds, Danny always does something cool for his. He’s an only child, so his parents don’t mind forking out for me to tag along too. Last year we went paintballing, the year before it was go-karting.
“I was thinking maybe zorb football?” Danny says, pushing his glasses up his nose for the thousandth time. “You know, where you run around in inflatable bubbles and attempt to kick a ball around a field while crashing into each other like dodgems. It looks hilarious. And is the only circumstance in which I would consider participating in sports.”
“Oh yeah, that looks incredible,” I enthuse. “I’ve seen some YouTube videos. One of us will almost certainly die a gruesome death, but I’m game.”
Ajita pipes up. “Speaking as the person who will most likely die that gruesome death, I’m willing to take one for the team.”
Danny grins. “Perfect. And I think your brother would love it too, Jeets.” Ajita’s brother, Prajesh, is thirteen and already an amazing athlete.
“You wouldn’t mind inviting him along?” Ajita asks, plonking herself down on the sofa. I nestle in next to her while Danny racks up the pool balls to practise not being awful. “That’s so sweet of you. He would love that.”
“Of course,” he says. The balls spread and rattle around the table as he strikes the white ball in the perfect break. Two plop into pockets, and he smiles with satisfaction. “I think he’s having a rough time at school at the minute.”
Ajita looks crestfallen. “He is?”
I share her concern. Prajesh is like a little brother to me too.
Danny backtracks somewhat. “I mean, it’s nothing sinister. I don’t think he’s being bullied or anything. But the last few times I’ve seen him in the hallway, he’s been by himself, looking a little lost. And I know what it’s like to be a slightly awkward and nerdy thirteen-year-old. So I don’t mind taking him under my wing for a while.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.” Ajita smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I can tell she’s going to worry and obsess over this. Her big, tight-knit family is her whole world.
A flash of envy catches me off guard. Fleetingly, I wonder what it must be like to have so many people to love and care about, but I shake the thought away like I always do. Self-pity isn’t my style.
[Hold that thought, O’Neill. The worst is yet to come.]
1.23 p.m.
Carson comes up to our table in the cafeteria at lunch. Ajita kicks me under the table because of what I confessed last night, and in response I throw a boiled potato at her perfect brown face. Seriously, how are anyone’s lips that full and skin that smooth and eyes that dark? It’s possible I’m kind of in love with my best friend. She’s ridiculously attractive.
[It’s funny that the horny teenager stereotype tends to refer only to boys. Things I have been aroused by lately: cherry-flavored lip balm, a fluffy blanket, a particularly phallic lamppost.]
Anyway, Carson. He loves the potato-throwing incident because it’s a good ice breaker, and he begins to hypothesize what other vegetables would make suitable weaponry, until Danny rudely asks him what he wants, which is an act of douchebaggery not often associated with Danny Wells – at least, not before any pool-table confessions of attraction occurred.
I try to flutter my eyes seductively/apologetically at Carson, but Ajita kicks me again, which I assume means “Izzy, stop doing that, you look like you’re standing in front of that torture device at the optician’s that blows air into your eyeballs” so I immediately cease and desist. When you’ve been pals with someone for basically your whole life, you learn to decode their secret messages based on the severity of their physical violence.
“Soooo,” Carson says, “there’s a party at Baxter’s this weekend. BYOB. You guys in?”
“Sure,” Ajita replies on behalf of us all. I’m grateful because I suddenly feel like my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. I take a desperate gulp of orange soda and pretend to be disinterested in the entire conversation, watching as a gaggle of freshmen attempt to circumnavigate the complex seating hierarchy in the cafeteria.
When I catch his eye, Danny looks like he might combust with rage. Remembering the Gryffindor sweater now stashed at the back of my wardrobe, I do feel sort of bad. But what can I do? Never speak to another male in front of him again?
Carson, unperturbed by the intricate melodrama unfolding, grins. “Awesome. See y’all there.”
And then he disappears, and I’m free to resume normal respiratory function. I’m kind of disappointed by Carson’s lack of eye contact with me, especially after our alpaca-based hijinks in class the other day, but I figure I’ll be able to dazzle him with my unbelievable wit and sarcasm once we’ve both had a few beers at the party. [Sorry, lawyers. I meant Capri-Sun. The best of all the conversational lubricants.]
Afterward I ask Danny what his beef is, even though I quite clearly do not want him to answer, but he just mumbles incoherently about history homework and disappears to the library for probably the first time in his life.
Ajita and I go to the bathroom so she can examine her eyebrows for potato shrapnel and I can text Betty about the party. Not for permission – I can’t think of a time she’s ever prevented me from having fun [perks of being a tragic orphan] – she just likes to be kept in the loop about my social engagements so she can plan when to get drunk herself.
Betty says this in response:
Cool . Baxter, is he the arrogant mofo with the micro-penis complex? I met his mom at parent-teacher night, think her doctor injected her lip fillers with a cattle syringe !
Honestly, the one thing I hate about my grandma is the space she somehow finds between the end of her sentences and subsequent question/exclamation marks. Though at this point I just have to be grateful she gave up on text speak, and calling me hun. Shudder.
I show Ajita the reply as she’s wiping away rogue mascara smudges in the bathroom mirror, and she cackles her witchy cackle. “I’m so jealous,” she says. “I want to be raised by your grandma.”
I helpfully tell her that if she wants I can arrange for her entire family to be killed in a terrifying road accident, but despite all her big talk she doesn’t seem too keen on the idea.
Anyway, after much discussion and speculation, СКАЧАТЬ