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I feel numb right now, like I'm living in some kind of alternate world where I can't express any feelings or emotions without being ostracized for them. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you're acting like a diva, expecting me to be the perfect boyfriend when I can't possibly live up to your expectations." He presses his palms to his eyes and breathes in and out slowly. "I have to go. I need time to cool off."
He walks out, and I feel an invisible wall building in my heart. The feeling that Trey has been distant lately isn't my imagination. He says "love ya" as if he's a robot trained to say it and not because it's coming from his heart. He's so into slipping big words into his sentences, but can't even manage to say "I love you" like he used to.
"Where's Trey?" Mom asks as I walk into the kitchen a few minutes later, wanting nothing more than to cry. "I thought you two were going to watch a movie in the den."
"We were." I sigh. "But he left."
"Is everything okay?"
My parents worry about me enough. I don't need to add to it.
"Yeah. Everything's fine," I tell her.
"He's such a good boy. You could be stuck with that Salazar boy. Then we'd have a serious problem on our hands."
"Vic is a good guy, Mom."
She throws me a sideways glance. "That's not what I hear. Your uncle Thomas told me about an altercation at the beach the other night. He hinted that Vic was involved. I know Trey is friends with him, but you need to keep your distance. Boys like that are nothing but trouble."
I would argue, but it's no use. Mom isn't going to change her mind about Vic. She's pegged him a troublemaker, and she's not likely to change her opinion no matter what I say. Besides, he does get in fights. But nobody realizes that most of the time he's provoked or is trying to protect someone. He has a fierce way of protecting the ones he cares about. He doesn't talk about it and never defends himself from scrutiny or comments people make, as if he deserves them.
A small part of me wishes Trey was more like Vic, caring more about the ones he loves than his class rank.
Trey accused me of never knowing what it would be like to work hard while going to school.
"Mom, can I get an after-school job?" I blurt out.
"I'd rather not. Concentrate on your schoolwork instead." She rubs my arm. "Besides, you need to rest that body of yours. You can't afford to have a setback and be so disabled you can't go to school."
I've always been the good girl, the one who follows directions and doesn't cause waves. All it ended up giving me is "diva" status. And a disabled label from my parents.
I'm so done being the good girl, afraid of letting go because of limitations set on me by my parents, the doctors, and myself.
It's time I become a rebel, because living life so far inside the safe zone isn't working for me.
Chapter Seven
VICTOR
Being a senior at Fremont has its advantages. It also means that we're the ones responsible for pranking rival schools. Lucky for us, we've got it covered. Our quarterback, Derek "The Fitz" Fitzpatrick, is as eager as me to start this year with a prank that'll be talked about for years.
We're sitting in Derek's grandmother's basement eating some gourmet food that she ordered in for us. She has no clue that me, Derek, Trey, and Jet are plotting something epic.
"We could TP their houses," Trey chimes in as he gets a text, then busily starts typing away on his cell.
Derek fake yawns. "Been there, done that."
Jet isn't impressed either. "We need something original, something that's never been done before."
I've been trying to come up with a prank that doesn't involve us going to jail.
"What about dyeing their jerseys Fremont High gold or black?" Derek says.
Seeing our rivals wearing our colors would be hella funny. "How are we gonna get hold of their jerseys?" I ask.
Derek, with his cocky attitude and Texas-sized confidence, grins wide. "Trust me. I can break into a maximum-security prison if I have to."
"Seems like we could do somethin' easier," I say. An idea pops into my head. "How about spray painting REBELS on their field?"
We look at each other. Derek has the skills to help us do this. Trey has the brains. Jet is ready for anything having to do with entertaining himself. And me? I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty, and while art isn't my thing, I'm not a stranger to a spray-paint can.
"I'm in," Jet says.
"Me too." Derek stands. I can tell the wheels are turning. "I'm excited for this. It'll be epic."
We all look at Trey, who's busy texting.
"Trey, put your fucking phone down," Jet says, trying to snatch it away from him.
I toss a pillow at Trey. "Come on. Let's do this."
Trey looks so preoccupied I don't know if he's heard a word of our plan. "Yeah," he says, glancing up. "Whatever you guys want to do is fine."
Suddenly Mrs. Wentworth, Derek's grandmother, appears. She just moved here from Texas to be closer to him since his mom died and his dad is deployed. She's standing at the bottom of the basement stairs with a ridiculously big red hat perched on her head.
Jet rushes up to her with his arms open wide. "Granny Wentworth!" he cries out before enveloping her in a huge, overenthusiastic bear hug.
Mrs. Wentworth politely pats Jet on the back. "Jacob, my dear," she says, calling him by his real first name instead of his initials like everyone else. "Please don't call me Granny. Mrs. Wentworth is quite sufficient."
Jet laughs. "You sure? Mrs. Wentworth sounds so... formal."
"It's called manners, Jacob. Maybe you've heard of them?" The old lady clears her throat and adjusts her hat that's now cocked sideways due to Jet's hug.
When Mrs. Wentworth eyes me, I say, "Thanks for the food, Mrs. Wentworth."
She smiles. "It's my pleasure, Victor." She raises a brow at the lone piece of bread on the floor. "What are you scoundrels up to tonight? It is a school night, you know."
Derek holds up a hand. "You don't want to know what we were doing, Grams. Guy stuff."
"Y'all have fun... but not too much fun," she adds with a wagging finger directed at all of us. "And don't do anything illegal, you hear me?"
She leaves us, but not before Jet declares her a hot grandma worthy of a young buck like him. The woman is close to eighty years old, which makes us all laugh. I'm not even sure if Jet is kidding or not. He's a guy who gets off on breaking social norms. My friends have not been known to live inside society's rules, that's for damn sure.
"Let's meet at Jet's on Thursday at midnight," I tell the guys. "The epicness is about to begin."
Trey glances up. "There is no such word as epicness, Vic."
"Yo, Trey." I smile wide and hold my arms out wide. "Ask me if I give a fuck."
Chapter Eight
MONIKA
At night when my body starts to give out and I'm exhausted, I usually just lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling and think.
Tonight my thoughts are inundated with Zara and finding out who this mystery girl is.
I go online to see if I can find her. She doesn't go to my school, that's for sure. I start looking at students who attend Fairfield High, our rival. I start at the page of Fairfield High's biggest jerk, Matthew Bonk, because he's popular and knows just about everyone.
I check out his profile, feeling like a spy. He posts a lot of pictures of his abs. The dude is definitely an egomaniac, wanting people to worship him. I scan all of his four thousand friends, searching for a girl named Zara.
It doesn't take me long to find her.
"So that's her," I whisper to myself when I come across a picture of Bonk posing with a bunch of cheerleaders.
Wow. Pink hair reminding me of cotton candy. Big blue eyes. Snow white skin. She's the opposite of me. Zara Hughes is her name.
I've never seen the girl before, but when I click on her profile I'm inundated with information. She posts something on her page every day or so, whether it's a picture or quot
e or some kind of comment about her day.
She doesn't mention anything about Trey, and there are no pictures of them together. But then I come across a post she made in June, when I was four hours away vacationing in Door County with my family.
Best night of my life. Secret relationships are the best ones. No drama, no bullshit.
My heart starts pounding fast. As much as I want to live in denial, the puzzle pieces are starting to fit into place.
*
In the morning, my boyfriend is standing in front of my locker with a red rose in his hand.
"Sorry about last night," he says, handing me the flower. "I was stressed out."
"It's fine," I tell him, taking the rose and noting the thorns still on the stem. I wait for him to explain Zara's text. He doesn't. "Is that it, Trey? That's all you want to say?"
