Read Confessions of a Not It Girl Online
Authors: Melissa Kantor
CHAPTER TWELVE
Not only did Brian and Rebecca stay out until two in the morning drinking cosmopolitans at The Madison, not only did they go back to his apartment and make out-- without him either (a) drooling all over her or (b) asking her to just touch it once, he also invited her to a party Saturday night.
In other words, during the same twenty-four-hour period in which (a) my dreams of being with Josh were dashed by incontrovertible proof of his love for Brown-bound Leslie, and (b) I was eye raped by Henry the Horrible, my best friend was at a chic Midtown bar acquiring a cute, funny, sexually experienced boyfriend.
Of all the unique qualities I could contribute to the Wesleyan community, none seems so worth mentioning as the fact that I am a huge loser. Accepting Jan Miller guarantees no Wesleyan student need ever again feel inadequate. "At least I'm not Jan Miller" will become the rallying cry of the Wesleyan campus. Who knows what heights Wesleyan graduates will achieve, safe in the knowledge that no matter how far they fall, someone will always have fallen farther, fallen faster....
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"I think you're overreacting." Rebecca and I were drinking cappuccinos at Bombshell, our favorite cafe in SoHo, where we'd planned to meet to celebrate our respective romantic victories. Needless to say, only one of us had anything to celebrate.
"Do you think Leslie has a tiny butt? I bet she has a tiny butt."
"Why are you worried about her butt? Sarah's, like, barely even heard of this girl. They probably went out for two seconds last spring, and Henry's just dumb enough to think they're still together."
I shook my head the whole time she was talking. "You don't understand. I had a
feeling
about Leslie. Just the way he said it." I made my voice airy and wistful. "Leslie." I turned to Rebecca. "See the difference?"
"Well, I see that you're
crazy."
"Josh probably told Sarah he had a soccer tournament this weekend, and really he flew out to Seattle for a secret romantic rendezvous with blond-haired, blue-eyed Leslie and her teeny tiny butt."
"You're insane, do you know that? Sometimes I seriously worry that you have no grip on reality whatsoever."
"Do you realize Henry actually thought he had a
chance?
He
flirted
with me. When he left he gave me a really significant look like this." I lowered my chin and stared at Rebecca. "And then he said, 'I have the feeling this isn't the last time we'll cross paths.'" I shuddered. "Be honest. Do I give off a vibe that says, 'No, handsome stud, I don't want you to make a pass at me,' while at the same time communicating, 'Hello there, acne-ridden dwarf. Promise me we'll meet again.'"
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"Tom Richmond is
not
an acne-ridden dwarf."
"I almost drowned on his saliva,"
I nearly shouted. "What are you not understanding?
He endangered my life."
A woman sitting nearby looked up from what she was reading and stared at us.
Rebecca lowered her voice almost to a whisper. "Here's the question you should be asking--why must you insist on pursuing high-school boys?"
"I'm
not pursuing
them. They're
pursuing me," I hissed.
"Come with me to this party tonight. We need to find you an older boyfriend." She mimed taking a drag of an imaginary cigarette and adopted a French accent. "You are
much
too sophisticated to party with zeez silly children, dahling."
Let's see: cool party full of older guys with Rebecca Larkin; It Girl. Or night at home with Mom and Dad Miller; Losers. As you can imagine, I agonized over my options.
Brian's friend's apartment was in a fancy building on Central Park West. While we rode up in the elevator with the elevator man (not to be confused with the doorman), I started to get nervous that everyone was going to be really old and wearing suits and stuff, but the host (or the person I assumed was the host, since he opened the door for us) was wearing a blue button-down and a pair of khakis, and he looked like he was probably in his early twenties. He was also extremely cute, and I was glad I'd let Rebecca convince me to take the see-through top out
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for another spin. Maybe Rebecca was right. Maybe my whole problem
did
stem from being too sophisticated for high-school boys.
The guy, whose name was Joel, led us down a long hall, past the kitchen and into the living room, where he called, "Hey, Brian," and a cute guy with dark hair, who was
also
wearing a pair of khakis and a blue button-down shirt, came over. As I looked around, I realized almost every guy in the room was wearing some variation on the blue-shirt-and-khakis outfit. The women were mostly wearing black pants and different-colored tops. The apartment looked exactly like a spread in the Pottery Barn catalog.
"Hi," said Brian. He looked Rebecca up and down and whistled softly at her backless dress. "You look great." He kissed her on the cheek.
"This is Jan," she said. He shook my hand.
"Nice to meet you," he said. "I'll introduce you around."
After being introduced to four or five identical-looking people, I stopped even trying to remember who was who. As far as I could tell, all the guys looked just like Joel and all the girls looked just like Joel's girlfriend, Diana. There were about fifteen Dianas and twenty or so Joels, though I might have been counting some people twice and missing others. The only person who didn't blend into the crowd was a guy named Ken, who, in addition to obviously being gay, was wearing jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. He was very handsome, and he kept looking around the party like he couldn't believe how boring it
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was. He was talking to a woman whose long, curly hair made her slightly different from all the other straight-hair Dianas.
Brian was nice about trying to stay close to Rebecca and me, and he was working hard not to make me feel like a third wheel. Unfortunately that meant he kept asking me questions about myself, each of which threw me into a panic since I don't know nearly as much about NYU as Rebecca does.
"We had one of your film professors visiting my freshman year. I didn't take a class with him, but I heard he was great. I think his name was Moser or Muller? I can't remember. Did you ever take a class with him?"
I had an olive pit in my mouth and wasn't sure what to do with it. "Um, no, I haven't, ah, taken any film. Where did you go to college?"
"I went to Brown."
"Oh, really? That's where Rebecca--" Miraculously I stopped myself from finishing my sentence.
Oh, really? That's where Rebecca applied early.
Rebecca and Brian were both looking at me, but his was a look of curiosity and hers was one of horror. "Um, that's where Rebecca wanted to go."
"Really?" asked Brian. "You didn't tell me that."
"Well, you know," said Rebecca, glaring at me. "Sour grapes."
"Don't take it too hard," said Brian. "I'm sure you'll manage to cobble together a life that isn't
too
horrible."
"Thanks," said Rebecca. "I'll try to hold on to that."
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He took our glasses. "I'll get you guys some more wine."
More people kept arriving, but it was hard to tell the new ones from the old ones since everyone looked the same. All the wine I had drunk wasn't helping, either. A few times I thought about trying to get involved in a conversation, but each group Brian introduced us to seemed to be arguing over something I knew nothing about. At one point, when Rebecca went to the bathroom, I drifted by three people who were talking loudly and gesturing a lot. As soon as I got near them, one of the guys turned to me and said, "Quick: Who do you think more people have heard of, Henry Kissinger or Madonna?"
"Ah, Madonna?" I answered.
He turned back to the other two, who'd also been waiting for my answer. They groaned as soon as I said, "Madonna," but he laughed triumphantly. "Told you!" he said to them. Then he turned back toward me. "Thanks," he said.
"No problem," I said. He was kind of cute. I tried to think of something flirtatious to say. "So who's this Henry Kissinger guy?"
He looked confused. "Wait, are you serious?"
I shook my head no, and he went back to talking to his friends.
Why is it that I attract people I want to repel and repel people I want to attract?
My search for the answer to this troubling question led me to the bar, which may have been why I started to get pretty drunk. At high-school parties it's understood that
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your goal is to chug down as much as possible as quickly as possible (since everyone else is trying to do the exact same thing). I was on my third glass of wine when I realized all the other guests were sipping their drinks without the same sense of panic that was driving me.
"If you keep drinking wine like that I'm checking you into the Betty Ford clinic," Rebecca said after I'd come back with my fourth full glass.
"What's that?"
"It's where the stars go to rehab." I nodded. Surrounded by stars--that didn't sound so bad.
I was feeling a little dizzy, so I handed Rebecca my empty wineglass.
"What's more likely to blow our cover?" I asked her. "Throwing up, or a pithy anecdote about the college application process?"
"I think you'd better get a glass of water," she said. I was starting to get the feeling she regretted bringing me.
I went into the kitchen, where Ken was talking to one of the Joels.
"Well, hello there," he said. "Emerging from the lion's den, I see?"
"Ken, right?" The refrigerator was the kind with water and ice on the door, and I filled a glass and drank it. "Good for you. Nice memory."
"Not really," I said. "You're the only one who's not wearing khakis."
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He laughed. "Yes, it's a
tad
'Still Life with Dockers' out there."
His friend laughed, too, but then he said, "Hey, wait a second!" and pointed at his khakis. He wasn't very tall, but there was definitely something cute about him.
Ken looked at me carefully. "It's none of my business, but isn't your friend a little young to be playing with grown-ups?"
Focus, Jan. Focus.
"She's twenty-one," I said, trying to remember if that was the age we'd agreed to say we were.
"Darling," said Ken, "if she's twenty-one, I'm Donatella Versace."
"Well, Donatella, what makes you so sure she's underage?" I aimed to convey amusement rather than panic.
"A woman knows," he said, and he and his friend both laughed.
"Okay," I said, thinking,
Whatever.
"Don't worry," he said, smiling at his friend. "I'll never tell."
"How old are
you?"
his friend asked me.
"How old are
you?"
I countered smoothly.
"She's feisty," the guy said to Ken. Then to me he said, "You're cute."
"Thanks," I said. The four glasses of wine I'd chugged may have been responsible for what I said next. "You're cute, too."
"I'll leave you two to chat," said Ken. He winked at me and then he left.
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"So," said the guy.
"So," I said.
"I'm Alex," he said. He had reddish hair and tiny glasses. I don't normally go for redheads, but he had nice blue eyes.
"I'm Jan," I said.
"Are you twenty-one, too?" he asked.
I shrugged, hoping to convey I was an international woman of mystery rather than a drunken teenager. Alex walked over to me, and I could tell from how he held himself that he was even drunker than I was. He stopped about three inches away from my face.
"What year were you born?" he asked. I could smell alcohol on his breath and see the slight stubble of his beard. Not counting my dad, I'd never stood this close to someone who needed a shave.
"What are you, the bouncer?" I asked. My heart was pounding.
He didn't seem to be listening. "You are
extremely
cute, you know that?" he said.
"Extremely
cute." He leaned toward me and whispered in my ear. "You're cute enough to eat," he said. "I'd like to take you home with me and gobble you up."
How are you supposed to respond when a perfectly normal-looking guy suddenly starts talking like Hannibal Lecter?
"Um, thanks," I said.
He rubbed his cheek against mine. Stubble may look sexy, but it feels terrible.
"What do you say, little girl? Do you want to be
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gobbled up?" He was slurring his words a little and leaning against me. "I could gobble you right up."
"Well, I'll definitely be sure to keep that in mind," I said, taking a step back. He swayed for a minute before catching himself on the counter. "It was nice meeting you, Alex."
"And you," said Alex.
I found Rebecca talking to one of the Joels. She was laughing at something he'd said, and she started to tell me about it, but I pulled her away and told her about what had happened with Alex. She didn't seem that impressed.
"I'm telling you," I said. "I felt like Clarice Starling."
"Weird," she said, shrugging.
"I can't believe that's what high-school guys turn into!"
"Jan, you can't judge grown men after dealing with just one of them." I wanted to point out that was exactly what she was doing with Brian, but instead I told her about Ken's guessing she wasn't really twenty-one. To my surprise, she didn't seem to care that much.
"Look, it's not like I'm
illegal,"
she said. "I'm eighteen. In some countries I'd be too old to get married. I'd be an old maid." I had the feeling I wasn't the only one who was a little drunk.
"Yes, but we don't live in those countries," I pointed out. "Those countries have camels and...you know, weird stringed instruments. It's completely different."
"This is true," she acknowledged. She looked over by the food, where Brian was talking to a man and a woman who had their arms around each other. "How cute is he?" she asked.
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Brian looked up and saw her looking at him. He smiled. He had broad shoulders and ruddy cheeks. "He
is
cute," I agreed. He said something to the couple he was talking to and walked over to us.
"Is there anyone here you'd like me to introduce you to?" he asked me.
"Me? Oh, ah, no. That's okay." The last thing I needed was another cannibalistic come-on.
He looked around the room. "Yeah, it's a pretty lame lot. Sorry about that."
"No, it's not that. I just--"
"She's very particular," said Rebecca. "She won't settle for just anyone."
"Unlike you," said Brian. Rebecca smiled up at him, and then they kissed.
Could this night get any more depressing?
"So," said Brian, turning to me. "What are you looking for in a man?"
I looked around the khaki-filled room. "How about jeans?"
By midnight all my energy was going into trying not to puke, avoiding another conversation with Alex, and figuring out how to get home since "Don't forget about my curfew" seemed like the kind of thing Rebecca wouldn't want me to say in front of Brian. Meanwhile, I couldn't help noticing that in addition to having the same pants and shirts, all the Joels seemed to be wearing identical shoes and watches. It was like a scene from
Attack of the Clones.
Just as I decided it was time to take a cab home alone,
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embracing freedom over solvency, Rebecca came up to me.
"Brian wants to get out of here. Do you feel like going?" Actually, the only thing I felt like doing was puking, but I didn't want to mention that. We got our coats and said good-bye to the original Joel. I was afraid we'd run into Alex as we were leaving, but he seemed to have disappeared.
Outside, Brian hailed a cab and the three of us got in. "We're making three stops," he told the driver. "First is Seventy-seventh and Amsterdam and the second is--"
"Actually, we're making two stops," said Rebecca. She was smiling.
"Three," said Brian, but he was smiling also.
"Two."
"Three."
"You folks need to make up your mind," said the driver. I couldn't have agreed with him more.
"Come on," said Brian.
"No, you come on," said Rebecca.
Will you both come on!
I felt like shouting.
"You know you're irresistible," said Brian quietly.
"So why are you resisting me?" Rebecca asked.
Brian groaned. "Okay, sir, better give the lady what she wants. Two stops. The first is Seventy-seventh and Amsterdam and the second is--" He turned to me. "Downtown, right?"
"No, Brooklyn. Park Slope," I said, before I remembered I was supposed to live by NYU. When I was younger, I went through a phase where I read a lot of
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espionage novels, and for a while I'd been really into the idea of being a spy. But if my behavior tonight was any indication, it was clear that I was not cut out for intelligence work.
I gave the driver my address.
"I didn't realize you lived in Brooklyn," he said. "How's that commute?"
"Oh, ah, not too bad. It's, ah, it's okay."
"Good," he said, nodding. Clearly I wasn't the only one who shouldn't try for a career as a covert operative. Brian must have been the most naive person on the planet.
By the time they got out of the cab, I was so tired I didn't think I could stay awake until I got home. Maybe Rebecca was right--maybe high-school guys
are
lame.
But if you want my opinion, the alternative is even lamer.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I couldn't reach Rebecca on her cell Sunday, which meant there was nothing for me to do all day except contemplate the train wreck that was my life. Sitting at the computer trying yet again to come up with reasons I was a unique candidate for admission to Wesleyan, I started making a list of everything that was good about my life and everything that was bad. The results weren't pretty.
GOOD | BAD |
Don't have cancer | Have fat butt |
Not starving/homeless | Will never be accepted to college |
Not pregnant teen | Will probably die a virgin |
I kept moving "Parents not dead" and "Best friend is very cool It Girl" from one column to the other.
Rogier was supposed to be home at five, since Yale gets a whole week off for Thanksgiving, but he called at three to say he was thinking about staying in New Haven and coming down to New York on Monday instead. You know things are bad when you can't even be pleased your mother and your perfect brother are having a huge fight. I was half listening to her tell him how inconsiderate he is
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and half thinking about how I'd look in a McDonald's uniform when all of a sudden my mom shouted, "Oh, that's wonderful, Rogier. So you can be exhausted and wind up having a car accident."
What would my life be like if Rogier died?
Would Josh come to the funeral?
Setting:
A funeral home in Park Slope.
Scene:
A crowd of mourners slowly files past Jan, murmuring their condolences. Josh waits patiently in one of the pews. As the last person exits, Josh makes his way over to where Jan, model thin from grief, stands alone.
JAN:
(Holding her hands out to him.)
It was good of you to come.
JOSH:
(Taking her hands and squeezing them.)
I am so sorry for your loss.
(Jan nods but says nothing. The grief that has made it impossible for her to eat for the past few weeks has also caused her hair to become straight, and Josh brushes a strand out of her eyes. There is a long pause.)
The thing is ... I know this isn't the time or the place for confessions, but...
JAN:
(Smiling.)
Josh, I always thought we could be honest with each other. If something's on your mind, I want you to tell me.
JOSH: Well, Jan, I...
(He abruptly takes Jan in his arms.)
I love you, Jan. I hate myself for saying it here at your brother's funeral, but I never realized
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how much I loved you until now, and I can't keep silent another minute.
(He pulls her toward him.)
Tell me you feel the same way I do. Tell me you love me.
JAN: Oh, Josh, I--
(He presses his lips down on hers.)
CURTAIN
Of course Rogier's death didn't do anything about the Leslie factor. She was the one who needed to die. Only did I really want Josh grieving over his dead girlfriend?
JOSH:
(Taking Jan in his arms.)
I love you, Jan.
Jan: I love you too, Josh.
(They embrace.)
josh:
(Breaking away from her.)
I can't. It's too soon. I still love...Leslie.
CURTAIN
No, that wouldn't do at all. What I needed wasn't for Leslie to die, what I needed was for her to get really really fat.
JOSH:
(Looking shocked.)
Leslie! Is that you?
LESLIE:
(Unwrapping a Snickers bar.)
It's me, Josh. It's your darling Leslie. Only I'm a size twenty-eight now.
CURTAIN
I felt better already.
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***
The comfort provided by the image of Josh trying to get his arms around a suddenly obese Leslie lasted right up until Monday morning, when Rebecca informed me that Saturday night she had slept at Brian's apartment.
"You stayed
over?"
Students were no longer confined to school, and Rebecca and I were celebrating the administration's newfound confidence in us by cutting math. "What about your parents?"
"They were in D.C. at a fund-raiser."
"Wow," was all I could think of to say.
Rebecca nodded and took a sip of her cappuccino. Then she gave me a significant look.
"What?"
"What, what?" she asked, abruptly picking up her bag and digging through it. "What's that look?"
"What look?" She practically had her entire head inside her bag.
I waited until she finally emerged and gave her the look back.
"That
look." Suddenly I had a horrifying thought. "Did you have sex with him?"
So this was my destiny--Jan Miller: Last American Virgin.
"Not exactly."
Now I was getting really annoyed. "Not
exactly?"
"Well, we didn't have sex-sex. But we, you know..."
Rebecca wasn't giving me the look anymore. In fact, she wasn't looking at me at all.
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"What do you mean 'you know'?" I laughed. "What, did you touch it once?"
Rebecca didn't laugh, and she didn't look at me. She was staring into her cappuccino like she had never seen anything in her life as fascinating as foamed milk.
"Um,
hello!"
I said. "Are you not going to elaborate on this at all?"
She shrugged. "The thing is, Jan, it's kind of private." She looked up at me. "It's between me and Brian."
Was this actually happening? "What are you
talking
about? How can you have privacy with a guy who thinks you're in college?" I started laughing again, but Rebecca didn't join me.
She looked back at her coffee. "You're just jealous." Her tone was downright icy.
"I'm jealous? I'm
jealous?
I'm jealous you're in a 'relationship' with someone who thinks you're twenty-one?" Now I wasn't laughing either.
"Sometimes you can be
such
a bitch, Jan, do you know that?" She stood up and put on her coat. "Maybe if you tried having a
real
relationship instead of an
imaginary
one, you'd know what I'm talking about."
And with that she stormed out of Starbucks.
I couldn't believe it. How could
Rebecca
be mad at
me
when all I'd done was point out the truth. How was
I
the one in an imaginary relationship when
she
was the one with the boyfriend she couldn't take to the prom because he thought her prom had been
four years ago? I
was a bitch?
I
didn't understand a real relationship?
I
had cut math for
this?
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***
I couldn't really see any reason to hang out at Starbucks all by myself, so I just went to English and sat at my desk waiting for the bell to ring. Josh showed up a few minutes later and came right over to where I was sitting. I was still so pissed, I barely noticed.
"Hey," he said. He was wearing a Michigan T-shirt.
Was I going to have to apply to Michigan now?
"Hey," I said. It was hard to know who I was angrier at: Josh for bailing on dinner or Rebecca for bailing on me. In any event, I didn't feel the rush I usually experience when I'm within five feet of him. (Though I may have felt a tiny shiver of it when Mandy Johnson walked in and looked over at us like she was having her own fantasies of a funeral--mine.)
"I heard dinner was fun," he said. "Henry thought your parents were really cool."
I shrugged. "They're not," I said, glancing up at him.
He barely cracked a smile. "He thought
you
were cool, too."
Compared to Henry, I
am
cool. "Oh," I said. I took out my notebook.
"Listen, um." Josh was acting really strange. He stood right next to my desk, looking around the room like he'd lost something. Then he looked at me for a split second and looked away as soon as we made eye contact. Finally, he put his backpack down and slid into the seat next to mine. "Henry thought you were
really
cool."
"So?" I couldn't stop thinking about what Rebecca had said. What
exactly
were she and Brian doing that was
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so incredibly private she couldn't even tell her so-called best friend about it?
"So..." Josh turned his palms up and raised his shoulders a little, like that one word contained a really significant question I was supposed to answer. He was still avoiding looking in my direction, and if I hadn't been so mad I might have been pleased that now
he
was the one who seemed nervous around
me.
"Look, Josh, what are you getting at?" Rebecca and I had been best friends since second grade. We told each other
everything.
I mean, as far as I was concerned practically the whole
point
of fooling around with a guy was to tell Rebecca about it. Now, suddenly, she had this whole
private
life she couldn't share with me because it was too
special.
Josh finally looked at me, but I kept staring at him without saying anything until he broke down and looked away. "Henry wanted to know if he could...you know...I mean ... if you would...you know, maybe ..." His cheeks were getting red. He bounced his feet up and down nervously.
If you asked me,
Rebecca
was the one who was being a bitch. Where did she get off saying that unless you were touching Mr. Second-Year Law Student "just once" you weren't
mature
enough to understand sex?
I was imagining saying these things to Rebecca's face, when all of a sudden I registered what it was Josh was struggling to articulate. I snapped instantly back into focus. "Henry wants to go
out
with me? He told you to ask me to go out with him?" I had officially entered the twilight zone.
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Josh was looking more and more uncomfortable. "I know your, ah, love life isn't exactly any of my business."
"You're right, Josh, it's none of your business."
He started cracking his knuckles. "The thing is, he asked me to see what the deal was."
"Well, I'll tell you what the deal is. The deal is: no deal." We were staring into each other's eyes, but the look I was giving him wasn't flirtatious. It was murderous.
"Okay, that's cool." He'd stopped bouncing his legs and his face was beginning to approach its normal color.
"Thanks, Josh. I really appreciate how
cool
you and Henry seem to think I am." I opened my notebook and turned to face the front of the room like I was just dying for Mr. Kryle to arrive so class could start.
"Hey, easy there. You don't have to get all bitchy about it." Josh gave a little laugh, but I didn't see what was so funny about two people calling me a bitch in the space of a few hours.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Josh," I said sarcastically. "Am I not being
cool
enough for you?"
He had put one of his hands on my desk when I first said "No deal" to going out with Henry, but now he snatched it away. We stared at each other angrily for a minute before he stood up, grabbing his bag.
"Whatever," he said.
And then he walked to the other side of the room and sat down next to Mandy Johnson.
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