Page 64 of Foolish Games

She gives me a sullen look, and I turn to open the drawer of my desk. While I root around through the random crap—scattered pieces of Dubble Bubble, movie ticket stubs, sample strips of Acqua di Gio pulled from magazines, Camel Cash I saved for Lexi, a screwdriver, and finally, a couple loose batteries—I glance at my sister.

“Hey, how’s the piano lessons going?” I ask.

“They’re not lessons if you don’t have a teacher,” she says, shaking her head like I’m missing something obvious.

“But you’re teaching yourself,” I say, plucking the batteries from the drawer. “You know, my new girl plays music. Maybe she could give you a few pointers.”

She snorts. “Like Vivienne Delacroix is going to teach me anything.”

“You know who I’m dating?”

She rolls her eyes. “Everyone in school knows who you’re dating,” she points out. “You’re Sebastian Swift.” She says my name in her most mocking tone, like that’s not really my name at all, and if it is, it’s worthy of her deepest scorn.

That makes me feel a little less shitty that she believes the lie we fed the school.

“So?” I ask.

“So, people think you’re like, the king of Faulkner High or whatever.”

I crack a smile and flop back on my bed. “I am hella popular.”

“Get over yourself,” she says, holding out a hand. “And give me the batteries.”

I know I’m nothing special.

Vivienne’s special. Rob’s special. They’re founding heirs.

I’m just me.

“I just didn’t think freshmen paid attention to senior gossip,” I tell my sister.

“Um, hello, dating a senior guy is insta-popularity for a freshman girl,” she says. “Of course we pay attention to y’all.”

“You’re not trying to date a senior, are you?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at her.

She wrinkles her nose. “I have to live with you. That’s more than enough to scare me away from boys of all ages. Y’all are all nasty.”

“Good,” I say, dropping the batteries into her outstretched hand. “And Mel? Is there anything you want for Christmas?”

“More batteries would be nice,” she says. “Or you can give me the Rolling Stone collection.”

“Fat chance.”

Dad was a complete music geek, and he took immense pride in his subscription to the magazine. He had two decades organized by issue number, never throwing out a single one. Since I’m the oldest, I took them over when it became apparent he wasn’t coming back. We had to cancel the subscription a long time ago, but we still read the old ones—and argue over them.

“Then batteries,” she says. “And maybe a CD.”

“You want the Spice Girls?” I tease.

She gives me a dirty look. “No. Fiona Apple.”

“What if I could get you something bigger?” I ask. “Anything you want.”

She seems to think it over as she flips the batteries around and inserts them carefully before thumbing the compartment closed and turning her Walkman over. “Maybe one of those inflatable chairs for my room.”

I shake my head. “You’re weird as hell.”

When she leaves, I lay back on the bed, thinking about the bet.

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