To say the statement came out of nowhere is putting it nicely, because I’ve never mentioned hiking to him, ever.
He sees my confusion, and it invites his laughter to grow. Fishing in his pocket for his cell, he pulls up something and clears his throat, like he’s about to give a speech.
To my horror, Jase begins listing off statistics about me like he’s reading off a resume.
A resume I’ve never submitted anywhere!
He notices the look on my face and spins the phone around to show me the app.
I loose a breath, but what I see does little to clarify my confusion. “Why were you looking me up in the student directory?”
Every incoming Freshman at Winterborn Prep had to fill out a questionnaire in some misguided attempt to create a “community.” The staff frequently updates your profile with any new achievements or adjustments in ranking, allowing the more academically gifted students to stalk rival GPAs and other stats. Yet, most classmates honestly treat it like a dating profile.
Between the fact that Blythe made clear back in middle school that my academic achievements amount to nothing in my house and that I’m not allowed to date until I turn sixteen, I rarely use the app, and it’s only to reach out to other students for group projects. As far as the profile is concerned, I haven’t updated anything since I was forced to create the account. Hell, even when I made it, I put in the least amount of thought humanly possible. Sure, the answers are true, but only in the loosest sense.
I admit as much, earning me another laugh from the goofball walking behind me. Jase is apparently tickled pink bymy responses, particularly my favorite pastimes claiming I love “becoming one with nature,” since we only officially met each other when nature came into my bedroom and tried pecking out my eyes. Also, you couldn’t get me to go camping even if you paid me.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think ‘hiding from my stepmom by fleeing the house’ and ‘counting down the days until graduation’ were the answers they were looking for,” I say, stepping back to give him a light shove. “And you still didn’t answer my question.”
Jase shrugs. “After our little Hitchcock introduction, you piqued my interest, but you’re not on social media.”
At this, I grin. “Oh, I’m on social media. Just not under the name everyone calls me.”
This definitely earns his attention, but not in a good way, if his expression is anything to go by. “Do you not like your name?”
“I like the anonymity online, and…kind of. I don’t know. It’s not that Idon’tlike the name Ali. It’s just that ninety percent of the time when I hear it, it’s from my stepmom, and she’s usually pissed off about something.”
Jase, assuming I’m using a variation of my full name, searches for the possibilities, but he doesn’t seem sold on any. Apparently, I don’t look like an Alex or Al or Ria or Andi, and his face scrunches up at the mere mention of “Lexi.”
“What’s wrong with that?” I ask.
“It’s a ‘hot’ girl’s name,” he says, so matter-of-factly.
Can you sayouch?I know my shortcomings, but he didn’t have to point it out like that, did he?
I try to not look offended, but I don’t think I do a very convincing job as I mumble, “Gee, thanks.”
“I don’t mean it like that, you goof.” Jase steps up beside me and playfully ruffles a hand through my hair. “It’s not a matter of whether or not she’s attractive. It’s that sheactslike she’s hotshit. All of the Lexis I’ve met are…” He mouths the final word, but I understand him just fine.
“NotallLexis are ‘bitchy,’” I argue.
“No,” he concedes, “justmost.”
I roll my eyes, but Jase isn’t ready to forfeit the conversation. Now, he’s more convinced than ever that I may secretly be a Lexi. So, of course, I neither confirm nor deny it.
He drums his fingers against his chin. “Or maybe…you’re more like me than I thought.”
“Meaningwhat?”
“Maybe you’re a middle-namer…” Jase tries to come up with every variation of Elizabeth as he can, but I’m not listening anymore. Not with the remark he just oh-so-casually threw out there.
“Is Jase really not your first name?” I blurt.
We’ve been going to the same schools for how many years, and everyone hasalwayscalled him Jase.
He sighs, like the admission physically hurts. “I’m actually Michael Jason Rivers Jr., but even as a kid, I hated the name. Whenever my mom would call out for ‘Mike’ or ‘Michael,’ my dad and I were never sure who she was talking to, and I hate ‘Mikey’ and ‘Junior’ even more than I do ‘Lexi.’ The only time I’m ever called Michael is when I do something wrong.”
“Well, I’ll be calling you that permanently if you tell anyone what I’m about to show you,” I say, nodding over to our right. Even through the dense brush, I can see the river. We’ve long passed the country club, having trudged all the way up the incline so that we’re almost level with the top of the waterfall. Batting through the thicket, we step out on a rocky hillside, and I order Jase to follow exactly where I place my feet.
