orders. “I’ll give you a lift.”
I don’t know why, but I’m scared to get into her car. But standing here by the side of the road just looks stupid. So against my better instincts, I climb in.
Ivy’s car is small but muscly—and brand-spanking-new, I can tell just from the way the leather seat squeaks as I sit down. The bass from the sound system plasters my jeans against my legs. From all the girlie trinkets hanging from the rearview mirror, I’m guessing this car is her full-time ride.
Come to think of it, I remember hearing that her parents were pretty rich. Her father is a dentist, if I’m right, and her mother is an interior designer or something like that.
Spinning her wheels in the dirt, Ivy peels out onto the road. Since she doesn’t ask for directions, I assume she must know I live just up ahead. And at the speed she’s driving, I’ll be home in seconds.
“Cig?” she asks, shoving a pack in my face.
“No, thanks,” I answer, disgusted, though I feel lame somehow. “I quit,” I tell her, even though the truth is, I never started.
“Cal Harris off cigarettes? Wow—good luck with that,” she says. The remark surprises me, but she doesn’t notice. She drops the pack back into the yawning purse wedged between the seats. “Actually I shouldn’t smoke in the car anyway. Not until I put at least a thousand miles on it.”
“Yeah,” I reply, relieved. “It’ll ruin the new-car smell.”
She turns to me, removing her eyes from the hard bend we’re now taking at high speed. “You know, you look handsome even with dirt on your face,” she says.
Embarrassed, I wipe my face as Ivy turns her attention back to the road. My house is coming up. But Ivy doesn’t slow down; instead she floors it.
“Um, that was my house,” I tell her as it whips by.
“I know.”
“So why didn’t you stop?”
Ivy is now steering with an elbow. Flipping down the vanity mirror, she doesn’t answer but instead starts re-applying her lipstick. Her front tire misses a chipmunk by inches.
“Hello?” I say.
“Listen, Cal, I know you’re cute and all, but I didn’t cut class just to drive you half a mile,” she lectures.
“You’re cutting class?” I ask. “For what?”
“Didn’t you get my message asking if we were still on today?” Ivy asks.
“No,” I answer. “I didn’t even turn on the computer.”
“I figured. You’re just lucky I assumed you were waiting for me. You really need to get a new phone, like immediately.”
Waiting for her? I don’t know what Ivy’s talking about. “Where are we going?”
“To take care of your little errand,” she says. “It was today, wasn’t it? Today or tomorrow, I couldn’t remember.”
“My errand?”
“Don’t you remember? You asked for a lift last week.”
“Oh,” I reply. But I still have no idea what she’s talking about. I feel like I’m living in another world, in someone else’s body. My skin is tingling. My heart is racing.
But still, I don’t want to ruin things. As scary as this ride is, I’m enjoying it. How often do I bomb around in a sports car with an amazing-looking girl?
And I like watching Ivy drive. With her seat way back, the girl’s bare legs are completely outstretched, her calf muscles flexing every time she stomps the pedals—which, with her hell-bent driving style, is often.
“So you’re coming Friday night?”
“Where?” I manage to get out, throat clenched as we barely make a turn.
“To Becca’s house,” she says. “Her parents are away, so she’s having a party. It should be fun—she has a big house, man.”
“I don’t know.” Having heard neither about this party nor anyone named Becca, for that matter, I seriously doubt I’m invited.
“Well, you’re dumb to miss it,” she informs me. “Where else are you going to sell your stuff?”
Again, I’m not following. What stuff? The feeling of enjoyment is quickly evaporating. I feel stressed—I can’t keep this up. Why
I don’t know why, but I’m scared to get into her car. But standing here by the side of the road just looks stupid. So against my better instincts, I climb in.
Ivy’s car is small but muscly—and brand-spanking-new, I can tell just from the way the leather seat squeaks as I sit down. The bass from the sound system plasters my jeans against my legs. From all the girlie trinkets hanging from the rearview mirror, I’m guessing this car is her full-time ride.
Come to think of it, I remember hearing that her parents were pretty rich. Her father is a dentist, if I’m right, and her mother is an interior designer or something like that.
Spinning her wheels in the dirt, Ivy peels out onto the road. Since she doesn’t ask for directions, I assume she must know I live just up ahead. And at the speed she’s driving, I’ll be home in seconds.
“Cig?” she asks, shoving a pack in my face.
“No, thanks,” I answer, disgusted, though I feel lame somehow. “I quit,” I tell her, even though the truth is, I never started.
“Cal Harris off cigarettes? Wow—good luck with that,” she says. The remark surprises me, but she doesn’t notice. She drops the pack back into the yawning purse wedged between the seats. “Actually I shouldn’t smoke in the car anyway. Not until I put at least a thousand miles on it.”
“Yeah,” I reply, relieved. “It’ll ruin the new-car smell.”
She turns to me, removing her eyes from the hard bend we’re now taking at high speed. “You know, you look handsome even with dirt on your face,” she says.
Embarrassed, I wipe my face as Ivy turns her attention back to the road. My house is coming up. But Ivy doesn’t slow down; instead she floors it.
“Um, that was my house,” I tell her as it whips by.
“I know.”
“So why didn’t you stop?”
Ivy is now steering with an elbow. Flipping down the vanity mirror, she doesn’t answer but instead starts re-applying her lipstick. Her front tire misses a chipmunk by inches.
“Hello?” I say.
“Listen, Cal, I know you’re cute and all, but I didn’t cut class just to drive you half a mile,” she lectures.
“You’re cutting class?” I ask. “For what?”
“Didn’t you get my message asking if we were still on today?” Ivy asks.
“No,” I answer. “I didn’t even turn on the computer.”
“I figured. You’re just lucky I assumed you were waiting for me. You really need to get a new phone, like immediately.”
Waiting for her? I don’t know what Ivy’s talking about. “Where are we going?”
“To take care of your little errand,” she says. “It was today, wasn’t it? Today or tomorrow, I couldn’t remember.”
“My errand?”
“Don’t you remember? You asked for a lift last week.”
“Oh,” I reply. But I still have no idea what she’s talking about. I feel like I’m living in another world, in someone else’s body. My skin is tingling. My heart is racing.
But still, I don’t want to ruin things. As scary as this ride is, I’m enjoying it. How often do I bomb around in a sports car with an amazing-looking girl?
And I like watching Ivy drive. With her seat way back, the girl’s bare legs are completely outstretched, her calf muscles flexing every time she stomps the pedals—which, with her hell-bent driving style, is often.
“So you’re coming Friday night?”
“Where?” I manage to get out, throat clenched as we barely make a turn.
“To Becca’s house,” she says. “Her parents are away, so she’s having a party. It should be fun—she has a big house, man.”
“I don’t know.” Having heard neither about this party nor anyone named Becca, for that matter, I seriously doubt I’m invited.
“Well, you’re dumb to miss it,” she informs me. “Where else are you going to sell your stuff?”
Again, I’m not following. What stuff? The feeling of enjoyment is quickly evaporating. I feel stressed—I can’t keep this up. Why
Similar Books
