Nope.
He embarrassed and ghosted me. So what? As far as I’m concerned, Jase Rivers doesn’t exist.
And if I keep telling myself that, maybe I’ll eventually believe it.
Walking into school on our first day of sophomore year, I find my plans and composure blowing up like Mentos in a liter of coke. I’m not even through the front doors when someone lets out a wolf whistle. I look over my shoulder to see it came from Patrick, but thank God he’s not looking at me.
Nope, all eyes are on Jase as he pulls into the parking lot.
His birthday was just a couple of days ago, and it appears his parents changed their minds about a certain sweet sixteen present because he’s driving a car that sure as hell isn’t the hand-me-down BMW.
I don’t know much about classic muscle cars, but from what Jase told me, I can assume it’s a 1970s Chevelle since it’s identical to the model that Tom Cruise drove inJackReacher, save for the fact that it’s black instead of red. It’s beautiful, and, of course, he looks perfectly at home behind the wheel.
He may be the embodiment of Tom, but right about now, I’m feeling a little more on the Carrie Underwood side because the urge to take a Louisville slugger to his headlights grows after having to watch Sienna climb out of the passenger seat.
I turn and head inside the building before Jase ever has the chance to see me amid the crowd of students, and I’m all too happy to discover that I don’t share First Period with any of the Untouchables. I don’t really know anyone that well from the class, so I sit quietly in the corner, either jotting in my notebook or drawing little pictures in the margins at the top of the page. Even though I may not be gossiping with the other girls, I’m still privy to the conversations around me…
And something’s going on.
Everyone’s phones continue going off throughout the hour, and two girls practically burst into tears before racing out of the room.
I chalk it up to your usual high school relationship drama until the bell rings. Exiting the classroom, I honestly have towonder if someone died. More and more girls are crying, and they’re not your run-of-the-mill drama queens. Mia from the debate team, Sophie from the neuroscience club, Prue from creative writing; they’re your average bookish sophomores, always really sweet, and all currently sobbing.
A field of red flags goes up in my mind as I also notice all of the popular girls congregating around Sienna’s locker, every last one snickering at the scene playing out in the hallway.
When a guy from the football team comes around the corner, one of the girls who ran out of class bursts into tears again and takes off down the hall away from him. The same word keeps circulating amongst the conversations, not making any sense given the context.
“Well, there she is.”Sienna’s sugary-sweet voice rakes over my skin like an ice pick, and I wish I had one so I could jam it in my ears just to escape the sound. She begins to slow-clap, bringing the entire hallway to a standstill. I keep my locker door open, using it as a shield to block her from view. That doesn’t deter her, because I’m elbowed in the bicep hard enough to knock me off balance as Sienna uses her other arm to shut the locker in my face. Still, she’s smiling at me as sweetly as a girl scout. “I just wanted to say no hard feelings.”
Huh?
“We talked it over and figured a ‘finder’s fee’ seemed fair for the dogfight.” Sienna reaches into her purse and pulls out a wad of hundred dollar bills. “For your troubles.”
A chorus of laughter from the girls mixes with the groans from the guys as Sienna holds out the money to me. There has to be three thousand dollars in her hand, minimum.
I just stare at the stack like it’s a venomous snake, not moving. When she sees I’m not going to take it, she grabs the front of my shirt and shoves the roll of money down my collar.
“Maybe now you’ll have something to fill out that bra,” she snickers, flouncing past me.
I have no idea what’s happening, but every last eye in the hallway is on me, the expressions ranging from amusement to annoyance to pity. One of the jocks begins imitating a dog, and within seconds, mock barking fills the corridor. I struggle to shove my way through the crowd but eventually escape it as I take refuge in the first available bathroom, ducking into a stall.
When I hear “dogfight” mentioned for the fifth time, I have to pull out my phone to see if there’s some new slang definition I’m unfamiliar with.
It’s worse.
It’s a reference to an old River Phoenix movie by the same name, otherwise known as “The Ugly Date Contest.”
I don’t even have to look up the official rules to understand it, because a mass text message containing a screenshot of this very thing was sent out sometime during class.
Just like the dozen other girls out in the hallway, my eyes fill with tears as I read about this so-called challenge:
Gentlemen of Winterborn Prep,
We cordially invite you to an exclusive dogfight. Buy-in is $1,000. The objective: Find the ugliest girl in our class and ask her out on a date. She cannot be aware of the contest, and you must seal the end of the date with a kiss. Contest ends August 16th. Whichever lucky man bags the ugliest girl this summer wins the cash prize. Happy hunting!”
“I guess the football, basketball, and lacrosse teams were all in on it,” says a girl in front of the sink to her friend. “Makessense now why Brendan was flirting with Jocelyn all throughout the Italy trip.”
I reach into my shirt and fish out the wad of money, counting out forty-five hundred dollars.
