Page 47 of Rock Bottom Girl
She finished stuffing things into her car and joined me. I sat, patting the lip of the hatch next to me.
Marley obliged. I twisted the top off a beer and handed it to her.
“Did you bring me pity beer because you feel sorry for me?”
“Why would I feel sorry for you?” I asked, incredulous.
“Because we lost. Badly. They put the second-string JV in against us. And we still lost.”
I winced. “Thems the breaks in sports. You should be celebrating.”
She looked at me skeptically with those pretty brown eyes.
“Celebrating what?”
“Right now, Coach Vince is standing in a shower that’s gone cold and scrubbing his misogynistic skin.”
That brought a ghost of a smile to her face, but it was gone just as quickly.
“Do you know what my sister does for a living?” she asked.
“I have no clue. Macramé shit and sell it on Etsy?”
She laughed, and I decided I wanted to hear the sound again.
“She works for a human rights organization and applies for grants to bring refugees to the U.S. for life-saving surgeries.”
“Cool.”
“I hypothetically dye teenagers red.”
“I don’t think you’re grasping the pure poetic justice of what you just pulled off…if it was indeed you. I still haven’t heard an actual confession.”
“I’m admitting to nothing,” she said, taking a sip of the beer. “But tell me more about this poetic justice.”
“Vince Snavely is a sniveling, steroid-eating weasel. The only thing he cares about is winning, and he imparts that lovely wisdom on impressionable teenage boys.”
“Huh. He really does look like a weasel,” Marley said.
“Come on. Admit it. Tell me you did it. It’ll make you feel better,” I told her, nudging her with my elbow. I liked the way it felt when our skin brushed. There was something chemical there. A reaction every single time.
She sighed. “When am I going to learn that pranks never make me feel better?”
I had a feeling she was thinking back to Homecoming our senior year. People still talked about it. “Still waiting for a confession.”
“How do I know I can trust you? Are you a narc?”
“I brought you beer that I’m drinking on school property,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but maybe you’re wearing a wire,” she joked.
“Do you want me to take off my shirt?” I offered.
She paused mid-swallow and coughed.
“Because I’d be willing to do it. If it convinces you to trust me.”
“Keep your shirt on, Flirty McGee.”
