The Predicteds by Christine Seifert Page B

realize she’s actually sort of amazing, with curves in all the right places. Even with those pigtails, she can pull off a bikini in a way that I could only imagine. I try not to act too surprised when Dizzy twirls around.
    â€œWhen does pool season begin?” I ask.
    â€œOh, not until May, probably. Josh is having a pool party for his birthday then, and if you don’t get a suit early, all the good ones are gone. Come on,” Dizzy says after she pays for the little brown swimsuit with a credit card. “Let’s get food.”
    We get pizza slices—glossy-looking pieces that have obviously been under a heat lamp for hours—and look for a place to sit in the tiny and crowded mall food court, a depressing circle of chairs and tables beside a foul-smelling waterfall. It’s almost three o’clock, but there’s no sign of the lunch rush dying down. The few chairs are loaded with Quiet High people, and many of them rush over to Dizzy to greet her or chat with her, so it takes us a long time to finally sit down at a table in the corner, right beside the window that overlooks the vast parking lot of The Mall. Is the lot ever full? I wonder. Where would that many people come from?
    Dizzy talks a lot—and it’s all frustratingly fast and incredibly loud. I have to be quick if I want to jump in and get something out before Dizzy interrupts. She’s not trying to dominate the conversation or anything—she’s just the type of person who has so much to say that she can’t manage to keep her mouth shut for very long. After much chatting about pool parties, she switches topics with no warning. “So do you have a boyfriend at your old school? Are you a virgin?” she asks, without the slightest hesitation. My jaw drops.
    â€œNo, no boyfriend,” I say, ignoring the virgin question. “I went out with a few guys here and there. Nothing special. Just dinners, a couple of movies, that kind of thing.”
    Dizzy laughs until she chokes on her rubber pepperoni. “That’s so old school! Dinner dates!” She turns to the people sitting next to us—two women with small children. “A dinner date!” she tells them. “Can you believe it?” They move their children closer to their table.
    What I don’t tell Dizzy is this: I’ve never met a guy that I could see myself being with for more than a few hours. Nobody has ever caught my attention in that way.
    â€œI’m a make-out slut,” Dizzy tells me in a softer voice. “I have a running tally.” She pulls a notebook out of her giant pink purse and slaps it on the table. Names neatly written in different colors of ink litter the page.
    â€œWow!” I say loudly. One of the little kids starts to cry.
    Dizzy slams her hand down on our table, sending plastic silverware bouncing off our plates. “Thirty-three just this year!” she yells with glee, and the kid cries harder. The mother shoots us an irritated look.
    â€œWhat about Josh? You were with him at the diner.”
    â€œEh,” she says. “We’re on-again, off-again. We’re not like some of the couples at Quiet High. Old married people.” She makes barfing noises. “What do you think of Sam?” she asks suddenly.
    I shrug. “I don’t know. Seems okay, I guess.”
    â€œAlmost every girl at QH has a thing for Sam Cameron, but he’s pretty particular about who he hooks up with. Brooklyn is pretty lucky,” she says. “I know girls who would kill to be in her pointy pageant shoes.”
    I refrain from saying that Sam can’t be too picky if he’s with Brooklyn. “You act like Sam is a celebrity.”
    â€œHe sort of is. He’s Sam Cameron. Every school has a guy like him. He’s our very own Brad Pitt.”
    â€œSam’s not really my type,” I say, surprising myself. I am not really aware that I have a type until the words come out