Imogen began laughing low and slowly, covering her mouth with her hand.
“Tina whatshername used to give me wedgies and say threatening shit to me in the locker room,” said Jule. “Finally I banged her head against a brick wall. She ended up needing stiches.”
“Was she that one with the curly hair? The tall one?” asked Imogen.
“No. The shorter one who followed that one around.”
“I can’t picture her.”
“Better off that way.”
“And you banged her head against the wall?”
Jule nodded. “I’m a scrapper. You could call it a talent.”
“Scrapper?” Forrest asked.
“A fighter,” said Jule. “Not for fun, but—you know. Self-defense. Battling evil. Protecting Gotham City.”
“I can’t believe I never heard about you sending a girl to the hospital,” said Imogen.
“They kept it quiet. Tina didn’t want to talk about it because of what she did to mebeforeI made her stop, you know? And it made Greenbriar look bad. Girls fighting. It was right before winter concert,” said Jule. “When all the parents come. They let me sing in it before they kicked me out. Remember? That Caraway girl had the solo.”
“Oh, yeah. Peyton Caraway.”
“We sang a Gershwin song.”
“And ‘Rudolph,’ ” said Imogen. “We were way too old to sing ‘Rudolph.’ It was ridiculous.”
“You wore a blue velvet dress with darts down the front.”
Imogen put her hands over her eyes. “I can’t believe you remember that dress! My mother always made me wear stuff like that at the holidays, and we don’t even celebrate Christmas. Like she was dressing up an American Girl doll.”
Forrest poked Jule’s shoulder. “You must be starting college in the fall.”
“I finished high school early, actually. So I’ve been a year already.”
“Where?”
“Stanford.”
“Do you know Ellie Thornberry?” Imogen asked. “She goes there.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Walker D’Angelo?” Forrest said. “He’s in graduate art history.”
“Forrest is done with college,” said Imogen. “But for me it was like the halls of effing hell, so I’m not going anymore.”
“You didn’t really try,” said Forrest.
“You sound like my dad.”
“Oh, pout pout.”
Immie put on her sunglasses. “Forrest’s writing a novel.”
“What kind of novel?” asked Jule.
