Me: Tell him that he’s the bestest, bestest.

Wynter: I thought I was the bestest, bestest. :(

Me: No, you’re the bestest, bestest, bestest. But don’t tell the others.

Wynter: It’s our little secret. ;)

I set the phone on the console and back the car onto the road. The drive to school takes me about ten minutes. After parking the car, I grab my bag, get out, and take a seat on a bench in the campus yard with my bag on my lap, trying to hide my clothes as best as I can. As I’m digging through my bag for a stick of gum, I come across a few items I stole a couple of weeks ago. Usually, I hide everything in a loose floorboard in my closet, but mom knocked on the door while I was emptying my pockets, and I panicked and stuffed them into my bag.

I pull out one of the items and frown. A ceramic statue of a goose? I hate geese. I really do. They’re so mean and noisy. So why of all things did I jack this statue? I don’t even need it. What kind of person does that make me?

A terrible one who hates geese for no reason other than they’re noisy and mean.

“Dude, what’s up with the creepy-ass bird?” Beckett asks as he squints at the hand-sized statue in my hand.

He’s what most people call the preppy, rich kid of our group. They think he’s shallow and spoiled because his parents give him everything. That’s just the surface of Beckett, though. There’s way more going on underneath his nice clothes and good looks.

“It’s a present for my Gran’s b-day,” I lie, too afraid to tell him the truth.

He slides onto the bench beside me. “I hate to break it to you, Lu, but your present sucks balls. It’s seriously going to give your Gran fucking nightmares about the thing coming to life and eating her face off.”

“Okay, first off, gross, and second, you know I suck at picking out presents.” Not wanting to talk about the bird anymore, I stuff it into my bag. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Nope. Not even close. To distract myself from my terribleness, I skim the crowd forming in front of our school. “Where’s Wynter?”

He slumps back in the seat, his mood deflating. “She didn’t come out of her house this morning when I stopped to pick her up, and she hasn’t answered any of my texts.”

“Are you two still fighting?” I ask, pulling out my phone.

He props his foot up on his knee and rakes his fingers through his messy blond hair. “We were never fighting. We just had a mild disagreement.” When I elevate my brows at him, his lips quirk. “What? It wasn’t a fight? We didn’t even yell at each other.”

“Yeah, because she threw her drink in your face and then left your house before you could yell at her. If she’d stuck around, then you two definitely would’ve started yelling.” I swipe my finger across the screen of my phone.

Me: Where r u at?

Wynter: By my locker, waiting for you with some killa clothes.

Me: Awesome. But just an FYI, I’m with Beckett. He seems upset because you blew him off this morning.

Wynter: He totally deserves it. He called me a drama queen and a spoiled brat in front of the entire school, and he didn’t even apologize!

I sigh. Wynter is so about the drama, has been ever since we first met. Wynter and Beckett, however, didn’t used to fight. Back in second grade, Beckett used to have a crush on Wynter and would follow her around like a lovesick puppy. Thankfully, he stopped doing that around fourth grade when he decided he wanted just to be friends.

Me: He just told me to say he was sorry.

“I didn’t even do anything that I need to say sorry for,” Beckett says as he reads the message from over my shoulder.

“You called her a spoiled brat. You know she hates that, Beck,” I shoo him away from my phone.

“But she is a drama queen and a spoiled brat. So am I. She should just own it.” He bounces his knee up and down, growing frustrated. “She always acts like a princess in front of everyone when she’s drunk. And I’m not going to just sit there and put up with her drama.”

I push to my feet. “I know you’re trying to look out for her, but maybe next time, you should try taking her aside and talking to her about stuff instead of yelling at her in front of everyone.”

“Maybe there won’t be a next time,” he says. “Maybe I’ll finally say to hell with her shit and stop apologizing for stuff I don’t need to be apologizing for.”

“You know you’re not going to do that. She may be a pain in the ass, but she’s still your friend.”

“I guess so. I just wish she’d be nicer to me and quit freakin’ out over the tiniest things.”

“She’s nice when she’s sober, just like you’re more serious when you are.” I sling the handle of my bag over my shoulder. “I’m headed inside. You coming?”

He shakes his head, staring at the parking lot. “I’m waiting for Ari. I’ll catch up you with ya later, though.”

Waiting for Ari is code for he’s avoiding Wynter for a while and will probably have a guy bitch-fest with Ari. Poor Ari. He’s too nice, and he won’t say anything to Beckett, even if he doesn’t want to listen to him complain.

I decide to do Ari a solid and send him a text, warning him about Beckett’s pissy mood so at least he’ll have a choice over whether or not he wants to listen. More than likely, he’ll still meet up with Beckett because he’s not the kind of person to blow his friends off.

After I send the message, I wave good-bye to Beckett then weave through the crowd and toward the school with the morning sunlight beaming down on me. It’s late September, but since we live in a fairly dry and sandy place, the temperatures are still in the high seventies. I miss my shorts and skirts. I miss the fresh air on my long legs, which are going to get super pasty hidden beneath the god-awful pants my mom is going to make me wear for the rest of my existence.

“Whoa, she must really be mad at you.” Wynter’s face is pinched with disgust just like everyone else that has looked at my outfit this morning. She’s sitting in front of her locker with her legs stretched out, munching on a bag of chips.

I’m jealous of the cut-offs, silk kimono, and platforms she’s wearing. On top of being a diva, Wynter is really into clothes and completely obsessed with shoes to the point where we’ve all questioned if we should give her an intervention about her shoe addiction.

“You should’ve stopped by my house and changed before you came to school.”

“Yeah, probably, but I’ve been a little out of it since she made me torch my clothes.” I sink down on the floor beside her and slump back against the locker. “I don’t want to hate her, but sometimes it feels like I do. I’m such a bad person.”

“You’re not a bad person. All kids feel like they hate their parents at some point in their lives,” she says, munching on a chip. “And besides, your parents are freakin’ psycho, making you burn all those pretty clothes like that. You seriously need to tell them to fuck off.”

A stressed breath eases from my lips. Just thinking about telling them off makes me sick to my stomach. “I’ll think about it.”

“No, don’t think about it. Do it.” She offers me some chips, and I shovel up a handful. “I mean, you’re already eighteen, for God’s sake. They need to start realizing they can’t control you anymore. You need to be your own person.”

Easy for her to say. Wynter’s parents are completely the opposite of mine and pretty much ignore her and let her do anything she wants. While she pretends her life is fun, I can tell she gets lonely sometimes.

“I’ve been trying to. You know that.” I look down at my hideous sweater. “But I feel like I’m starting all over again.”

“You’re not starting over. Your mom can’t burn all those parties and fun things we’ve been doing.” Wynter evaluates my outfit again before springing to her feet. “But we do need to get you out of those clothes like ASAP; otherwise, I’m going to have to disown you.” She smiles so I’ll know she’s kidding.