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Uggggggh.
With a deep breath and dead soul, I reach way down inside and find a tiny glimmer of the girl I once was. The one who could turn into whatever she needed to be, whenever she needed to be it. Usually, what I needed to be was Carter’s agreeable little trophy at school, or Mama’s picture-perfect daughter at church, or Daddy’s gentle voice of reason at home. But right here, right now, all I need to be is one of them.
I scan their clothes, shoes, and visible tattoos for anything we might have in common, but I can’t find a damn thing. I don’t have dreadlocks. I don’t recognize any of the band logos on their T-shirts or jacket patches. I can’t even read their terrible tattoos. And they’re all just wearing busted, old black Converse and combat boots.
I glance down at my jeggings, brown hiking boots, and Franklin Springs High sweatshirt and sigh.
“What’s up, man?” the banjo player asks Carter without taking his eyes off me. “I hate to break it to you, but bringing your own personal cheerleader ain’t gonna help you win.”
More cheerleader jokes. Awesome.
“Oh, she ain’t my cheerleader.” Carter glances down at me with a smirk. “She’s the nurse. I brought her, so she can patch you up as soon as I get done beatin’ yo’ ass.”
The guys all laugh and walk toward each other, meeting in the center of the deserted store to high five and slap each other on the back.
Okay, I don’t get it. Carter’s dressed like a quintessential jock in his basketball shorts, three-hundred-dollar limited-edition sneakers, and Nike swoosh T-shirt while these guys look like something that crawled out of a punk rock band’s tour bus after it rolled down the side of a mountain. And yet, here they are, laughing and talking shit like old friends.
Oh, right. Sports. They have sports in common. And penises.
I roll my eyes and sigh even harder. I should just go. I’m way out of my element, and I obviously can’t muster the appropriate amount of enthusiasm or personality needed to make new friends right now.
Or ever again probably.
“Guys, this is Rain.” Carter extends his hand backward and gives me a wink over his shoulder. “She’s totally in love with me.”
His grin is friendly, but his words land on me like a piano. I was in love with him—for my whole entire life actually—but now, those feelings are just a punch line for another one of his stupid, cocky jokes.
I glare at him, feeling hurt. Feeling embarrassed. Feeling like I want to spin around and retreat to my nice, safe cave and never come back out. But then I scan the expectant faces of the four strangers staring at me, and I realize something. He made fun of them too, and they didn’t storm off like little bitches. They dished it right back out. Maybe that’s what friends do here. Maybe Carter is just trying to be friends with me.
Maybe I can play this game after all …
“Carter,” I deadpan, “the only person in love with you here is you.” I tilt my head in the direction of the banjo player. “And maybe that guy.”
The bullet-belt twins look at each other and then howl in unison, slapping their knobby knees through the holes in their skintight jeans. The accordion player snickers under his breath, and the banjo player’s face pales for a second before splitting into a massive grin.
Cocking his head to one side, he raises a furry eyebrow and glances at Carter. “Sweetheart,” he whispers, placing a delicate hand on Carter’s forearm, “I thought we agreed we weren’t gonna tell nobody.”
I snort through my nose as I try to keep a straight face, and the entire group bursts into laughter.
Carter shakes off the banjo player’s meaty hand and introduces me to the world’s finest homeless hockey team. “Rain, this is Loudmouth …”
The denim-vest-wearing accordion player drops his eyes and tips the brim of his paperboy hat at me.
“Brangelina …”
The bullet-belt twins throw me a wink and an air kiss.
“And my secret lover, Tiny Tim.”
The banjo player extends his proud belly and slides his thumbs behind his suspenders.
“So …” I shift my attention to the skinny gutter punks in the middle of the lineup. “Which one of you gets to be Angelina?”
“Ooh! Me!” they both shout in unison, raising their hands.
“Dude, your name is literally Brad,” the one on the left snaps at the one on the right.
“That’s just semantics. I make a way better Angelina. Just look at the cleft in this chin.” He tilts his face toward the light streaming in from the hallway.
