Samantha crosses her arms over her chest. “What do you care?”
I hesitate. Samantha was so out of it last night. Unless Scotch told her about our encounter, which I’m thinking is highly unlikely, she probably has no idea that I saw her in Scotch’s car. If I explain, I’ll have to tell her about the car crash, which I really don’t want people finding out about. But if I don’t tell her, I’ll just look really nosy.
In the end, I choose nosiness over freakishness.
“Did you have a rough night?” I ask, hoping to sound sympathetic.
She narrows her eyes. “Why? What did you hear?”
I try to look innocent. “Nothing. You look kind of tired this morning, that’s all. Just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
My neighborly concern doesn’t seem to be winning Samantha over. She pulls out a notebook, flips to a clean page, and writes the date at the top. I realize that she’s ignoring me.
“Samantha, we don’t have to be enemies,” I say, thinking how false the words sound even as they come out of my mouth. Nothing has changed since I tried to save her life. I am still the girl who went out with the guy she had a crush on. She is still the girl who told everyone I was a slut. She is still the girl who watched Scotch drag me into the boys’ locker room and didn’t do a thing to help me. A few words aren’t going to change that. Still, I want to try. “I don’t hate you.”
Samantha makes a disgusted noise and sets down her pen deliberately. “Vee, I don’t give a shit if you hate me or not. You are, like, the least of my concerns this morning.”
Her outburst wasn’t exactly what I was going for, but it’s something. At least she’s admitting that there’s something going on with her.
“What is your biggest concern this morning?”
The look Samantha gives me could freeze Satan himself. “None of your effing business.” She picks up her pen again, and I know I’ve been defeated.
Mrs. Winger moves to the front of the classroom and starts to talk about the Puritans. Reluctantly, I return to my seat. The rest of the period crawls by. I keep sneaking peeks at Samantha, but she is either really immersed in Mrs. Winger’s lecture or completely determined to pay no attention to me whatsoever. At the end of the period, she stuffs her notebook and pen into her oversized purse and rockets out of the room, never once looking my way.
I sit in the back of the library with the tattered copy of Sports Illustrated lying open before me. Before I try to slide, I wait for the librarian to take attendance and then sit down with her own magazine.
I’ve gotten to the point where I’m almost always successful at triggering slides, except when I’m amped up on caffeine. Thank God I didn’t give in to the pills in my bag this morning. Otherwise I don’t think this would work.
I’m going to slide into Scotch and see if I can figure out exactly what went down last night. He’ll be in gym class. If I’m lucky, he’ll be gossiping with his jock friend again. If something did happen with Samantha, I’m sure he’ll be bragging about it to the whole school.
Once the librarian settles down with her copy of Crock-Pot Adventures or whatever the hell she’s reading, I run my fingers over the glossy pages of the magazine. I’ve opened it to an article about some NFL player who overcame great adversity—family problems, health problems, academic problems—to get where he is today. The page has been turned down, as if someone wanted to return to it for inspiration. I wonder if that person was Scotch.
I rest my head on my desk as the bookshelves of the library melt away, turning into basketball hoops and banners in our school’s colors. Just like the last time I slid into Scotch, the students are doing laps.
Scotch’s sneakered feet slap against the wooden floor. His breathing is more labored than it was the last time I was inside him. He’s probably feeling the ill effects of the alcohol from last night’s party. Serves him right.
“So how was it?” a voice to my right asks.
Randall Fritz.
Here comes the part where Scotch brags about his conquest to his friend. I brace myself for a detailed description of Scotch’s sexual prowess. And then a troubling thought occurs to me. There’s no way for me to verify whether Scotch is telling the truth. If he says he had sex with Samantha, it could be true or it could be a lie. If it is true, having sex with a practically unconscious girl makes Scotch a date rapist. If it’s a lie, that just makes him scum.
Before I can think about what I’ll do if Scotch does say he hooked up with Samantha, he throws a curveball.
“Oh, man. Last night was so freaky. So Samantha and I were driving out in the country, looking for a quiet place to have some privacy if you know what I mean . . . and who do you think we came across, just walking along the side of the road?”
Oh shit. Hold everything.
“Who?” Randall asks, panting for some juicy gossip.
“Vee Bell.”
“Damn,” Randall says. “She is hot. Especially since she dyed her hair back and doesn’t look like such a freak anymore. Tell me, did you get some of that?”
Scotch stops running for a second. “Do you even need to ask? Vee’s had the hots for me since freshman year. I went out with her last year, but then I had to cut her off when she went through that weird goth phase. But she was begging for it last night.”
Scotch stops speaking and starts grinding his teeth together. Without my realizing it, the rage brewing inside me has taken over. “Asshole,” I mutter.
Randall looks confused. “Uh, did you just call me an asshole?”
“Misogynistic douche bag.” I can’t help it. The words just fly out of Scotch’s mouth.
“Wait. Miss-oh-ginous . . . what?” Randall scratches his head.
“You want to know what really happened last night?” I ask. Since we’ve stopped running, more and more people are slowing down to listen to our conversation. The gym teacher has disappeared into his office.
Randall looks seriously freaked out now. “Um. Okay?”
I take a deep breath. “Last night, I dropped Samantha off so I could go home and watch some Golden Girls. That Betty White gets me hot, if you know what I mean.” I wink at Randall twice, and he turns bright red.
A couple of girls start to laugh.
“What did he just say?” asks a guy with a fauxhawk.
“I think he just said he whacks it to Golden Girls,” a girl in a pink Juicy Couture sweatshirt answers helpfully.
Considering my job done, I slide back into my own body. I lift my head from the desk and realize I’ve drooled a little bit on the copy of Sports Illustrated. I wipe the corner of my mouth with my sleeve. The librarian didn’t even notice me appear to fall asleep.
“So I heard an interesting rumor today,” he says, crossing his arms. “I thought you might know a little something about it.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask innocently, arranging my backpack on the floor.
“Evidently Scotch Becker announced his fondness