real slime vibes at the party. On the other hand, I hardly know the dude. Maybe he’s just a bit slimy. Doesn’t make him a cheater.
I poll a few other teammates in the locker room, and the consensus seems to be to tell Demi the truth. But it isn’t until Jesse texts his girlfriend for her opinion that I’m fully swayed to the side of morality. In all caps, Katie texts back a resounding:
TELL HER RIGHT EFFING NOW, YOU HEARTLESS MONSTER!!!!!!
I guess I have my answer.
13
Demi
There’s a text message from Hunter when I step out of Biology class late in the afternoon. He’s supposed to come by tonight for a fake therapy session, but apparently now he’s cancelling.
HUNTER: Need to cancel tonight. Last-minute thing in Boston.
ME: Didn’t we LITERALLY just talk in class earlier and confirm?
HIM: Yes, and then I LITERALLY just got a text from a friend and now I have to cancel.
ME: I demand to know why.
HIM: Bruins game.
ME: Is there really a game or are you just lying to get out of studying? Cuz you were acting super strange this morning. Even TJ noticed.
HIM: I wasn’t acting strange and there really is a game. Google it.
ME: I will choose to believe you. How are you getting there?
HIM: Teleporting, obviously.
ME: Jackass. Are you driving?
HIM: Ya. Why?
ME: When are you leaving? Maybe I can catch a ride with you??
I’m hopeful as I await his response. A free ride to Boston would enable me to visit my parents, who I haven’t seen since Labor Day weekend. It’s already mid-October, but I haven’t had much free time to make the trek into the city. I don’t have a car, an Uber would be too expensive, and the bus takes way too long.
Rather than texting, Hunter calls me. “Why do you need to go to Boston?”
“My parents live there. Our house is near Beacon Hill.”
“Fancy.”
“You’re one to talk, rich boy. So can I catch a ride with you?”
“Sure. I’m leaving around six, but if you want a ride back with me, it won’t be till eleven-ish.”
“That’s fine. Pick me up from here?”
“Yup yup.”
“Please don’t say yup yup. I don’t like it.”
“I don’t care. See you in an hour.”
He hangs up on me and I grin at the phone. Hunter amuses me. He makes a nice addition to my roster of male friends. The Lost Boys, as Corinne would say.
I take a quick shower and then put on a green sundress and the gold hoop earrings my parents gave me for my birthday in August.
I hate these earrings with a passion. They’re big hoops, and if it were up to me, big hoops would be banned in this country. But I slide them on now because I want Mom and Dad to think I wear the hoops on the reg. They have the tendency to act all wounded if I don’t fawn over their gifts.
Hunter texts when he’s outside, and I’m not surprised to find a shiny black Land Rover parked at the curb. I slide into the passenger’s side and settle on the sleek leather seat.
“Hey,” he says. He’s wearing a black-and-yellow jersey, his dark hair slicked back from his face.
“Are you wearing hair gel?”
“Are you wearing enormous hoop earrings?”
“I asked first.”
“Yes, I’m wearing gel.”
“Your head is glistening.”
“Yeah, but at least it’s staying in place. Whenever I watch live hockey, I get agitated and run my fingers through my hair until it’s fucking falling out—I figured gel would help prevent that. Your turn.”
“My turn what?”
“The hoops, Semi. I could probably fit my entire glistening head through one of those monsters.” He chuckles faintly. “I guess you can take the girl out of Miami but you can’t take Miami out of the girl?”
“Wrong. I despise these earrings. They’re more my mom’s style,” I admit. “She’s all about the big hoops, and she thinks everyone should dress and accessorize exactly like her. But I prefer tiny studs—you know, so there’s no chance of them getting caught on anything and ripping my ear off, leaving a bloody hole in the side of my head.”
“That’s a really cynical view of hoops.”
“They’re a safety hazard. I stand by that.”
“So you pretend to like them to please your mommy and daddy?” He’s mocking me.
I bristle, but only slightly, because there’s truth to that statement. Especially the daddy part. My father is a scary man. The kind of man who is so impressive you constantly feel the need to impress him back.