“Sorry. I’m almost done.”
“It’s cool. I don’t get it, but you like it,” Brody says as you put the Camuto back and pick up a square blue bottle of Versace. You can’t afford it, but you and the guys always used to smell it anyway, just to feel fancy.
“I like smelling good,” you say with a shrug.
Brody’s your best friend, but you can’t tell him—can’t tell anyone—about that awkward conversation with your piano teacher. You were twelve years old, and she told you that you were becoming a man and needed to start wearing deodorant, because it was winter and too cold to air out her practice studio between lessons.
So you like knowing for sure that you smell good. And you like it when girls compliment you on your scent.
Last week Mariana Herrera, this girl in German, leaned over and sniffed your collar like she couldn’t help herself, and it excited you so much you had to keep your hands in your lap, so you missedplacing your chips for BINGO (or LOTTO, as Frau calls it). Which sucked, because Frau was giving out real German chocolate to whoever won, which would’ve been an epic Halloween prize.
After she sniffed you, Mariana said you smelled nice.
Worth it.
So, yeah. You like smelling good for the girls. You like smelling like a man instead of a boy. Like sandalwood and lemon myrtle instead of Dove soap bars and strawberry-scented shampoo and baby powder.
Brody keeps eyeing the girls. He makes a show of scratching the back of his neck, flexing his bicep while acting like he’s not looking their way. But they’re not watching him at all.
He mutters an ugly word under his breath as he lets his arm fall.
You don’t call him on it, though. He doesn’t mean it. He’s just joking around. And it’s not like anyone but you hears him.
You, on the other hand, have basically sworn off cussing ever sincethe incident. You don’t need an accidental repeat, so best not to get in the habit.
You pick the Camuto back up. “I’m gonna do this one.” You’ve got Halloween money to spend on it. For some reason your parents always give you a card for Halloween, and some spending money, even though you don’t know anyone else whose parents do that.
“Good, ’cause you stink.” Brody throws his arm around your neck and gives you a shake and a quick “No homo.”
You laugh and shove him away, but not too hard, because you’re still in the middle of a Sephora and everything is stacked super precariously along the narrow aisles.
“Not as bad as you, my dude.” You wave your hand in front of your face. “You sure you didn’t fart back there?”
Brody’s grin cracks open into a laugh so big it shows his molars. You don’t often get a rise out of Brody, but when you do, you really do.
After, you and Brody pile into Marshall’s car. You begged him to take you both to Sephora—your mom and dad were too busy with whatever they do on weekends—and you’re still kind of surprised he agreed.
“Find what you needed?” Marshall asks as you buckle up. Brody’s behind you, but he leans forward.
“He must’ve tried every single bottle in there twice,” he says. “Even the sparkly pink ones.”
You roll your eyes, but Marshall looks at Brody in the mirror. “What’s wrong with sparkly pink things?”
Brody snaps his mouth shut and sits back. He’s quiet the rest of the ride, though he gives you a quick fist bump as he gets out of the car.
On the way home, you say, “Did you have to come at him like that? He was just joking around.”
“I know he’s your friend,” Marshall says. “But he doesn’t get to talk like that. My car, my rules.”
You cross your arms and bite your tongue.
Brody didn’t mean anything by it.
You wish your brother wasn’t so sensitive.
10FARSHID
In seventh hour on Monday, the unthinkable happens.
