Since my very public breakup with Bryce and getting booted from the Shamrocks, I’ve spent my last few weeks of lunch periods in my mom’s office. But today she’s kicked me out, which should come as no surprise. She swears it’s tough love. I swear it’s rude.
I carry my lunch and hurt feelings out to the courtyard adjacent to the cafeteria, and for the first time in my life, I search for a place to eat. Today has been... interesting. While there’s been some talk about who penned the list and even a few knowing glances, everyoneseems more concerned with what’s on the list rather than where it came from. Of course I know there’s a chance of my secret getting out, too, but at this point, I don’t have much left to lose.
With only six weeks left in the school year, our very short-lived Texas spring is melting away in favor of much more summery weather. It’s the time of year when people are starting to get restless and rowdy. Girls (many of whom I once called friends) are spread out on the grass, soaking up the sun, while many of the guys are roughhousing with one another and playing with their food more than actually eating it. And of course a select few Shamrocks are missing in action as they assess their own personal damages.
The moment the door to the cafeteria swings shut behind me, I feel like all eyes have turned to me. No one makes a move to invite me to sit with them. Instead, they all wait to see where I dare land.
And then Millie—mother-freaking Millie!—stands up at the table where she and Amanda sit in a shaded corner that’s often left alone, because with the giant tree, you run a real risk of being shit on by a bird. She waves me over with both hands.
I scan the courtyard once more quickly as I recall the conversation I had with her just last night outside my house after I wallpapered the main hallways. And then I remember painting Amanda’s nails over the weekend. I like both of them. A lot. And that feeling leads to a twinge of embarrassment, which angers me more than anything else.
I roll my shoulders back and stand a little straighter, and then I walk straight over to Millie and Amanda’s bird-shit table.
I block out all the whispers and all the looks. I’m Calista Alejandra Reyes and I’m untouchable, dammit.
“Y’all mind if I join you?” I ask the two of them when I reach their table.
Millie grins, and Amanda puts down the book she’s reading and says, “That would be de-lightful.”
Later that day, as I’m walking to seventh period, Patrick Thomas stops me in the hallway. Mitch isn’t far behind him.
“I’d be careful at that lunch table you chose today.”
I tilt my head to the side and decide to briefly humor him. “Oh yeah. Why’s that?”
He snorts like a pig. “Millie might get confused and think you’re her second course.”
I cross my arms over my chest and look at him for a long moment. “Patrick, someday when we’ve all moved on and graduated, you’ll still be here in this town, cracking the same old jokes. The only difference is no one will be laughing, because eventually everyone you know will learn what I’ve known all along.”
“Okay,” he says, taking the bait. “And what’s that, Miss Hot Shit Callie?”
“You’re a bully, and no one likes a bully. No one. You’ll have no one left to laugh at your horribly unfunny jokes. And another thing: Millie will achieve more with her babytoe than you’ll do with your entire life, so you can rinse your damn mouth out, because you’re not even worthy of speaking her name.”
I hear a couple ofooooooos from other students, and I walk away, brushing shoulders with Mitch. “Time to find some new friends,” I tell him, without stopping for a second.
By the end of the week, sitting with Millie and Amanda at lunch is no longer newsworthy. Sure, I still get a few funny looks, and every single Shamrock practically hisses when I come within six feet of her, but it’s not like any of those people are rushing to invite me to sit with them, so I officially give zero shits.
And not for nothing, but the more my mom notices me settling into a groove with my new friends, the more she eases up on the whole grounded thing. She hasn’t even brought up the Shamrock flyer incident since Wednesday night, when she told me one last time how disappointed she was. In fact, I’ve even started riding to work with Millie after school. We stop at Sonic (I get a watermelon cream slush and she gets a cherry limeade slush), and then Millie takes me home when we close at seven.
That Friday after school, as we settle into work with our Sonic drinks, Mitch walks in wearing navy-blue athletic shorts and a gold Clover City High phys ed T-shirt.
“Hey,” I say. “Welcome back.”
“I was wondering if you still worked here,” says Mitch.
“What? I’m here every afternoon.”
“Ahh, well, I know that now. I’d started coming in the morning before school, but Millie—hi, Millie!”
She peeks her head out of the office and not so discreetly winks at me. “Heya, Mitch!”
He grins widely. “Anyway, Millie let me know that you only work after school and sometimes on Saturdays.”
I glance back at the office, willing my eyes into lasers. “Did she now?”
“Well, now that I know your schedule, I can plan my week accordingly.”
“Oh, really?”
