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Zoe’s supermodel features are so distracting that most don’t see the odometer reads a thousand hard miles in the depths of her eyes. There’s a weight to her stare that says Zoe’s seen and done things she’d rather not have. I don’t know…maybe it takes someone who’s faced their own dark matter to recognize it in another.
“Are you crying?” her red-rimmed eyes compel me to ask.
Dabbing at the corners, she gives me a look that says are you high? “Allergies.” Avoiding closer scrutiny, she looks down, adjusts her off-the-shoulder t-shirt. I don’t press her for more. I don’t know her well enough for that.
She pulls out a tube of lip gloss from the micro Chanel purse hanging across her slim torso, swipes some on, and exchanges it for a set of car keys.
“You wanna take my car?” A Mercedes fob is thrust in my face. Her car costs as much as my dad’s saltbox house in New Jersey. No, I do not want to be responsible for her car.
“Not a chance,” I say, expression horrified.
“What’s the big deal?”
“What’s the big deal? What if something happens to it? It would take me till I’m dead to pay you back.”
“It’s just stuff,” she tells me, her tone implying I’m the densest idiot on the planet. “Come on.” She motions for me to follow her out the door.
Minutes later we’re barreling down Pacific Coast Highway in her customized AMG black-on-black Mercedes G wagon.
“Slower!” I practically shout as I cling to the door handle with a death grip. “Do any of you California drivers have any respect for the basic rules of the road?”
Ignoring my harried expression, Zoe’s gaze darts to the ACE bandage on my ankle. “What happened to you anyway? You never explained.”
The last few days have been an exercise in sleep deprivation. Every time I move, my ankle reminds me it’s injured. And I’m one of those people that needs at least seven hours to function. The consequence of this lack of sleep is that I’ve been steadily growing grumpier by the day. It was so sore when I woke up this morning to leave early for class––having prepared myself for the extra hour it was going to take for me to get there on time––that when I passed Zoe going into the shower I basically growled at her.
“The short version is my car broke down at the bottom of the southside entrance and a water polo player almost ran me over as I was walking home.”
Her face goes unnaturally still. “A water polo player?”
“I don’t think it’s broken, but it’s still really swollen and sore. So now I’m crippled and without a car.”
“Which one?”
“Reagan Reynolds––”
She gets quiet for a beat, the tension in her shoulders softening. “Word of caution if you plan to sue, the water polo players are gods on this campus.”
“Sue?” I practically shout, my heartbeat suddenly racing as fast as Zoe’s G wagon down Pacific Coast Highway.
I hate conflict. I hate it. It would never even cross my mind to do such a thing. “I would never…I…I mean, regardless of who he is. I can’t…I couldn’t––”
“Relax, Alice. I only mentioned it because Reagan’s parents are well-known Beverly Hills doctors.” Although she shrugs casually, there’s nothing casual about this conversation. The weight is back in her stare. “Every one of us who’s grown up with money has been drilled since birth that anything we do could bring on a lawsuit.”
What an awful way to live. Never knowing what someone’s true intentions are. Never knowing if all you’re valued for is your money.
“Do you know him?” I have to know if he’s anticipating me coming after him for money. If that’s the reason he’s been charming me. Or, whatever––stalking me.
“My mother knows his parents. She’s sold them a lot of art.”
Zoe had mentioned that her mother was one of the biggest art dealers in the world.
“But I don’t know him personally, if that’s what you mean. Only of him. Everybody does. He was on two championship winning water polo teams. The first when he was only a freshman, and he scored the winning goal against UCLA.” Then gleefully adds, “And he’s hot as fuck, so pretty much every girl on the West Coast knows who he is.”
“I guess.” Staring out the passenger window, the side-by-side beach houses, most of which look like they were built in the seventies, blur into a streak of color.
“You guess?” She’s all big eyes and feigned outrage. “Have you seen that face? Have you seen that body?”
The reverence in Zoe’s voice makes me chuckle. I’ve never been much for school athletics. I don’t get the crazy obsession with it. And I definitely didn’t peg cynical Zoe as a Speedo chaser.
“Fangirl, much?” I tease.
A slow grin transforms her face. “We have baseball, basketball, soccer, and water polo teams at this school and only one of those has won seven national titles. Those guys get a lot of love.”
