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her again right when she was trying so hard to like her?
    Zadie had never had a problem with Helen—at least not a severe problem—until high school. When Helen hit puberty, she sprouted the perkiest of breasts. Not too big, not too small. Phoebe Cates tits circa Fast Times at Ridgemont High. And she still had them. Unlike Zadie, who was sporting C cups that were far more susceptible to gravity than she would’ve preferred. Certain months seemed to feel the pull of the earth more than others. August, for instance. Whenever she put on a bikini, her boobs seemed to hang in a distinctly southern direction. The left one hung a good half inch lower than the right. Which was not something Victoria’s Secret cared to address. Had she a need for sexy lingerie, she might’ve been moved to write a letter. The fact
that she was currently spending every weekend hiding out in her apartment allowed her to not give a shit. Except when she saw Helen’s tits.
    But it wasn’t just Helen’s physical superiority that angered Zadie, it was her incessant good will. Helen had once given Zadie a kitten. For her sixteenth birthday. Helen had always given her a birthday present. Zadie could barely remember when she was supposed to change her Brita filter, let alone buy her cousins charming birthday gifts. Denise didn’t seem to mind. They’d never exchanged gifts. But Helen sent her one every goddamn year, like a plague. Reminding Zadie that she was too disorganized and callous to do the same.
    Sometimes Zadie felt that Helen was only well mannered in order to point out to others that they weren’t. Not to mention that there was a vengeance in Helen’s thoughtfulness. The kitten had peed on every square inch of Zadie’s comforter. And the beautiful wall mirror framed by Italian tile that Helen had given her for her thirtieth birthday only served to make Zadie ashamed that she left the house without makeup so often. Why would you give someone a gift that reminded them how inadequate they were? Why didn’t Helen just send a framed picture of herself with a card that said, “You suck and I don’t”?
    By the time homeroom ended, Zadie had a raging headache and was fairly certain that Helen deserved to be tortured by angry bees. Before the engagement, Helen and her spiteful perfection were merely a thorn in Zadie’s side. Now they felt like a pine tree jammed right up her ass.
    When Trevor arrived for sixth period, his crack was showing. Plumber’s butt on the middle-aged was fodder for SNL, but a hint of crack on an eighteen-year-old boy whose round globes of asscheek were just a scant bit below said crack was something to be worshiped. Zadie had once stood behind him at the Coke machine, imagining what it would be like to put her lips on the back of his neck—so smooth, so tan, so soft. Would he sigh? Would
he turn and kiss her on the mouth? Would he get hard? She looked away. The sight of his ass crack sent her into a spiral of shame. No, no, no. Trevor was not lickable. He probably didn’t even taste good.
    As she tried to distract herself with the attendance sheet, he walked up to her desk. “Ms. Roberts, do you think you could hook me up with someone who could get me into Stanford? I got waitlisted.”
    Zadie glanced up, trying not to look directly at him. “Have you talked to your counselor about it?”
    “He doesn’t know anyone.”
    “What makes you think I do?”
    “You’re cool. You have to know somebody.” The fact that her students thought she was cool because she’d been engaged to Jack was something she generally ignored. But now it occurred to her that Trevor might think she was hotter than he’d normally think she was, due to this fact. The tragedy and joy of this discovery danced in her brain, giving her a worse headache than she’d had before.
    “I’ll try to find someone, but I can’t promise you anything.”
    He smiled at her. “Thanks. You rock.” Oh, yes she would. She’d rock his fucking world.