Birmingham trip manages to seep through.
“You’re such a creep,” I say once I get it open. “How do you even know where my locker is?”
“I find it hysterical that you think you’re invisible, Danger.”
“If you went to a school where nobody ever spoke to you, you’d feel invisible too.”
“Goes both ways, though, doesn’t it?”
“Huh?”
He waits until our eyes meet before he says: “Do you speak to people who don’t look like they want to be spoken to?”
I don’t say anything to that. Just finish swapping out my books and push the locker door shut.
“Ready to rock, Queen of Ice?” he says. “The day is ripe for a glorious adventure!”
“You’re ridiculous.”
He smiles and extends an elbow, and despite my inner protestations, I take it.
I was right to be reluctant: we pass a group of girls—Jessica’s literal (cheerleader) #squad, though she’s not with them—in the parking lot, and they give me stank-eye so intense, I have to fight the urge to do an armpit check.
Pretty sure Zan doesn’t even notice. Which gets my gears spinning. Not that I’ve allowed myself to think of him in any way other than a means to an end (Is that awful? That’s probably awful.), but I’m curious now. “So are you dating anyone?” I say the moment the Jeep doors are shut.
He starts the ignition, and some rap song about various types of checks comes pouring out of the speakers (fitting). He turns the music down and reaches for his seat belt. “Nope.”
Huh. “Dated anyone recently?”
“I have not.”
“When’s the last time you dated someone?”
“What’s with the line of questioning, Detective?” He taps around on the screen in the center of the Jeep’s dashboard until the GPS pops up. Inputs an address and a route appears.
Should I tell him the truth? Guess it couldn’t hurt. “The, uhhh…pep squad didn’t seem too happy to see me with you.”
Zan snorts. “I wouldn’t date those girls. Got nothing in common with any of them.”
I stifle a laugh at the irony. A disgustingly wealthy, good-looking boy having “nothing in common” with disgustingly wealthy, good-looking girls?
Okay.
“I see.”
“They’re about as deep as puddles, Rico. Wouldn’t be too concerned if I were you.”
“Who said I was concerned?”
He doesn’t respond, but I see him grin. Jackass.
He takes the left that will put us on the highway, and reality comes into glaring relief: I’m about to be alone in a car with Zan-the-Man for two-plus hours on what could very well be a wild-goose chase.
Something I hadn’t considered until just now: What if we can’t find this Beau guy? Will Zan be super pissed because he wasted all this gas? Does he even think about gas? According to him, he bought this Jeep…does that mean he pays for the gas too?
And what are we even going to talk about? If anybody has “nothing in common,” it’s him and me.
“You catch the first episode of JACKPOT!?” he says, yanking me back from the ledge of the freak-out pit I was about to topple into.
“I didn’t.” Wanted to, but we don’t have that channel.
“You didn’t miss much.” Zan shifts the Jeep over into the HOV lane and settles down into his seat. “Mark my words: Wally Winkle will be flat broke in five years.”
Wow. “Well, that’s epically pessimistic.”
“I speak only the truth,” he says. “The first show was basically an episode of MTV Cribs. We got a tour of the seven-million-dollar house he bought, complete with an indoor pool and racquetball court.”
“So he wanted a nice home” is my tempered response. “He’s still got forty million to live on.”
Zan shakes his head. “The place was full of expensive furniture and electronics. He’s already bought two luxury cars for himself, and a car and house for each of his three kids.”
“What’s your point?”
“Rico, giving forty-seven million dollars to a person with no financial acumen and little impulse control is a horrible i—”
“Little impulse control?” My voice totally cracks. “You don’t even know this guy!”
“I don’t have to. People who go from rags to riches overnight tend to be clueless about money management,” he says. “There was this guy who worked at our factory ten years ago. He had a freak accident on one of the machines and wound up losing three fingers on his right hand. Got a five-million-dollar settlement.”
“Okay…”
“Well managed, he should’ve been able to live a pretty good life for fifty-plus years—that’s a little over eight thousand dollars a month. Honestly, invested properly, he could’ve stretched it even further.”
“You sure know a lot about