FACULTY PARKING LOT
Monday, September 21st
3:56 P.M.
Despite everyone’s best efforts to get her to stay for the soccer game, Massie convinced them to go to Pinkberry. And that meant Dylan would be missing the day’s gossip download and Cap’n Crunch–covered fro-yo.
But once the rest of the Pretty Committee pulled away in the Blocks’ Range Rover, a teensy part of Dylan felt free. After all, it wasn’t every day she had a date with a boy in the faculty parking lot.
So what if the “boy” was Massie’s ex-crush? Double so what if their “date” was really a detention. And triple so what if Ms. Dunkel would be there too? C-minuses can’t be choosers.
Derrington was sitting on the hood of a cherry red Subaru Forester listening to his black iPod nano when Dylan arrived. The laces on his left sneaker were untied and the tongue had been lifted, like a CEO who loosens his tie after a stressful day at the office. The guy was so hawt he made a foot injury look cool.
“Is Dunkel here yet?” she whispered, just in case.
Derrington shook his head and drummed on his thigh. An ah-dorable mess of dirty blond hair flopped against the green frames of his Ray-Bans.
Dylan grinned. Their sunglasses were the same color.
Then she frowned.
Why hadn’t she put on a fresh coat of lip gloss? Why hadn’t she swapped out Kristen’s ugly cords for something more flattering from the lost-and-found? Why had she eaten chive cream cheese for lunch when it repeated on her like a senile grandmother?
Dylan scanned faculty parking. School had ended almost thirty minutes ago and the lot was still full.
“Were the teachers abducted?” she joked, then immediately hated herself for not being funny.
Derrington continued drumming.
Dylan plucked the thin wire from his ear and—
“AHHHHHH!” he screamed in her face.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” She jumped back.
He burst out laughing, waving his nano to show it was never really on. “Gotcha!”
“You scared me!” Dylan smacked his foot.
“AHHHHHH!” he shouted again. Only this time he was biting his lower lip and grabbing his ankle.
“Ehmagawd, I’m sooo sorry.” She covered her mouth with two hands, realizing she’d just smacked his bum foot.
“S’fine.” He winced.
“Here.” Dylan pulled the poo- and coffee-stained henley out of her bag and began wrapping it around his swollen ankle.
“OW!” he shouted again. “What are you dooo-ing?”
“Applying direct pressure. Now stay still.” She swatted his hand away, imagining they were characters in a movie. He was the testy, wounded tough guy, about to realize he needed the touch of a beautiful woman to complete him.
“I’m not bleeding!” He shouted like he was mad but smiled like he was charmed. “I have a sprained—”
“Off my car!” Ms. Dunkel hurried toward them, waving her hands like she was walking through spiderwebs.
Derrington slid off the SUV, landing on his good foot. The other one hovered above the asphalt, like Heather Mills in a high heel. “Sorry.” He snapped his head, flipping the blond shaggy hair off his face. Dylan inched to his side, feeling electricity pass between their fingers, which were almost touching. Could he feel it too?
“As you can see, pigeons have had their way with our vehicles.” Ms. Dunkel surveyed the streaked cars like an army general assessing casualties. “Sewwwww”—she put her hands in the pockets of her navy Dockers and rocked back on her square heels—“for the next two days, while the faculty attends a BOCD overpopulation summit, you will scrub our cars clean. And in the future, you will do your best to fight all urges to climb trees, drop your drawers, and poke each other with sticks on school property.”
Dylan and Derrington exchanged side-glances, fighting the giggles as the details of their mission were explained.
“Understood?”
They nodded yes.
“A member of the custodial staff is on the way with bio-degradable soap, water, cloths, buckets, and paper hats.”
“Paper hats?” Dylan smoothed her red curls, apologizing to them in advance.
“Yes, paper hats.” Ms. Dunkel pointed at the gray sky as if that should explain everything. “There is a fair amount of disease in bird feces. If it seeps into your scalp, it may have unfavorable consequences.”
“Good ta know.” Derrington lifted his brows in faux fascination.
“Yes.” Ms. Dunkel turned toward the squeaking wheels of the incoming janitor’s cart.
“Here?” grunted a pale, freckle-faced man with a tight blond Afro the same color as his wannabe–Stella McCartney flight suit.
“Thank you, Russell.” Ms. Dunkel nodded dismissively. “And good luck, students.” She double-tapped the supply cart like it was a horse, then turned and hurried off toward the main building, her square heels scraping across the pavement.
“How are we gonna do this?” Dylan whined. “Should we sub it out and hire someone?”
Derrington snickered as if she were joking. “You have an iPod?”
“New iPhone,” she bragged.
A pigeon phlegm-cooed above their heads.
“Y’ave Nickelback?” Derrington grabbed two paper hats.
Dylan shook her head no twice: once for Nickelback and again for the paper hat. Fashion trumped feces.
“Coldplay?”
She shook her head again. Derrington shuffled through his songs.
“Chris Brown?” he hoped.
“Nope.” Dylan sighed, wondering if Massie kept boy music on her iPod for moments like these.
“What about Jonas Brothers?” Dylan squeezed her eyes shut, afraid of his reaction.
Derrington turned red. “Uh, whabum?”
“What?” Dylan giggled.
He inched closer, then mumbled, “What album?”
Dylan smiled. “A Little Bit Longer.”
He thumb-spun the dial, then pressed. “Tell anyone I have this and you’re more busted than my ankle.”
“Pinky-swear.” Dylan held out her pinky and he reached for it with his. They shook once but held on a half-second longer than friends usually did.
Derrington handed her a soap-filled bucket. “Cue up to ‘BB Good,’ and when I say go, hit play. If we each do two cars per song, we should be done in an hour.”
Dylan’s stomach base-jumped. Why did he want to be done so quickly? Wasn’t he having fun? Didn’t he like her? If Massie were there, would he want to be done in an hour?
“Ready?” he asked, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “One . . . two . . . threeeeeee . . . Go!”
Dylan pressed play. The song started and they began bobbing their heads at the same time. Derrington got right to work.
He lifted the nubby pink sponge out of the bucket with zero regard for the dripping sudsy water or what it might do to his hands. Then he slapped it down on a black Jeep Liberty and began scrubbing.
Ehmagawd! He knew how to wash a car. And more than that, he didn’t seem to think anything was wrong with that. It was blue-collar hawt.
Inspired, Dylan dunked her sponge with the same certainty.
Side by side they scrubbed, bobbing their heads and stealing occasional glances at each other. Whenever Derrington looked at Dylan, she’d smile serenely, like washing cars was her yoga. And whenever she looked at him, he scrubbed harder.
Ehma-shocking! Dylan thought, making soap hearts with her sponge. There she was doing manual labor and loving it. What next? A craving for beef jerky? The urge to shoot hoops after school? A belly shirt? How could a mere mortal trick her brain into thinking this was fun? Did Tom Cruise have that bewitching effect on Katie Holmes? Was that why she wore her hair like that?
Suddenly, an earthquake-size realization rattled Dylan. She and Derrington were soul mates! It was so ah-bvious. They had the same sense of humor. The same fair skin. The same ability to burp words. She recalled the days she and Kristen had fought over him. And how Massie settled the dispute by taking him for herself.
From then on, Dylan had hid her feelings like a skid-marked thong. Because coveting an alpha’s crush was unethical. And competing with an alpha? Well, that was impossible. Besides, wasn’t going from Massie to Dylan the same as switching from Gucci to Gap? George Clooney to George Bush? DSL to dial-up?
Dylan dipped her sponge and slapped it on a soiled white Acura. This time, the soap spilled down the hood like tears . . .
Ehmagawd! It was a sign! The universe was urging her to stop crushing on uncrushables. And if she didn’t, she would ooze and gush and leak like a fat sponge. Just like she had when Massie had love-napped Derrington. Just like she had when Kemp and Plovert had ditched her because she’d overburped. Just like she had in Hawaii when J.T. had chosen Svetlana.
Well, those days were over, starting . . . NOW. No more reaching for the stars. From this moment on, Dylan would happily remain the kind of girl guys liked as friends. The girlfriend’s girlfriend. The sad clown. She would never get hurt or embarrassed again. What was that expression? Once bitten twice shy?
Once bit-ten twice shy. Once bit-ten twice shy. Once bit-ten twice shy . . .
For the next twenty minutes, Dylan scrubbed the same spot to the rhythm of her new mantra.
Once bit-ten twice shy. Once bit-ten twice shy. Once bit-ten twice shy . . .
Her trance was interrupted by a text message sent from five cars away.
Derrington: U R a girl, right?
Dylan bit her bottom lip, hating herself for not glossing. Hating herself for not wearing prettier clothes. Hating herself for not being the kind of girl who normally thought washing cars was fun.
Dylan: looking for proof? Cuz u can forget it.
Derrington: LOL! 
Dylan casually pulled a white earbud out of her ear and listened. He really was laughing out loud.
Once bit-ten twice whatever! Since when was she the shy type? Yes, she was funny, but not every guy saw that as a threat. And since they were soul mates, he ah-bviously appreciated her—
Derrington sent another text.
Derrington: U know what a 16-yr-old grl would want 4 her bday?
Dylan’s chest deflated like a popped water bra. Of course he had a girlfriend. He just wanted to be friends. Same story, different outfit. Who was she kidding thinking that an alpha-dater would ever in a million years like a—
Derrington: Hu-llo? Answer pls.
Oops. What was the question? Dylan quickly scanned the conversation bubbles on her screen and then forced a convincing sad-clown smile.
Dylan: easy. A 16-yr-old grl wants an
18-yr-old boy. 
Ha! Let him think I’m racy and experienced too.
She peeked at him through the side of her dVbs. He was laugh-typing.
Derrington: Ew! Not 4 my sister!!!
Dylan exhaled. She had to have more faith. According to Massie—or was it Family Feud—after “funny,” the number two thing that turned boys off was “insecurity.”
Dylan: Massie never told me u have a sister.
Derrington: There are a lot of things massie doesn’t know.
Dylan: Like ???
Derrington: My name is Derrick. Not derrington. I wore shorts last winter cuz I lost a bet. I think red hair is cool.
Dylan lifted her eyes, silently asking the universe if maybe it had sent the wrong message. Maybe the suds had been a good sign. Representing a clean fresh start, not tears.
Derrington: So will you b-day shop with me tomorrow after doodie duty?
Dylan: Given. 
She dunked her sponge, squeezed out the excess water, and happily moved on to another car. But the more she scoured, the more insecurity frothed and foamed inside her brain like an overloaded bubble bath. Had Derrington asked her to shop because he wanted to hang, or because he wanted to make Massie jealous?
The more Dylan scrubbed, the more these doubts bubbled, until they spilled from her eyes and tasted like salt. Was this pendulum swing of emotion a normal by-product of meeting one’s soul mate? Or was it her gut instinct, warning her not to get her hopes up? Fool in love, or just a fool? The facts were in, but the jury was out.