“No.” I hesitated. Here comes the conversation killer. “Actually, my parents died when I was little. I live with a friend.”
All three of them stared at me. I waited for the questions—what kind of friend? how’d they die? where’s the rest of your family? Or worse, the awkward silence.
Liv was the first to speak. “Well, can I trade lives with you for the rest of the year?”
I might have hugged her if I’d known her for more than ten minutes. “The PSATs are just practice, you know,” I said, indescribably relieved to talk about something normal. “They don’t actually count for anything.”
“They count for National Merit,” Erin piped up.
Liv rolled her eyes. “If you’re a genius.” She popped a Cheeto in her mouth, talking while she chewed but somehow avoiding being gross. “Yeah, I know they don’t count for anything. Except in my house. There will be hours of discussion about ‘good schools’ ”—Liv framed the word with finger quotes—“and ‘my future.’ ” More quotes. “I’m not sure what kind of ‘discussion’ it is since I never get to talk.” She kept her bent fingers up after that last one for emphasis.
“It’s really more like a monologue,” Hannah said.
“Or soliloquy,” Erin added.
“That’s why you got a sixty-eight on verbal,” Hannah told Erin, who beamed.
“Either way,” Liv said, hands in her lap now, “what I want isn’t up for discussion.”
“And what you want is …?” I asked.
“Oh, who knows?” She sighed. “Art school? Maybe? It’s the only class I’m any good at.” She frowned. “What I really want is just not to have to think about it so freakin’ much.”
“Well … what’s wrong with art school?” I asked.
“They call them starving artists for a reason,” Liv said snippily, obviously mimicking a parent.
“You don’t have to be a fine artist,” I said. “I’ll bet there are lots of jobs you could do with an art degree.”
“Maybe you can tell that to my parents,” she said. “ ’Cause they sure won’t listen to me.”
The conversation turned to less contentious stuff after that—what Erin should wear to her MIT interview, which Hollywood stars Hannah was crushing on. I mostly listened, clueless about both.
Liv waited until lunch was over that day, Hannah and Erin near the hallway sorting their trash, to nudge my arm. When I looked up, she nodded toward a table a few rows down with a raised eyebrow and sly smile.
“He’s smokin’ hot, right?”
“Huh?”
Liv rolled her eyes. “Puh-leeze, Cassie. Don’t think I didn’t see you looking. You’ve barely taken your eyes off him all period.”
It wasn’t true. Not really. Though I had been watching the table of kids. Not only at lunch, but in the hallways around school. I’d noticed them my very first day, their dark hair and distinctive features strikingly similar to mine. They were just who I was looking for. Greeks. And I knew exactly which one she was talking about. “Who is he?”
“Zander Dasios, but don’t even think about it,” Liv said firmly. “He’s a total player. You want no part of that.”
Zander. I weighed the name, something about its unique sharpness fitting him perfectly. His hair was lush, wavy, and disheveled, long enough that he could just tuck a piece behind his ear, only to have it slip forward again. He had a way of looking out from behind that fallen hair to catch you staring and smirk, his eyes saying that he’d known you were watching all along.
“I wasn’t looking at him anyway,” I told Liv, picking up my tray and walking toward the trash can.
“Uh-huh.”
That was three months ago. Liv, Hannah, Erin, and I had sat at our same table every day since, and the Greeks sat at theirs. I had no clue how to approach them, so I studied them instead, looking for an opening.
Petra had found me something much better in the girl at the hospital, though I was dreading my visit today. Even more so when I saw Liv by my locker after English, bouncing from one foot to the other, full of her usual excess energy. “Only six more classes and we’re off to Chi-town!” she sang as I approached.
Shit. I’d totally forgotten we were supposed to go shopping. And, yes, I was still going to the city, but there’s no way I could bring Liv along to see Demetria Kansokis.
She read it on my face. “Uh-oh, what is it, Renfield? You look like your cat died.”
“I don’t have a cat.”
“Not anymore,” she said cheerfully.
“I’m sorry, Liv.” Which was true. “But I can’t do the vintage stores today. I’ve gotta meet Petra at the hospital.”
Liv turned serious. “Is she okay?”
“Completely. The hospital she works at, not one she’s been admitted to.”
“Oh. Okay. So what’s up?”
“Nothing major,” I said, ad libbing an excuse. “Just some paperwork for our lease. Our landlord is doing something financial with the property, needs us to come sign some stuff …” It was a lame excuse, but I could see Liv’s eyes glaze at the word “financial,” like I’d hoped they would.
“Well, that sucks,” she said. “Can’t you just sign the stuff and then go?”
I shook my head. “I wish I could, but Petra isn’t sure how long it’ll take and we can’t risk losing the place …” I let it dangle, hoping the reminder of my unusual and tenuous—at least compared to Liv’s—living situation would be enough to hold off more questions. It was.
“Oh, all right.” Liv sighed, rolling her eyes. “Maybe I’ll see if Erin or Hannah want to go instead.”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling a twinge that I’d miss out. “That’s a good idea.”
She scouted the hall, then leaned close, whispering conspiratorially, “But Hannah’s mom won’t let her wear ‘used clothing’ and Erin’s a sweetie, but she just has”—she did another melodramatic visual sweep—“bad taste.” Liv clapped a hand over her mouth and gave me an exaggerated wink. “I like shopping with you better.”
I couldn’t help smiling, though the reminder of how I’d be spending my afternoon instead made my stomach churn. I nodded sagely and stage-whispered back, “It’ll be our secret.”