Her smile fades. “For real, though. Why is thisHigh School Musicalfantasy so important to you? In a year, we’ll both be at Columbia, and this will all be behindus.”
My tea is set in front of me, and I reach for it. “She doesn’t get to decide who has a voice, on stage or anywhereelse.”
Pen follows me back to our table. “So, how’d you get here if they fucked up yourride?”
“Tyler fixed it.” I glance at her empty mug. “Do you want another Americano to get throughcalc?”
Hands grip my arms, and in a second, I’m looking straight into my friend’s dark, dancing eyes. “No, I do not want another Americano. I want to know in what world Tyler Adams was elbow deep in yourbusiness.”
Penelope’s smart. Like, next level. She’s the head of debate team and the newspaper, she’s taking all AP courses, and she doesn’t miss abeat.
Her dad moved here from Shanghai and met her mom at UCLA before they came to Texas. Mr. Wang knows my stepmom because Haley’s in softwaretoo.
“When was the last time you and Mr. Pool House talked about something other than who ate the last Cheerios?” shepresses.
“Fourmonths.”
“Which is weird given you’ve been living together for the better part of a semester and you were friends beforethat.”
Yes, we were friends. Or whatever you call it when you hang with someone incessantly, argue over bands until three in the morning, and take over diner booths across an entire city on an epic quest to find the best cheesefries.
When I met Tyler, he was part of a community outreach program at my dad’s label in Philly for kids from troubledbackgrounds.
He was talented and gorgeous, but none of that was what attracted me tohim.
There was a deeperpull.
I knew Tyler had seen some shit the way you can tell when another person’s been through it. Still, anytime I asked about his family, he shut medown.
When my dad finished the album, we moved back to Dallas, but Tyler and I stayedfriends.
“Remember when he moved here from Philly to work with your dad and everyone at school lost their designershitover him?” Pen muses. “Oakwood should’ve eaten him alive, but theydidn’t.”
And that’s what I hate the most. The boy I trusted, my partner in crime during one of the most tumultuous periods of my life, traded my friendship fortheirs.
“The whole thing was messed up from the start,” I admit. “Tyler showed up at our house. My dad said they’d be working together on music with Tyler living in our pool house and finishing senior year at Oakwood. Zero additionalexplanation.”
I go on at her raised brows. “I was so thrilled he was here that I let the weirdness slide. That was my first mistake. Do not, I repeat, donotlet the weirdnessslide.”
I take a sip of my tea, and Pen scrunches up her face. “But he’s not an asshole to you like the others are. So, why did you stop talking to him?” Her dark brows pulltogether.
The night at Carly’s birthday party comes back to me in arush.
I remember the way he’d looked at me when we were alone, as if I was the only person who mattered—right before he humiliatedme.
“She’s nothing.Nobody.”
“It doesn’t matter, Pen. I’m over it.” I reach into my black leather bag for my schoolbooks. We have a history test Friday, calculus is a never-ending nightmare, and there’s a poetry assignment breathing down my neck. I love writing but wish I didn’t have to do all the other craptoo.
“But you liked him before he was cool,” she insists. “He looks like Adam Levine fucked Paul Rudd and, through some miracle of modern science, theyreproduced.”
I shift in my seat. “Accurate.”
My friend grins. “You should write him alimerick.”
“There once was a prince of a clique. His guitar was prettyslick…”
“If this ends with a punchline about his dick, I’m going todie.”