“Well, you’re going to have to because—”
Sam’s voice lowered an octave as she said, “Charity, I did not beg my parents to move you in here so you could sit in your room like a librarian and piss your life away.”
Damn it. She was bringing out the big guns.
“I’m studying for a test, though,” Charity whined. “That’s the opposite of pissing—”
“I could’ve left you in that tiny dorm room. Remember that place? Peeling paint, weird smell, probably mold in the closets. I could’ve let you huddle up in the corner, with all the other nerds, and listen to someone snoring all night. I could’ve, but I didn’t. Do you know why?”
“You secretly loathe me?”
“Because you can be cool. That’s why. You need to have friends, Charity. You need to be reminded to file your nails. And you need to get your ass to a few parties once in a while. Let me help you. Get up, get dressed, and let’s go!”
Samantha stomped from the room with hips and breasts flying, making a counterargument impossible.
Charity blew out her breath and leaned heavily against the desk. When Sam had decided the dorm rooms were too filthy, noisy, and cramped for her to contemplate staying there, not to mention the horror of the communal bathroom, she’d cried to her daddy to fix the situation. He had rented this modest house in downtown Santa Cruz. He could’ve afforded something much nicer, but the low-budget accommodations were supposed to teach his daughter a little humility.
Yeah, right. She’d used his credit card to deck out most of the place with quality and trendy furniture the likes of which Charity had never even touched before, let alone used.
Surprise of surprises, Sam had asked her assigned roommate, Charity, if she wanted to move with her. And while Charity hadn’t minded the size of the dorm room, its faded and peeling paint, or even the communal shower, she had minded the incessant buzz of conversation and drunken laughter, which had proven a distraction from her studies. Charity had promised her mother that she’d make something of herself, and by God, she would fulfill that promise if she did nothing else in the world.
Too bad the good fortune came with a price tag.
Samantha hadn’t only wanted Charity along because she thought she was cool. Not even because she was quiet, respectful, and cooked and cleaned like she was hired help. No, Sam had insisted on Charity’s tenancy because she was fascinated by a poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks. “Ethiopian poor,” Samantha had said as she glanced over Charity’s belongings, contained neatly in two thirteen-gallon garbage bags. Samantha just could not believe someone could live with empty closets, empty cupboards, a couple of pens, and a computer she got out of the lost and found.
Ultimately, how she’d gotten here didn’t matter. Charity was in bliss with her luck. She had a bedroom mostly to herself (guests used it, too), a big backyard to practice martial arts (which she’d always been strangely great at), and a clean kitchen.
Samantha knew all this, of course, and used it as her secret weapon when she really wanted something.
Damned foul play!
“Seriously, though,” Charity shouted, picking at her threadbare jeans and putting in a last-ditch effort to get Sam to relent, “I do actually have a test on Thursday. Plus, I don’t drink. How fun could I possibly be?” Into the ensuing silence, she yelled, “Spoiler alert: not fun at all!”
“There are plenty of other things to do besides drink…” came the disembodied reply.
“Like what?” Then it dawned on her. “I don’t do drugs, either. Super not fun. Happy with a pocket protector. Best left at home.”
“Donnie’s going to be there.”
Charity’s shaking head jerked to a stop. Fizzy excitement she couldn’t help bubbled up her middle.
First the big guns, then the low blow. That crush was so stupid, too. She couldn’t even talk to the guy. She stammered with a red face every time he said two words to her. God forbid he try for a conversation. He was too pretty for his own good. Too suave by half.
So why was she now contemplating going to a party she wouldn’t have any fun at, with a girl who would ignore her as soon as they got there, just to see him? She might as well pour paint on her head and label herself a social pariah.
Sam’s head popped into the doorway. “And he always looks good when he goes to parties,” she said with a mischievous grin.
“Fine, I’ll go,” Charity grumbled, hating herself for uttering the words. Hating Sam for making her.
She looked down at herself. One knee looked back up through the hole in her jeans. It wasn’t a trendy hole, either. It was a Kmart special hole in a pair of jeans so old they should’ve been shot and buried in the yard.