I walk over and drop my backpack on the plaid bedspread. “It’s fine. I don’t need a lot of room.”
“I cleared out the bottom two dresser drawers for you, and there’s space in the closet. Do you have a boyfriend?”
The change of subject is so abrupt that I blink in confusion. “What?”
Jasmine flops onto an overstuffed chair by the closet and picks up a giant polar bear stuffed animal. She leans back so that her shirt rises, baring a stripe of flat, tanned stomach. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Not exactly.”
She wrinkles her nose. “What does that mean? Do you have a guy or not?”
“It means not exactly. Marco was more of a friends-with-benefits thing.”
“Marco. Oooh, that name sounds sexy. What is he? Spanish? Italian?”
“Italian,” I say, which is true. He told me he was one-sixteenth Italian on his mother’s side. What I leave out is that he’s also one hundred percent American.
“Oh, that’s so freaking hot. Did you go to school with him, in…?”
This is where I have to abandon the truth completely. “I was in boarding school in Switzerland. It was an international school for expats’ and diplomats’ kids, so the students were from all over the world,” I say with a casual shrug, hoping she doesn’t ask me any more about it.And seriously, don’t ask me for pictures.
“Wow. I’ve always wanted to go to Switzerland. And ohhellyes, a European boy? He must’ve been so hot. Better than the losers around here.” She eyes me for confirmation.
“He’s all right.” I get a little fluttery thinking about him. Theway he looked into my eyes, the way he smelled, like soap and peppermint, the way hekissed…
I quickly squash that when I remember the blandGood luck down therehe texted me when I told him I was leaving for good. He didn’t even come to Gran’s funeral. No one from school did.
“How about you?” I ask my cousin.
“Eh. They’re notalllosers at our school. There are definitely a couple of hotties. Maybe not as sophisticated or as hot as Marco, but you’ll see. Nikki, my best friend, has a brother who’s a senior like you. He’s quarterback for our Falcons. And he isfine.”
“Right. The hottest guy at your school is the quarterback of the football team?” I snort. “So is your whole high school a cliché, or just that part?”
She shrugs, oblivious to my sarcasm. “I can’t wait for you to meet everyone.” She tilts her head and inspects me, from my dark red ponytail to my combat boots. “So what’s your vibe like? What are you into? Clubs, sports? Cheer?” she asks hopefully.
I shake my head. “Didn’t have cheerleading in Switzerland. It’s not really a European thing. And I’m not into team activities. I’m more of a loner.”
Jasmine seems disappointed by the answer. I can already tell she’s the kind of girl who’s intoallthe things—cheerleading, boys, fashion, and from the perfection of her makeup, online beauty tutorials. Nothing wrong with that. But it means we probably don’t have much in common.
It’s only when she says “That’s a great necklace” that I realize I’m fidgeting with my necklace again.
“Thanks,” I say as she comes up to inspect it.
A heart-shaped diamond pendant dangles from the thinsilver chain. It’s actually a tiny locket, but you can’t tell unless you squint really hard at the silver backing until you see the tiny groove that pops it open. And once it’s open, you have to squint even harder to make out the teeny initials engraved inside the heart.
G.T.
Gfor Gabrielle, not for my father’s name. It’s the only item I own that has my real initials on it. Other than my original birth certificate, which I’m sure is stashed in one of Gran’s paperwork boxes that Maggie arranged to be put into storage after her death.
“Careful,” I say when she tugs on it. “The clasp is a bit loose.”
“Is that a real diamond?” Jasmine demands.
“Uh, yeah,” I admit.
It’s much more than that, though. It’s a cremation diamond, made from my mother’s ashes.
“From Marco?”
