10 Things I Hate About Pinky - Sandhya Menon Page 0,20

which I expressly forbade him to do, and then the entire time we were together, he kept talking about his boat and his car and his Jet Skis.… It was like he was trying to get me to say how great he was. Talk about a hollow self-concept. And he wasn’t even a good kisser.”

“You know, none of that surprises me. Well, I don’t really know what a self-concept is, but all that other stuff you said.” Pinky glanced at her cousin. “So, um, if he’s so awful… why did you go to the barn with him?” Dolly had once told her, a long time ago, that therapists stayed away from “why” questions because they could be construed as judgmental. Maybe she should rephrase. “Um, I mean, you don’t usually date people like him, so what got into you, dude?” Crap. “What I’m trying to say is, you usually have good taste and even I could tell Cash Miller sucks.” None of this was coming out right. “Let me try that again—”

Dolly gave her a small smile. “It’s okay. I got it. And you’re totally right. It was a huge lapse in judgment.”

“Right,” Pinky said as they passed a fragrant false indigo bush. A line of sweat trickled down the center of her back. She wanted to go inside, but this was just too good. “But, like, why?”

Dolly looked at Pinky for a long moment. “What one word would you use to describe me?”

Pinky wanted to get back to Cash, but she played along. “Um… perfect?”

Dolly shook her head. “What you mean is ‘predictable.’ Or ‘boring.’ ”

“That’s not true—” Pinky began, but Dolly cut her off.

“It is true. Everyone thinks they know me, you know? Like, take my parents, for instance. Their expectation for me is that I’ll make As. They never pressure me—don’t get me wrong—but if I get a B, they get all therapisty and say things like, ‘Test anxiety is very common, Dolly. Let’s work together on some coping skills for next time.’ They don’t even think that maybe I just didn’t study! Like, maybe I got distracted and watched Riverdale all night instead. And you know what Richard said to me when he went off to the Peace Corps and we broke up?”

Pinky shook her head, too flabbergasted by what was being said to speak.

“He said, ‘In a couple of years this’ll be you.’ Can you believe that?”

Pinky stared at her. “How… horrible of him to think that about you?” Was implying someone would join the Peace Corps an insult she didn’t know about?

“It’s not horrible, Pinky. It just delineates how monotonous a person I am! Everyone forecasts what I’m going to do before I even do it! I had been thinking about joining the Peace Corps!” Dolly looked more distressed than Pinky had ever seen her. Her hair was sticking to her neck, her skin was splotchy, and she didn’t seem to notice that sweat was running down her face.

Pinky stepped closer to her. “But… what’s wrong with that? All the things people think about you are good! My own mother thinks I’m capable of burning down a barn in cold blood.”

“At least people think you have a mind of your own. You’re out there, living your life, being totally independent. You’re an artist, Pinky. You make people sit up and take notice. I blend in. I’m like—like boring old burlap and you’re a duochrome, ombre, brilliant rainbow.” Dolly stopped abruptly and sat down on a tree stump. After a moment, Pinky joined her, sitting cross-legged on the ground.

She bumped Dolly’s foot with hers. “You’re not boring.”

Dolly glanced at her and then away. “Yeah, right.”

Pinky laughed a little. “You know what’s funny? Every time I’m around you I have, like, this low-level anxiety. Everyone thinks you’re so perfect. Everyone’s always fawning about your accomplishments and all the amazing things you’ve ever done and how you’re going to save the world one day. And I just sit there like some pierced miscreant bent on destruction.”

“That’s not at all how I see you,” Dolly said vehemently, putting her hand on Pinky’s.

“That’s what I’m trying to say, though. We’re both ogling each other’s grass, thinking it looks green and beautiful. It’s ridiculous.”

Dolly smiled a little. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“I’d still rather my mom looked at me like she looks at you,” Pinky said. “Since we’re being honest and all.”

“Your mom loves you,” Dolly said, looking right into Pinky’s eyes.

“Mm-hmm, sure. Maybe because she has to. But if she had