doesn’t want you to go away to ‘find yourself’ like he did and avoid being part of the family business, also like he did.” Mom nudges him. “Until graduation, you want your cousins and friends to come crash, it’s yours, as long as you follow the rules. No one drinks and drives, no one does drugs and drives. No trashing the place. We trust you, always have. It’s—”
“Others you don’t trust,” I finish for her.
“It’s like your treehouse, but cooler.” Dad looks around. “Pool table, old-school video games—”
“I love it. Thanks.”
“Still gotta hang with us, though, Tricks.” Dad nods once, his eyes narrowed a bit. “You’re our favorite Steel.”
Mom rubs his back.
“Of course.”
Our old place was nothing to scoff at, like not at all. But this place … is balls. All grays and whites. All raw materials. All brand new updates before they sold. This place is tits.
We spent the entire day unpacking boxes that the movers unloaded. I threw a lot of shit out that I no longer wanted, or that I didn’t even know I still had. Felt good to purge, really good. I’m edging past the need for the material things, which doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate what money can buy. I do. But what I’m learning at this damn school is money doesn’t buy you the things that matter the most.
I’m pretty sure when Mom Marie Kondo’d our life right before the move, I shouldn’t have hid shit that didn’t seem to matter anymore.
Lying in my king-sized bed, in a room that could house twenty, I feel queasy as I think about what this Ivy League of high schools has taught me.
“What a bunch of assholes,” I sigh as I think about the shit that mostly Kiki and Truth are dealing with. Half the time, I want to lose my chill and step in and all over that shit, but my philosophy is not to do that. Except it seems to be wavering when it comes to the little badass who would rather scare people off than open up and accept people who want to be her friends. And those of us who feel that pull, people talk about, to a girl who wants nothing to do with me.
Not to toot my own horn, but I’m a fucking catch. And not to call bullshit on her liking girls—I mean, she’s got mono because she and Chloe, who I know damn well isn’t a lesbian, but she certainly doesn’t look at me like she’s not seeing me. She’s either pissed off or checking me out like she wants to see what I’m all about.
I grab my phone and reread days’ worth of messages, from the first day she didn’t show up to class until last night. I skipped this morning, because I felt a little like a fucking clinger.
Day One
9:00 a.m. – What up, Savannah?
12:21 p.m. - Why aren’t you here?
5:07 p.m. - Hope all is chill. See you tomorrow.
12:01 a.m. - Do you ever read your messages?
Day Two
9:10 a.m. - SAVVY!!!! What up?
1:21 p.m. - Gym class blew without you being the greatest source of amusement.
5:40 p.m. - Hitting a girl isn’t something I’ll ever do, so if they’re being snatches, I know four pretty badass chicks who would do it if needs be.
12:02 a.m. - Damn, girl, way to make a guy feel like a douche.
Day Three
9:20 a.m. - Heard you’re sick. Hope you get better soon.
12:18 p.m. - Let me know if you need any notes from any of our classes.
12:01 a.m. - Thinking about you. Need anything, just holla.
Day Four
9:47 a.m. - No plans for the weekend. You need something, let me know.
12:22 p.m. - Let me know if you need any notes.
4:32 p.m. - Last night with the Crew. Moving tonight. Let me know if you need anything.
My finger hovers over the messenger app while I contemplate what to send, or if I shouldn’t send anything at all.
Fuck it.
Day Five
11:55 p.m. - Seriously hoping you get better soon, girl. I’m dialing it down on the messages. Not like you’re reading them anyway. Let me know how you’re doing, Savvy, or at least let someone know.
*prayer hands*
Send.
I toss my phone on the bed beside me, grab my remote, and flip on the TV, hoping something will be on to take my mind off becoming such a bitch and worrying about the girl who’s probably filing a restraining order.