my bed and grab my phone from my purse. I sent a message to Mom last night and have been dying to hear from her all day. These time zones aren’t easy to navigate. I just couldn’t hold it in any longer. If I don’t talk to someone about Sam, I’m likely to spontaneously combust. So I texted Mom. Even when it comes to guys, she’s my sounding board.
When I was fifteen, she handed me a year’s supply of birth control because, and I quote, “Your father knocked me up at eighteen, and although you are the most amazing gift he could have given me, let’s hope you don’t stretch that womb of yours until you’re good and ready. Have fun, but be careful,” she added as an afterthought. She’s also the person I cried to after the infamous I’m Not Sure I Lost My Virginity Incident. She didn’t get mad at me for what I did, she just said, “When the time is right, Pininfarina, when the guy is right, it will be nothing short of magical.”
So I texted her that there’s this guy and he’s amazing. But there’s a girlfriend.
Things have shifted over the past five days; at least for me they have. I still fantasize about Sam, but I alternate between wanting to rip his clothes off and wanting to cover him in a T-shirt that reads: Property of Nina Gabri.
I’ve never been so myself with anyone. Ever. This is everything I wanted when I left Toronto. Me, being a girl who can joke and laugh and conquer her fears like a ninja warrior. Me, flirting with a guy so stupid hot I still fantasize to the point of tripping over my feet. Me, having fun like a normal nineteen-year-old. All of this is because of Sam. I don’t just fantasize about being with him anymore. I want to be his. There is, however, the unfortunate circumstance of a beautiful, blond girlfriend.
Something’s up with him and Lacey. He never talks about her, never even mentions her name. He flirts shamelessly with me. And I let him.
On second thought, his T-shirt should read:
Property of Nina Gabri*
*a.k.a. Pininfarina Gabri—home wrecker and instigator of mayhem
Still, I can’t stop myself.
When I power up my cell, I suck in an excited breath, but exhale, deflated, when the screen comes on. No message from Mom. No one for me to confide in about my feelings for Sam. Or about the whole hiking thing. The thing where I’ll be sleeping with him. In a tent. For one night. Alone. Holy God.
Spontaneous combustion is imminent.
The girls in the dorm are all asleep. I grab my toiletries and sneak out to go wash up. As the bathroom door swings shut behind me, a gasping sob echoes from around the corner, followed by the sound of skin slapping tile. I swivel for the door to run and get Sam, sure a girl’s being attacked. Then I hear, “Fuck it.”
There’s no fear in those words, only resignation.
I inch toward the bend up ahead and peek around the white-tiled wall. My mouth drops open. Holy crap. No way can this be happening. No frickin’ way.
A girl stands in front of the mirror, metal scissors in one hand and a fistful of black hair in the other. When our eyes clash in the mirror, she says, “Fucking perfect,” and I say, “Oh, God.”
Leigh glares at me like I’m gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe, and I contemplate running out of here after all. Since we’re all using the same guidebook, it was only a matter of time before I met up with the Trifecta of Cool. I just hoped Sam would be with me when it happened. Still, I don’t bolt. There’s mascara streaking her face, and she just cut a chunk of hair from her head.
Although she might be thinking of shoving those scissors in my eye, I step closer. I hold up my hand like you would toward a rabid dog. “You okay?” I say, which is literally the dumbest question I’ve ever asked. It’s pretty clear she’s not okay.
She makes a horking sound and shakes her head at the ceiling. “Run along, Nina. This doesn’t concern you.”
I glance toward the door and back at her tearstained face. If Sam were here, he’d tell me to swallow my fear and face my demons head on. Right now, my demon has chosen to manifest itself in the form of a not-so-nice girl giving me hate eyes. But