Read Juniors for Free Online Page B

can’t stop playing music.
    â€œYeah!” I yell.
    She walks to my doorway and whispers, “Whitney’s here.” She looks giddy, like some celebrity is right behind her, but she’s trying to play it cool.
    â€œOh,” I say. “Okay.”
    â€œI went over to see if Melanie was home, and Whitney was there. She wanted to say hi.”
    â€œOkay,” I say, shooing her away, knowing she’s covering for whatever she’s done—probably told Whitney I was dying to say hello and that I have no friends. My mom moves away to make room for Whitney, giving me a supportive look like I’m about to sing a song or jump hurdles or something.
    â€œHey,” Whitney says, from the doorway. She’s barefoot, and her hair is wet, which tells me something about her—most girls don’t like to get their hair wet. They just cook poolside like rotisserie chickens, taking intermittent dips up to their chins if they need to cool off. Her legs are muscled and long, even though she’s not very tall.
    â€œHi,” I say.
    Her two front teeth are notably big, but in this weird way that makes you want your front teeth to be notably big too. She has a dark mole perched on top of her right cheekbone that I keep focusing on, so with that and the teeth, it takes me a while to register her entire face, but when I do, I see cruelty. It’s not that she’s scowling or smirking or anything. She just has that teen-movie-girl face, the popular one who gets one-upped at the end by the less pretty girl with the big, big heart. Maybe that’s not fair, though. Maybe she’s not cruel at all—maybe she’s just pretty. Her eyes are large and a bit slanted, with thick lashes.
    â€œMy mom told me you were here,” she says.
    Yes, she clearly wanted to drop in and say hi. I want to tell her it’s okay to go.
    â€œI’m going to finish up out there,” my mom says. “Can I get you guys a snack?”
    Oh God. A snack. I imagine saying to Whitney, “Can I offer you some fruit your mom brought?” and serving it to her on one of her plates.
    â€œNo,” I say.
    â€œI’m good, thank you,” Whitney says.
    â€œOkay, I’ll let you girls chat.”
    Whitney smiles at my mom, I don’t, and then we’re by ourselves. What are we supposed to chat about? She walks in, then takes slow steps around the room. I wonder if I should resume my task or follow her around like a realtor. She wears just a large T-shirt that has wet spots where her breasts are.
    â€œGetting settled?” she asks, looking at the mess on the floor, my boxes and clothes.
    â€œYeah,” I say. “Unpacking some things.” Obviously.
    She walks toward the window that faces the sea and her house.
    â€œI’ve never been in here,” she says. I look at the backs of her thin and strong legs.
    â€œReally?” That seems weird to me. I’m someone who leaves no drawer unopened. I can’t imagine not going into a house I owned.
    â€œI mean, when it was finished, I peeked in,” she says, “but I never looked at the bedrooms.”
    I guess not. Why would she? It would be like checking out the maid’s quarters or the handyman’s tool shed.
    She looks at my books, and I remain quiet, as if someone’s looking at my art right in front of me. I wish I had some of mypictures up—ones of my friends or of my mom and me in LA, dressed up for a premiere. She hops over a pile of my hats, then peeks into the bathroom. I hold myself back from saying anything, not because it would be something rude, but because it would be something nice. Apologetic, careful, false. Or it would just be plain lame, like “how’s school?”
    â€œYou should come swim or lay out sometime,” she says. She walks back to the window and sits down on the built-in bench with the beachy, blue cushion. “I have magazines. I’m done with them.