I suck in a deep breath and paint on a smile before turning around. “Oh, what’s up, Brandy?”
“Nothing, I was just passing by to check on Phat.” She bounces on her heels and smiles too big. “I’m surprised you’re still on campus. You usually jet after practice.”
I nod, biting the corner of my lip and glancing at Phat, but she’s already burying her head in another magazine I didn’t see her snatch from the rack beside the counter.
I tear my eyes off her and narrow them at Brandy because her voice reminds me of LA. There’s faux familiarity in it as if we talk every day when we only ever text about bullshit when I’m downing 1942 and in the mood for Phat. Even her face reminds me of LA. The lack of skepticism in her eyes when she beelined toward me in the back of the auditorium last week was too familiar and she smiles like all the women Mom told me I could fuck but couldn’t bring home—the jersey chasers. They were the second girls Mom taught me about right after she taught me about perfect ones.
“Yeah, I had to stop and get my fix before I head to the crib.”
“More candy?”
“Yeah.” I swallow as she steps closer.
“Chick-O-Sticks today?”
“Yeah...”
“Nice! I love those too.”
Phat huffs out a soft noise like she knows Brandy is a jersey chaser, too. The problem is that we don’t know which kind she is—a wannabe WAG or a groupie. There’s a difference. Wannabe WAGS want you stuck with them for a lifetime. Groupies only want you for a moment.
Brandy takes another step forward with an eagerness on her butterscotch face, like she finally had me cornered because I never texted her back.
“No text back and no follow back on Insta.” She smirks. “I’m starting to think this thing me and you have is one-sided.”
I swear I hear another soft noise come from the back of Phat’s throat, but Brandy’s eyes keep burning into my face as if she didn’t hear it at all.
“Me and Insta don’t get along.”
There wasn’t any social media app I got along with because the world wouldn’t let it happen.
“I guess I should take back all those late night likes and comments on your two-year-old thirst traps then, huh?”
“I mean, if that’s how you feel.”
All of my clever one-liners got lost in the space between me and Phat, but jersey chasers don’t care about that. Their sole existence revolves around coming up with the most clever way to get the jersey’s attention. It’s an art that I know too well.
“You still park in the garage over on Frost?” she asks.
“Nah... not today. I, uh, parked way out in Lot E.”
“Oh, perfect. I’m headed out that way to the rec center. Want some company on your hike?”
I notice her teal sports bra and yoga pants for the first time. Even the dainty ring she has dangling from her bellybutton doesn’t make thisrandomencounter exciting.
“Oh, nah. I know you have to check in on Pha—”
“She looks good to me. She’s got her magazine and snacks… as usual.”
“I—uh yeah. Just let Phat finish ring—”
“No need,” Phat rasps from behind me.
When I whip around to get one last look at her fat cheeks, I catch her eyes rolling, but she straightens them up in time to plaster a smile like mine on her face.
“Here.” She holds a plastic bag of my candy from her index finger. “Have fun.”
I fold my lips under my teeth and bite down because it’s the only way I know how to check myself these days.
