with ice, and a plate with a few cucumber slices and carrot sticks.
“Not hungry?” Devon asked.
“I had a big lunch.” Maya took a polite sip of her drink. Her jet-black hair was twisted and clipped on the top of her head, every hair in place. “I heard you were talking to folks about Hutch. Like grief counseling or something?”
“Yeah, just helping out where I can,” Devon replied, trying not to stare at the pink powder dusting across Maya’s cheekbones. Devon had never seen Maya without full make-up, even during sports. The rumor was that Maya woke up at 5 A.M. every day so she would have enough time to get it all together before 8 A.M. classes. She apparently had her own airbrush machine to keep her foundation perfectly applied. Devon wouldn’t know where to start with and airbrush.
“That’s cool of you. Hutch was one of the good guys. It’s.…” Maya picked up a cucumber slice and put it back on her plate. She bit her lip. “It just sucks, what happened.”
“How much does dinner blow?” Presley slammed her tray on the table next to Devon. “What’d I miss?”
Maya blinked several times. “I was just leaving. I’ve got a pack of Ramen in my room that is way better than this.” She pulled a lipstick tube out of her pocket and expertly applied a bright coral color to her lips, then blotted on her paper napkin and tossed it on top of her plate—sealing her scant meal with a kiss. “Later.”
Devon had always noticed that Maya didn’t so much walk as she sashayed—even when dumping her dinner tray. She dresses like she’s going to a board meeting. Button down shirts, knee-length skirts, ballet flats; Maya was the queen of Grace and Proper. She looked like a foreigner in the country of Lazy and Comfy, a sea of sweats, flip-flops and ripped jeans. But maybe that was envy talking. Lipstick blotting and sashaying were not things that came either easily or gracefully to Devon.
“What a bitch, right?” Presley took a monster bite of her Sloppy Joe.
“I don’t know if bitch is the right word, but she’s something,” Devon said.
“You’re right. What I meant was, stuck-up bitch. I mean, who wears lipstick around here? What, are we going to the opera?”
Devon grinned in spite of herself. “I’ll bet her mom is wired like that. My mom would love it if I cared more about looking good, but I can’t say I’m wired that way.”
“Of course her mom is wired to be a little sex kitten. She married Eddie Dover. Gotta look good to be a millionaire’s wife. And we know the Queen of Big Pharma can’t go around looking, heaven forbid, less than perfect.” Presley wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Maya’s mother, C. C. Tran, had married Eddie Dover—owner of the pharmaceutical giant Dover Discovery—in a highly publicized marriage that still made the gossip pages, and of course was always news around Keaton. C. C. was painted as the ultimate gold digger, a Vietnamese immigrant sinking her claws into a wealthy American businessman. Not that Devon particularly cared. After all, nobody gossiped about her mother.
“You seem better, Pres.” Devon took a bite of her Sloppy Joe. She felt too much like a cow eating in front of Maya and her cucumber slices. “You feeling better?”
“Man, I had to hit up the health center this morning I was so freakin’ sick but I think it passed. Some twenty-four-hour thing, I guess.”
“Lucky you. Just in time”
“No kidding. Lacrosse starts tomorrow, too. I’m gonna be sucking wind. Five bucks says I’ll be barfing again by the end of practice. Speak of the devil, the drillmaster herself.” Presley nodded across the dining hall.
Sasha Harris, captain of Varsity Girl’s Lacrosse—with her perfectly creamy black skin, too-short running shorts and sports bra to highlight her six-pack abs—strolled across the dining hall, grabbing an apple from the community fruit bowl.
“Little Miss Harvard,” Presley said with her mouth full. “I’m already dreading graduation next year when she’s valedictorian and my dad wonders why I wasn’t better friends with her.”
“Please, she doesn’t have friends, just people she hasn’t conquered yet,” Devon heard herself say. She felt a twinge of regret. If she knew Sasha better she would probably find a way to sympathize for her and her perfectionist ways.
“Too right, Drew Barry-whore,” Presley said.
Devon laughed. “Good one. What about, All Quiet on the Western Slut?”
Presley smiled and almost choked on her Sloppy Joe. Devon stiffened, glimpsing Matt as