“Um, okay? With what? Scientifically gathered evidence?”
“No. Maybe. You’re joining my slumber-party club.”
I sputter laughter that I try to cover with a cough. “Your what?”
“My slumber-party club. Well, it’s not an official club. Hannah would kill me if I actually called us that,” she says. “You left all that hay in her locker last year, because your friends decided she looked like a horse. Remember?”
Oh damn. She just called me out. My stomach tenses. It was a sort of asshole thing to do. It was just a joke at the time, but something about the memory makes me uneasy. “That wasn’t me.”
She doesn’t flinch. “Amanda saw you.”
“Who’s Amanda?” I ask.
She grins, but it’s too polite to be genuine. “Amanda sees lots of things. But you’ll know her when you see her. Anyway, tonight is Ellen’s turn to host. I think y’all used to work together.”
“No,” I tell her. “No thank you. Definitely not.” I have no interest in seeing Ellen Dryver. No one ditches Callie Reyes. Except for Ellen Dryver apparently.
“You can’t say something like what you said about nothing in this town being real without giving me the chance to prove you wrong.”
“I’m grounded,” I tell her. “Remember?”
“For now,” she says.
I roll my eyes, but she’s already hard at work printing membership applications.
After work, Mom is late like she said she’d be, so I plop down on the curb and wait.
“Where’s your ride?” asks Millie.
“Late.”
She lowers herself down beside me. “I’ll wait with you.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
“Well, I do unnecessary things all the time.”
I pull out my phone and scroll through my various social media accounts. It’s moments like these that I’m happier than I can even describe to have my phone back. No awkward small talk with Millie Michalchuk. No thank you.
The first thing on my feed is a real killjoy though.
Melissa Gutierrez checked into Clay Dooley Dodge Service Department with Bryce Dooley, Sam Crawford, and Jill Royce. COME ON DOWN TO OUR CAR WASH, Y’ALL! HELP GET THE SHAMROCKS TO STATE!
I shove the phone in my back pocket. Maybe I was better off without technology. That’s fine. I can sit here silently forever. I’ve spent the whole afternoon with this girl. My capacity for small talk is more than depleted.
Millie leans back, bracing herself with her palms pressed into the sidewalk. If she’s annoyed by my blatant decision to ignore her, she doesn’t show it.
Finally, my mom pulls into the parking lot and I pounce up from the sidewalk as fast as I can, trying to avoid any interaction between my mom and Millie. Honestly, Millie’s the kind of girl who you just know is parental crack. She’s cheerful, polite, and fat. A parent’s dream come true for their daughter’s BFF. There’s no way anyone is getting into trouble with Millie.
But it’s too late. My mom has already rolled down the window. “Is that Millicent?” she calls.
Oh, shit.
“Yes, ma’am,” calls Millie as she pushes herself up from where we were sitting on the curb. “Is that my favorite school secretary?”
“Callie,” my mom says, “can you believe that last fall on Secretary’s Day, Millie and her mom brought me that sweet little cactus I keep on my desk? They even knittedsweet little seasonally appropriate cozy-looking things for the pot.”
I shake my head and climb in the front seat. “Yup,” I say. “Totally believe it.”
