“Night, Mom,” I say, yawning for effect but meaning it, too.
“Good night, London,” she says, and before I hear her own bedroom door click shut, I’m asleep.
8
I’m shivering in my closet, wearing only a bra, tank top, and underwear, wet hair dripping down my back, when Jamie scares the crap out of me by appearing in the doorway.
“Morning,” she says, with no warning whatsoever.
“What the hell!” I shout, jumping farther into the closet.
“Uptight much?” Jamie teases, taking in the clothes hanging neatly on the racks. “Wear this one,” she says, pointing to a plaid miniskirt.
“That’s way too short,” I protest. “I have no idea why I own that.”
“I made you buy it,” she says proudly. “I love that skirt.”
“You can have it,” I say, turning away from her and continuing my clothes fit. “What are you doing here so early?” I ask casually.
“You are so mental,” Jamie says. “We talked last night. I’m borrowing…” She moves to a row of shirts and quickly looks through them. She locates the sleeve she seeks and yanks the item off the hanger. “… this green shirt today.”
“Cute,” I say.
“I know,” Jamie agrees. She drops her bag and coat to the floor, swaps her own shirt for the green one, then puts herself back together, leaving her shirt in a heap on my closet floor.
“Don’t you want this?” I ask, picking it up.
Jamie shrugs. “I’ll get it later. See you in Spanish.”
And with that, she is gone.
“Leaving already?” Page Thomas asks anxiously as I slam my PE locker shut. “Man, you’re fast.”
“Yeah, I need to get going,” I say over my shoulder to her. “See you tomorrow.”
“Monday,” Page corrects me, her voice raining disappointment.
“Oh, right, Monday,” I reply loudly, now all the way to the heavy locker room doors. Page is following me.
“Wait, London?” she asks. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” I sigh, knowing what’s coming.
“Sure,” I say, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster through my utter disappointment. I want to leave and go meet him.
“Thanks,” Page says, beaming. I notice that her icy blue eyes are so light they nearly match the whites. With those and her almost silvery blonde hair, she looks like an ice princess.
An ice princess who wears outdated glasses and baggy, mismatched clothes that could one day land her on a makeover show.
I stare at Page until she speaks.
“Okay, so I feel a little silly asking you this,” she begins, “but that day when I was on office duty and delivered that note from your mom to your math class, I noticed that Brad Thomas sits next to you and I was wondering if you know if he has a girlfriend?”
Brad Thomas. I’ll sit next to him in math for the rest of the year. His handwriting looks like a third grader’s; I know from sneaking a peek at his test to see his score in a couple weeks. Beyond that, he’s definitely not a math genius, either.
Stalling, I look around to see if anyone’s watching us. My eyes land on Page’s backpack: her name is embroidered there. Page Thomas.
“You like a guy with the same last name as you?” I ask randomly.