Get Even (Don’t Get Mad)

BREE EYED THE LUNCH TABLE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE grassy quad, where Rex and his band of ’Maine Men fucktards pointed in her direction.

“In the pandemic of douchebaggery,” she said thoughtfully, “Rex Cavanaugh is Patient Zero.”

John slowly glanced up from his comic book. “Did you think up that line yourself?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Like it?”

“A little forced,” John said. “But you get points for originality.”

Bree smirked, but there was something about the intensity of Rex’s conversation that made her nervous.

Out of the corner of her eye, Bree caught sight of a small, huddled figure moving quickly through the shadowed edge of the quad. Margot. She paused briefly to readjust the enormous backpack she had slung over one shoulder, then tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and disappeared into a hallway.

Bree’s eyes darted back to Olivia, who quickly gathered up her things, muttered something to her friends, and hurried after Margot.

Phase one of Mission Ronny DeStefano was in motion. Now Bree could turn her attention to more important things. . . .

A quick sweep of the quad showed that her “more important thing” was nearby. Shane White sat on a bench beneath one of the giant elms.

Perfect.

Bree pulled out a copy of Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra, opened it to a random page about two thirds of the way through, and leaned back against the wall, propping the book up on her knees so everyone could get a good look at the title while she pretended to read.

She glanced up occasionally to see if Shane had noticed her. He seemed so normal and clean-cut hanging out with his friends at lunch, the perfect image of an everyday, unassuming DuMaine senior.

But Bree knew better.

She knew what Shane was like onstage, singing lead vocals in a local indie punk band called Bangers and Mosh. She’d seen him in a tight tank top, skinny jeans, and combat boots, guitar slung low across his waist. She’d seen the full-sleeve tattoos on his left arm, and when he peeled off his shirt, drenched in sweat from a performance, she’d seen the tattoos that covered his stomach as well.

Bree knew everything there was to know about Shane White, and most importantly, she knew that he was a huge Nietzsche fan. She’d heard him asking the school librarian about Nietzsche last spring, and she’d been waiting all summer to flaunt her new collection of his works, hoping Shane might notice, might talk to her, might . . .

“Are you even listening to me?” John asked.

“Of course,” Bree lied.

John folded his arms across his chest. “Then what was I saying?”

Bree had no clue. “You were telling me how hot you think Amber is, and if I thought she’d dump Rex for you.”

John stared at her for a second, blinking rapidly; then his body convulsed, once, twice. His hand flew to his mouth as he leaned over and made a fake puking sound.

“Oops. Guess that wasn’t it after all.”

John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I said I can’t meet you at the Coffee Clash tonight.”

“Pourquoi?”

“Band practice.”

Bree dropped Nietzsche to the ground. “Clearly, I’m hallucinating. I thought you said band practice. Clearly, you didn’t though. Because that would mean you’d finally auditioned for a band. And if you’d finally auditioned for a band, CLEARLY you would have told your best friend.”

John smirked. “Band. Practice.”

“Deets,” Bree said, snapping her fingers. “Stat.”

John sighed. “Let me try a practice first, okay? They may think I suck balls and cut me loose.”

“Doubtful.” John constantly downplayed his talent, but Bree knew how amazing he was with a bass in his hands.

He nodded toward Shane. “If they keep me around, maybe I’ll be as famous as your boyfriend.”

Bree scowled. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“True,” John said, with a cold gleam in his eyes. “But not for lack of trying. Maybe you should have gotten a large-print Nietzsche so he could actually see it from over there.”

“Ha, ha.”

“Or . . .” John pushed himself to his feet, surprisingly nimble for his gawky frame, and stuck his thumb and middle finger in his mouth, emitting a whistle that would have stopped traffic on Market Street at rush hour.

“What are you doing?” Bree hissed.

John ignored her. “Shane!” he called out, waving his arm over his head like a lunatic.

“Oh my God!” Bree grabbed his pants leg and tried to pull him down before Shane noticed. Too late. To Bree’s horror, Shane returned John’s wave and trotted over to them.

“I hate you so much right now,” Bree whispered, trying to control the blush rushing up from her chest. “So much.”

“Bagsie,” Shane said. He held up his hand and John embraced him like an old friend. “We still on for rehearsal tonight?”

John nodded. “I’ll be there.”

“Sweet. Can’t wait to get you up to speed. We were blown away by your audition.”

Bree blinked. Holy shit, did her best friend join Bangers and Mosh?