THE ROOF
Thursday, July 23
10:58 A.M.
Kristen pulled her phone from the pocket of her white cotton dress and stared at its screen.
The envelope icon on her black Razr wasn’t there, just like it hadn’t been there the last eight times she’d checked.
Each time Kristen thought about last night she kicked her soccer ball as hard as she could. And each time, it slammed against the cement wall that surrounded the roof of her building with a thwack.
How could she have left Layne behind?
Thwack!
How could Dune have left her behind?
Thwack!
Would she rather be punished for a year and have Dune’s respect?
Thwack!
Or have freedom and no one to share it with?
Thwack!
The sun was bearing down on her unprotected scalp like a judgmental eye. And the deserted black tar roof offered no relief. In fact, it felt like she was burning in a concrete hell, and, certain she deserved it, Kristen chose to stick it out.
Technically, with no job, no friends, and no crush, hell was everywhere she went, but up here, no one could see her cry . . . or sweat—two things she had been doing all morning.
Finally, Kristen allowed herself a long sip of tap water from her Evian bottle. She wiped her mouth on her salty arm, then pulled her black Razr from the pocket on her white H&M cargo dress (which would accidentally get caught on a nail and be ripped to shreds one week before the Pretty Committee got back).
No messages.
Thwack!
She shuffled across the scorching tar to retrieve her ball but stopped midway when her cell vibrated. It was a text.
From . . . Dune!
Dune: Need to talk ASAP. Where are you?
Kristen: Roof. Pinewood bldg. Take elevator to ninth floor.
Dune: See u in three minutes.
Three minutes?
Thwack!
Kristen tried to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the bottom of an abandoned Budweiser can, but hot beer trickled out all over her arm and made her chive-scented BO smell even worse. She ran around the perimeter of the roof, looking for a faucet, but found nothing. Maybe she could text Dune back and tell him to come over in an hour. After she had some time to shower and rehearse her this-is-why-I-left-a-buddy-behind speech.
But it was too late.
A car door slammed below, and, sure enough, Brice’s blue Chevy Avalanche pulled away.
There would be no shower.
Thwack!
No gloss.
Thwack!
No rehearsal.
Thwack!
No—
The metal door to the roof opened suddenly with a pump-hiss.
Kristen dried her eyes, then turned slowly, as if weighed down by shame.
A stocky blond with frizzy hair and brown terry cloth jumper stood before her fanning her face. “I bet you could get a killer tan up here,” the girl said. “It’s much closer to the sun than my roof. You can feel it.”
“Ripple?” Kristen’s heart sank like the elevator she wished she was taking her back down to her condo.
“Yeah, sorry.” She shrugged. “I pulled Dune’s phone out of his pocket just before Dad dropped him off at GAS.”
“Why?”
“If you got a text from me, would you have responded?” She lifted her face to the sun-soaked sky.
Kristen didn’t have to say a word. They both knew the answer.
“What do you want?” she asked, kicking the black-and-white ball. It rebounded off the wall and landed right back at her cleats. A move she wished Dune had been there to see.
Ripple pulled a black elastic off her wrist and tied back her perma-parched hair. “Turns out Skye got accepted to Alphas after all.”
For an instant, Kristen felt lighter than Kate Bosworth. Then she realized Skye’s absence wouldn’t bring her any closer to Dune. That was so yesterday. So before-he-saw-her-turn-her-back-on-Layne. “And?”
“And she’s being all un toward the DSL Daters.” Ripple kicked a cigarette butt with her clear jellies. “She’s dismantling the group. Says she only wants to hang with dancers now.”
“And?”
“Annnnnnnddddd I want you to be my tutor again so I can get Massie-fied. I’m offering you your old job back. You’ll get to see Duuuu-uuuuune.”
The heat on the roof suddenly seemed unbearable.
“Forget the job.” Kristen lifted her hair and fanned he back of her neck. “I’ll tell you what you need to know for free.”
Ripple speed-nodded and air-clapped. “I’m ready.” Her mouth hung open, ready to gobble up whatever Kristen had to offer.
“Massie thinks wannabes are LBRs minus ten.”
Ripple crinkled her brows in confusion.
“If she thinks you’re trying to be like her, she won’t like you. She only likes people who like themselves. And she only respects people who like themselves more than they like her. You have to accept who you are and own it. So if you’re living your life to impress other people, which is what you’re doing—”
“And what you’re doing,” Ripple snapped.
Ouch!
Her accusation hit Kristen like a much-needed bucket of ice water. For a dumb nine-year-old, Ripple was kind of smart.
“Correction—it’s what I was doing.” Kristen jammed her toe under her soccer ball, flipped it up, and caught it. “Those days are over. Class dismissed.”