sort of bad for springing my accident on Mattie, I turn around to face her. “Calm down, Matt. Look at me. I’m all in one piece.” I make a split-second decision not to tell her about the whole driving-while-sleeping thing and the bizarre encounter with the woman, because she looks so alarmed already. At least, I’ll stay quiet for now. “Don’t worry. It’s no big deal.”
When I turn to face the front, Rollins gives me a questioning look. I mouth the word later at him and then fiddle with the radio. He growls and swats my hand away. Melting back into my seat, I welcome the normalcy of the scene. Rollins, rocking out behind the wheel. Mattie, in the back, scrutinizing a text message on her phone.
Then there’s me, wondering if there was someone else in my head last night.
An impostor.
“Aw, hey.” Rollins gives the girl a hug. Jealousy prickles up my spine. He turns toward me. “Vee, this is Anna. She’s been training me at the radio station.”
I lift my face to hers and somehow manage a smile. The most distinctive feature of Anna’s face is her eyes, which are the most startling purple color with eyelashes that seem to go on for miles. I wonder if she’s wearing contacts because I’ve never seen eyes that color before. She’s wearing a lacy baby-doll dress over rainbow-striped tights and combat boots.
She is everything that I am not.
Suddenly I start to feel sick, remembering the song Rollins played last night. I’d kind of assumed he was thinking of me when he played it. But what if, the whole time Dave Grohl was singing, Rollins had been staring at this beautiful girl? The thought is so uncomfortable, I banish it from my mind. I am the one he loves. He told me as much that night he rescued me from the fire. True, that was six months ago, but still—could his feelings have changed that much?
“Hi, Vee,” Anna says, holding out her hand to shake mine. I pump perhaps too vigorously and then feel like an idiot.
“Hello,” I say. “Cool tattoo.”
Can she hear the envy in my voice?
She touches her arm gently. “Thanks. The artist is a good friend of mine. If you ever want to get a tat, let me know. I can get you a special deal.”
Rollins laughs. “I don’t think Vee is exactly a tattoo kind of girl.”
I scowl at him. “I like tattoos. Why would you think I’m not into them?” I turn to Anna. “I used to have pink hair, you know. I only recently dyed it back because . . . because I was bored with it.”
I don’t know why I said that. I guess it’s because I feel out of place somehow. Anna and Rollins just look like they belong together with their piercings and tattoos. And then there’s me . . . former preppy cheerleader turned narcoleptic slider.
Anna nods politely. “Well, Rollins, I’ll catch you tomorrow night if I don’t see you before then.” She disappears into the crowd.
I stuff my hands into my pockets so Rollins won’t see how my fingernails are digging into my palms. “She seems nice,” I say in a strained voice.
“Oh, yeah. She’s really cool. Knows her music, too.”
“Oh.” I don’t dare say anything else, in case the jealousy I’m feeling will come through in my words. How can I be feeling jealous? This is Rollins, my best friend. Of course he can have another friend. He should have other friends. I’m so ridiculous sometimes.
But then I wonder, as I watch him slam his locker shut and head toward first period, what if he likes her as more than a friend? What would I do then?
The five-minute bell rings, saving me from my thoughts. I rush to my locker and grab my books for English class. As I reach into my backpack to grab a pen, my fingers brush against an old bottle of caffeine pills I stashed away for emergencies. I let my hand linger for just a moment and then pull it away.
My head throbs from lack of sleep. As Mrs. Winger works her way up and down the aisles, picking up homework, I feel my eyes droop.
“Look alive, Sylvia,” Mrs. Winger says, stopping at my desk. “Do you have the assignment?”
I open my folder and pretend to look through the papers, even though I know I didn’t do the work. I’d planned to do my homework while I listened to Rollins’s show, but I ended up falling asleep instead. Perhaps I could bring up the car accident for sympathy points. But, no, then everyone would just think I’m weirder than they already do. Add sleepdriving to my narcolepsy and I’m a Grade-A Freak.
“Sorry, Mrs. Winger. I must have left it at home.”
She shakes her head as though she doesn’t believe me and moves on to Samantha, who looks even worse than I feel. Her hair, usually perfectly straightened, is swept back in a messy ponytail. She’s not wearing any makeup, and there are huge circles beneath her eyes. Remembering how she was drunkenly singing in the back of Scotch’s car, I wonder just how hungover she is today. But Sam doesn’t just look dehydrated. She looks regretful or something. Her demeanor unsettles me, reminds me of how I felt the morning after the homecoming dance last year. I wonder if something happened to her. I wouldn’t put it past Scotch to take advantage of an inebriated girl. If Rollins hadn’t burst in on us in the locker room, who knows what would have happened?
“How about you, Samantha? Did you finish the assignment?” Mrs. Winger hovers over Samantha, tapping her foot.
Samantha doesn’t even pretend to look through her things. She just glares at Mrs. Winger wordlessly until the teacher gets uncomfortable and moves on. Sam must sense my eyes on her because she then levels her gaze at me. I don’t look away.
She continues to give me her patented death stare while I scoot into the empty desk between us so I can talk to her without Mrs. Winger, who has moved to the back of the room, hearing our conversation.
“Hey, Sam,” I say, using her nickname for the first time in ages. It feels strange on my tongue. “Everything okay?”
Samantha crosses her arms over her chest. “What do you care?”
I hesitate. Samantha was so out of it last night. Unless Scotch told her about our encounter, which I’m thinking is highly unlikely, she probably has no idea that I saw her in Scotch’s car. If I explain, I’ll have to tell her about the car crash, which I really don’t want people finding out about. But if I don’t tell her, I’ll just look really nosy.
In the end, I choose nosiness over freakishness.
“Did you have a rough night?” I ask, hoping to sound sympathetic.
She
