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I usually could not give two shits what Bella is doing. In fact, I’d rather avoid her at all costs. There’s nothing interesting about her practicing her mean girl routine—in fact, I’d be a lot more shocked to see her doing anything else.
It’s their current victim that catches my eye.
Camille Rivera.
Now that is a blast from the past. I could be looking through an eight-year time-warp tunnel. Bella is sniping at her just like she used to in the good old days. And just like back then, Camille looks like she wants to pop Bella right in the eye.
I was always surprised Bella went to such great lengths to fuck with Camille. It’s not like they were in competition or something. Bella had the money, the clothes, the friends, the boyfriends (pretty much anybody worth fucking at school, other than me—though not for lack of trying on her part). Plus, objectively speaking, Bella is way hotter. She’s got that supermodel pout, mile-long legs, and the I-had-four-ribs-removed-to-look-this-skinny thing going on.
Camille isn’t feminine in the slightest. She dresses like Billy Joel in “Uptown Girl.” She’s constantly filthy. She’s got a low, husky voice that hardly belongs in the same conversation with Bella’s biting tone. And she’s poor as dirt. Her dad does good work, but he never charged enough. His shop is so rundown that it’s anti-marketing for the business. She was one of the only kids that always brought her own lunch to school instead of buying from the cafeteria or snack bar. It was always super depressing leftovers in old yogurt containers, not even Tupperware. Bella used to rail on her about that, along with a hundred other things.
But the number one thing Bella would give Camille shit about is her mom.
Everyone knows Camille’s mother worked as a stripper. She had Camille super young, and she was still stripping when we were at Oakmont. People used to throw dollar bills at Camille in the hallway. They’d say they were going to visit her mom at Exotica, and ask Camille what song they should request.
Maybe that’s why Camille tries so hard to be plain. She deflects male attention like it’s her job. Trying to prove she’s nothing like her mother.
Or maybe she just hates showering. How the fuck would I know?
Bella makes some bitchy comment about Camille’s mom.
That’s where I insert myself into the conversation. Not because I care about defending Camille, but because Bella needs some new material.
All the girls spin around to stare at me, Camille most of all.
Bella smirks at me, one hand on her hip and her chest thrust upward for my approval.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” she purrs.
“Why would you?” I say, coldly.
Bella’s smile turns to a pout.
She’s been thirsty as fuck since the day I met her. It’s funny—I’ve banged a lot of girls I didn’t like. But I’ve always held out against Bella. It’s almost a game at this point. The more she wants it, the more I enjoy not giving it to her. She’s so damn spoiled it’s probably the one time in her whole life she hasn’t gotten her way.
It ain’t happening. Not tonight, and not ever. I know how hard she’d be to shake afterward—I don’t need that kind of drama.
Bella is the one person who might be as vicious as I am. Trust a snake to know a snake. Who knows what kind of crazy shit she might pull if we were alone and naked.
Those shiny pink lips part as she’s about to shoot her shot again.
To cut her off, I turn to Camille and say, “Is that your Trans Am out there?”
Camille was trying to sneak away. My question pulls her up short. She turns around again, not quite meeting my eye.
“Yeah,” she says quietly.
“Is it a ‘77 LE?”
“Yes.”
“Same as Burt Reynolds.”
She smiles.
I haven’t seen Camille smile very often. I’m surprised how nice her teeth are, and how white they look against her tan skin and grease-streaked face.
“I have a Mercedes G-Wagon,” Bella says loudly.
