The Boy Who Lives In My Garage > jariana (COMPLETED)

six

Monday passes in its usual, exhausting way. There's something depressing about the weekend being four full days away. Monday's major accomplishment: turning in a half-assed Spanish project just good enough to keep my C average going strong. Muy bueno.

I checked the garage when I left for school and when I got home. Maybe someday I'll forget about Justin. But not when I can still picture the brown eyes and beautiful smile. Not when my heart beats faster with the rush of doing something wrong that might be right. Not when my garage is empty, and I have to remind myself why that is a good thing. Not today.

Even though Tuesday is one day closer to the weekend, it ends up being worse than Monday because Rosalinda doesn't come to school. When I text her during first period, she says she's sick—code for hungover or skipping a test. I suck it up and resist the urge to cut class with her.

Second period biology is painful without Rosalinda. Most days, we survive the class by playing a game. Whenever Mr. Fulcher says "indubitably," we grab our water bottles and take shots like it's vodka. Halfway through class, we have to pee so badly that we both get passes and spend the rest of the hour talking in the bathroom. Without Rosalinda, I sit in the classroom and learn about the nitrogen cycle. It hurts my brain. Mr. Fulcher says "indubitably" a record-setting nineteen times during the hour. Too bad.

English with Mr. Whitfield doesn't go any better. It's so boring that I fall asleep and earn myself detention.

"Grande," Mr. Whitfield says as he writes out the detention slip. "Ariana, you're not related to Alyssa, are you?"

He studies me from above a pair of reading glasses. Comparing my hair to Alyssa's dark blond. Her green eyes to my mud brown. The way she sucks up and studies and gets perfect grades to the way I...well...don't.

I force a smile. "Alyssa? Nope. Never heard of her."

Mr. Whitfield tears off the piece of paper and hands it to me. "Yeah. I didn't think so."

The rest of class is supposed to be spent prewriting our essay on Romeo and Juliet. Instead, I bubble map the torturous ways my parents are going to kill me when they sign the detention slip. My personal favorite? Death by documentary, in which they make me sit on the couch with them and watch documentary after documentary until I literally die.

Once English is over, the part of the day I'm dreading most of all without Rosalinda is lunch. The high school cafeteria is like an overstacked lunch tray. One tiny shift in the balance and you're wearing mashed potatoes, green bean juice, and fruit cocktail for the rest of the day. Not having your best friend is more than enough to knock the tray upside down.

I'm in line for food when someone calls, "Ariana!"

Clinton waves at me from the counter where the ketchup, napkins, and plastic sporks reside. I pay for my burger and fries and head over to him. "Hey."

As usual, he's wearing a polo shirt and jeans. He's carrying his own tray, filled with a burger and what looks to be a triple serving of fries. "Where's your cohort in crime?"

"Rosalinda? Home sick."

He shakes his head and gives me a dimple-laden smile as he fills a paper cup with ketchup. "There's a word for 'hungover' I've never heard before."

My eye roll is automatic. "Right?"

He picks up his tray. "You can sit with us if you want."

He walks away without waiting for me to respond. I should head to my usual table, which will feel empty without Rosalinda's presence. Instead, I follow Clinton until he stops at a table full of upperclassmen—mostly girls. Surprise, surprise. I set my tray down across from him.