hair knotted, raccoon eyes—and giggled again. I looked like a goth model. I sucked in my cheeks and attempted a serious, model-like pose.
“What’s up, Zoolander?” I said aloud, splashing water on my face. I was in too good of a mood this morning.
My attempts to wash my face just ended up in streaking mascara all over the place, so I hopped into the shower, turned on the pink plastic shower radio and sang along to a Paramore song, scrubbing my face.
Slipping into my worn plaid bathrobe, I pulled my wet hair back with a large clip, and opened the door to find a giddy Ashley standing there. I was not expecting to see anything but the short hallway back to my room—so I screamed.
She screamed back.
“What the— You can’t just do that to people!” I huffed, leaning against the door frame.
“Sorry! I forgot that you had a cell phone now and I could just call you! I was afraid Christine would give me the third degree about you and Cisco if I called the apartment.”
“Ashley, for the last time, me and Cisco are not—”
“Whatever,” she interrupted, “I had to tell you the good news in person anyway.” She was a little waterfall, overflowing with good cheer. Ashley practically skipped back to my room, her high red ponytail bouncing on the top of her head like a genie. I saw my aunt, savoring her morning coffee in the kitchen. “Hold on a second,” I told Ashley.
“Aunt Christine, thank you so much for the cell phone,” I said, giving her a big hug. She hugged me back, a little more tightly than she usually did, then returned to her usual stiff demeanor.
“Well, I couldn’t have you be the only one running around town without one,” she sniffed.
“I love it. Thanks.”
“Well, you’re welcome. Did you have fun?”
“Yes,” I said, beaming.
“Good. I’m glad. Now go see what your cousin wants. That child is persistent when she wants something!” Aunt Christine laughed.
I trotted in to see Ashley, my slippers making a soft “swish, swish” sound on the floor.
“Okay, so I totally want to hear about your night, but first—oh, my God.” She giggled. “Remember how we were talking about Anthony?”
Before I could scream in protest, Ashley continued, “Well, he messaged me on Facebook again and asked for my number!”
I noticed she was tightly clutching her cell phone in her hand. Waiting to answer the second he called, no doubt.
Anthony? I braced myself to cut her daydreams off at the knees.
“Ash, I have to tell you something.” I sat down on the bed and looked at her. Well, I looked at her sneaker-clad feet. All along, she’d been so excited for me, and so supportive of me, and here I was, about to crush her new crush.
I quickly—and as kindly as I could—relayed what I observed the night before. Her jaw dropped so far, I thought it might fall in her lap.
“He’s not a good guy,” I said gently. “I don’t think you should talk to him anymore.”
“Maybe it’s a different Anthony,” Ashley mumbled.
“It’s a small school,” I reasoned. “How many guys in the junior class are blond basketball players named Anthony?”
“Maybe Frank started it,” she suggested hopefully, biting her lip.
“Not from where I was standing,” I said softly. “Regardless, it seemed like Anthony’s a little quick with his hands. I think he might be trying to play you, Ash. I’m sorry.”
“Well, I don’t agree.” Ashley raised her chin defiantly. “Are you sure you’re not just overreacting, because of…well, you know. What you went through?”
I considered the Henry effect for a second. Sure, Anthony was arrogant and ready to punch a guy out at a moment’s notice, but did I really want to put him in the same category as a raging drunk who had no problem backhanding me when I mouthed off?
“I can see where you think I’m overreacting,” I conceded warily. “But just understand that I also have some experience in this area. I think you should be extremely careful around him,” I warned.
“Okay, whatever,” she said, sticking out her bottom lip in a pout. I felt awful. To her, he was so hot, one of the best athletes at the school and definitely one of the “cool” guys at Vince A, whatever that meant. And he had singled her out, a freshman, for attention. And I had to come and rip her little wonderland to shreds.
“Well, tell me about your night.” Ashley sighed, resigned. She flopped into my desk chair and longingly stroked my sticker-covered laptop—a present from Aunt Christine. She probably wanted to open it and log on to Facebook, I realized.
“Did you get to make a love connection with Cisco?” she asked petulantly.
“We’re just friends, Ashley,” I began. “But, that hoodie you’re leaning against—” I paused dramatically “—it’s Brendan Salinger’s.”
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