“Also easy. Blame Patch.”
Vee’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. She adjusted it for a better look at her teeth. She licked them, giving a practiced smile. “I have to admit, his dark side calls to me.”
I had no desire to admit it, but Vee wasn’t alone. I felt drawn to Patch in a way I’d never felt drawn to anyone. There was a dark magnetism between us. Around him, I felt lured to the edge of danger. At any moment, it felt like he could push me over the edge.
“Hearing you say that makes me want to—” I paused, trying to think of exactly what our attraction to Patch did make me want to do. Something unpleasant.
“Tell me you don’t think he’s good-looking,” Vee said, “and I promise I’ll never bring up his name again.”
I reached to turn on the radio. Of all things, there had to be something better to do than ruin our evening by inviting Patch, albeit abstractly, into it. Sitting beside him for one hour every day, five days a week, was plenty more than I could take. I wasn’t giving him my evenings, too.
“Well?” Vee pressed.
“He could be good-looking. But I’d be the last to know. I’m a tainted juror on this one, sorry.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I can’t get beyond his personality. No amount of beauty could make up for it.”
“Not beauty. He’s … hard-edged. Sexy.”
I rolled my eyes.
Vee honked and tapped her brake as a car pulled in front of her. “What? You disagree, or rough-and-roguish isn’t your type?”
“I don’t have a type,” I said. “I’m not that narrow.”
Vee laughed. “You, babe, are more than narrow—you’re confined. Cramped. Your spectrum is about as wide as one of Coach’s microorganisms. There are very few, if any, boys at school you would fall for.”
“That’s not true.” I said the words automatically. It wasn’t until I’d spoken them that I wondered how accurate they were. I had never been seriously interested in anyone. How weird was I? “It isn’t about the boys, it’s about … love. I haven’t found it.”
“It isn’t about love,” Vee said. “It’s about fun.”
I lifted my eyebrows, doubtful. “Kissing a guy I don’t know—I don’t care about—is fun?”
“Haven’t you been paying attention in bio? It’s about a lot more than kissing.”
“Oh,” I said in an enlightened voice. “The gene pool is warped enough without me contributing to it.”
“Want to know who I think would be really good?”
“Good?”
“Good,” she repeated with an indecent smile.
“Not particularly.”
“Your partner.”
“Don’t call him that,” I said. “‘Partner’ has a positive connotation.”
Vee squeezed into a parking space near the library doors and killed the engine. “Have you ever fantasized about kissing him? Have you ever stolen a peek sideways and imagined flinging yourself at Patch and crushing your mouth to his?”
I stared at her with a look I hoped spoke appalled shock. “Have you?”
Vee grinned.
I tried to imagine what Patch would do if presented with this information. As little as I knew about him, I sensed his aversion to Vee as if it were concrete enough to touch.
“He’s not good enough for you,” I said.
She moaned. “Careful, you’ll only make me want him more.”
Inside the library we took a table on the main level, near adult fiction. I opened my laptop and typed: The Sacrifice, two and a half stars. Two and a half was probably on the low side. But I had a lot on my mind and wasn’t feeling particularly equitable.
Vee opened a bag of dried apple chips. “Want some?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
She peered into the bag. “If you’re not going to eat them, I’ll have to. And I really don’t want to.”
Vee was on the color-wheel fruit diet. Three red fruits a day, two blue, a handful of green …
She held up an apple chip, examining it front to back.
“What color?” I asked.
“Make-me-gag-Granny-Smith-green. I think.”
Just then Marcie Millar, the only sophomore to make varsity cheerleading in the history of Coldwater High, took a seat on the edge of our table. Her strawberry blond hair was combed into low pigtails, and like always, her skin was concealed under half a bottle of foundation. I was fairly certain I’d guessed the right amount, since there wasn’t a trace of her freckles in sight. I hadn’t seen any of Marcie’s freckles since seventh grade, the same year she discovered Mary Kay. There was three-quarters of an inch between the hem of her skirt and the start of her underwear … if she was even wearing any.
“Hi, Supersize,” Marcie said to Vee.
“Hi, Freakshow,” Vee said back.
“My mom is looking for models this weekend. The pay is nine dollars an hour. I thought you’d be interested.”
Marcie’s mom manages the local JCPenney, and on weekends she has Marcie and the rest of the cheerleaders model bikinis in the store’s street-facing display windows.
“She’s having a really hard time finding plus-size lingerie models,” said Marcie.
“You’ve got food stuck in your teeth,” Vee told Marcie. “In the crack between your two front teeth. Looks like chocolate Ex-Lax …”
Marcie licked her teeth and slid off the table. As she sashayed off, Vee stuck her finger in her mouth and made gagging gestures at Marcie’s back.
“She’s lucky we’re at the library,” Vee told me. “She’s lucky we didn’t cross paths in a dark alley. Last chance—any chips?”
“Pass.”
Vee wandered off to discard the chips. A few minutes later she returned with a romance novel. She took the seat next to me and, displaying the novel’s cover, said, “Someday this is going to be us. Ravished by half-dressed cowboys. I wonder what it’s like to kiss a pair of sunbaked, mud-crusted lips?”
“Dirty,” I murmured, typing away.
“Speaking of dirty.” There was an unexpected rise in her voice. “There’s our guy.”
I stopped typing long enough to peer over my laptop, and my heart skipped a beat. Patch stood across the room in the checkout line. As if he sensed me watching, he turned. Our eyes locked for one, two, three counts. I broke away first, but not before receiving a slow grin.
My heartbeat turned erratic, and I told myself to pull it together. I was not going down this path. Not with Patch. Not unless I was out of my mind.
“Let’s go,” I told Vee. Shutting my laptop, I zipped it inside its carrying case. I pushed my books inside my backpack, dropping a few on the floor as I did.
Vee said, “I’m trying to read the title he’s holding … hang on … How to Be a Stalker.”
“He is not checking out a book with that title.” But I wasn’t sure.
“It’s either that or How to Radiate Sexy Without Trying.”
“Shh!” I hissed.
“Calm down, he can’t hear. He’s talking to the librarian. He’s checking out.”