Tell Me Three Things by Julie Buxbaum

Author:Julie Buxbaum [Buxbaum, Julie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
ISBN: 9780553535648
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2016-04-05T06:00:00+00:00

I look over at Caleb again, try to imagine SN’s words coming out of that guy’s mouth, try to picture him making as romantic a gesture as tucking my hair behind my ears. Him understanding that touching my hair requires a certain amount of intimacy. No, the image doesn’t work. Instead, I picture Caleb as a future frat president, the type to yell at his pledge to chug a beer. SN’s probably not Kilimanjaro gray T-shirt boy then. But who the hell is he?

—

“I’m drunk,” I tell Dri and Agnes.

“You’ve already told us,” Dri says. “Like a million times.”

“Sorry. Apparently, I’m the type of drunk who likes to let other people know,” I say.

“It’s charming,” Agnes says, in her typical dry way. “I’m a little drunk too. Though not as sloppy as you.”

“I’m not sloppy,” I say. I look down. Am I sloppy? Everything seems to still be in place except my mind, which is rolling around in my head. I’ve gotten drunk before, though usually alone with Scarlett. I guess my tolerance is two Agnes Specials.

“You’re both sloppy,” Dri says. She throws her arms around our necks, which I’m grateful for because it helps me with my balance.

“Do you think it’s possible to have a crush on two people at once?” I ask, which is one of those embarrassing questions I would never ask sober. Maybe I should never drink again.

“Totally. I’m usually into, like, five guys at a time,” Agnes says. “I like to keep it varied. Optimize my chances.”

“So who do you like? SN, obvi, but who else? Please, please don’t say Liam.”

I’m about to say it out loud, tell her Ethan, and finally get the entire scoop since I know Dri is not the type to withhold details: she’ll tell me his life story, what he was like in sixth grade, whether he has a girlfriend, whether he’s a d-bag. Maybe she’ll even help angle us closer to him so I can say hello. So far, our only contact has been when he passed by me after the show—a “hey” that was neither rude nor friendly nor an invitation to talk more: the same closed-up can of nothing he seems to lob at everyone else. I thought we were getting past that. I guess I thought wrong.

Just as the word is about to come out of my mouth—“Ethan,” which is a pretty word, don’t you think?—Gem comes barreling toward me.

“You stay away from my boyfriend, you skank,” she says, and gets right up into my face, my grill, which is an expression I’ve never once had an occasion to use until right now.

“Umm…,” I say. I wish I could go back in time and not drink those two drinks, because I’m having trouble understanding what’s going on. Why is Gem yelling at me? I’ve grown accustomed to her passive-aggressive under-the-breath taunts, which I can usually pretend I don’t hear. I can’t do that with her yelling into my mouth. And skank? Really? “What?”

I want to wipe her breath off of my face, a slathering of onion and alcohol.

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