SYCAMORE ROAD
Tuesday, September 22nd
4:39 P.M.
Dylan had imagined herself riding doubles on the back of a boy’s bike many times before. A silk Hermès scarf tied around her red curls . . . tanned calves glistening in the sunlight . . . cashmere-coated arms hugging a distressed leather jacket . . . But never had she envisioned herself post-detention, wearing pigeon poo–covered sweats, red rain boots, and gripping a hoodie with cracked dishpan hands. Yet there she was, on Derrington’s silver BMX, off to buy his sister a birthday present. And she had never felt more beautiful.
Students lumbering home under the weight of their backpacks envy-glanced as they passed. Dylan made sure they saw her “my life is so perfect I’m bored” expression. Lids heavy . . . mouth relaxed . . . hungry.
After a few blocks, Derrington started to slow down. And then the bike started to wobble.
Am I too fat?
Dylan spit out her wad of Twisted Tornado Bubblicious, hoping to lighten the load. Still, the bike swayed from side to side.
“I should get off,” Dylan managed, despite the lump in her throat.
“Good idea.” Derrington slammed on the brakes.
“What?”
“My ankle.” He began loosening his laces.
“Oh!” The throat lump disintegrated. “Want me to pedal?”
He folded his arms across his chest and shrugged.
“Trade places,” Dylan insisted, feeling revitalized and fabulously in control. She straddled the banana seat and honked his horn. “Clear the road!”
She sucked in her abs when he gripped her waist and managed to hold them in as she power-pedaled for the next eight blocks.
Rosemary mint shampoo wafted off Dylan’s hair and enveloped them in what she pictured to be an invisible scented heart. . . . Then a vision of Massie formed in her head, or rather, what the alpha would do if she saw them right now. And the heart scattered like glitter in the wind.
“You’re strong,” Derrington mused, thumb-drumming on her back as they rounded the corner onto Main Street.
OMG, he thinks I’m a man. Massie would never pedal a boy. Not even for charity!
“He’s injured, okay?” Dylan shouted at a gawking toddler in a pink fleece–lined stroller.
Derrington leaned forward and honked his horn as they weaved through the foot traffic.
Beep beep beep beeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Beep beep beep beep beeeeeeeep. Beep beep beep beeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Beep beep beep beep beeeeeeeep.
They cut through the middle of the sidewalk, forcing pedestrians to pick a side or perish. Shopping bags, children, and teacup dogs were yanked out of harm’s way with such urgency Dylan couldn’t stop pedal-laughing. Or was the giddiness a side effect directly related to Derrington’s chest being pressed up against her back? Either way, she needed to get off the black bike and show this boy that despite her strong legs and extreme mouth gas, she was all lady. And she would start by calling him Derrick.
“Here we are, Derrick.” She hit the brakes in front of Amazing Lace, a small boutique with big prices. “Shall we go in, Derrick?”
Saying his real name gave her that awkward French-class feeling. Like when Madame Vallon made her speak with the correct accent—It’s not jam-bone; it’s jahhhhhm-bon! It sounded forced and unnatural coming from her mouth. But Dylan wanted Derrick to know that, unlike Massie, she respected him. At the very least it might make up for her manly strength.
Derrington straddle-backed off the bike with the grace of someone who peed his pants. He limped over to the store window.
“What is this place?” he asked, pig-pressing his nose to the glass and fogging it up. Then he winked at the mannequin. “Hey, hottie.”
OMG, does he think she’s cuter than me? Is it her feminine dress? Her fat-free body? Her hard plaster stomach? Her pointy braless—
“Are you sure this place is right for my sister?” he asked, a look of concern in his eyes.
Truth be told, Dylan had no clue whether this store was right for his sister. Until yesterday, she hadn’t even known he had a sister. But she did know their dresses were imported. And that meant their sizing was all over the place. Sixes were often fours, fours were twos, and twos were zeros. What better way to remind him that she was a girl than to try on frilly outfits in petite sizes?
“I think your sister will love their stuff. Why don’t I try a few things on so you can see how they look?” Dylan held the door open and Derrington limped in.
Hold awn! Wasn’t the girl supposed to wait for the boy to open the door? Or were the rules different if the boy was injured?
It was funny. The person she wanted to ask was the same person she was hoping to avoid. She’d always gone to Massie with her crush questions, but clearly that was no longer an option.
The smell of soap and candles soothed Dylan instantly. “Is Katya here?” she asked the posture-perfect blonde dusting the glass jewelry display case.
“Vacation.” The woman lowered her head and peered out over her glasses. “My name is Camille. Camille Onuoha. Can I hulp you?” she asked like someone swallowing a pill without water.
“Just looking.” Dylan bit her lip, trying not to laugh at her accent.
“Gross!” Derrington pushed a bowl of potpourri aside and then promptly sneezed. Dozens of dried flower buds blew to the floor. “That smelled exactly like Principal Burns.”
“Ew!” Dylan burst out laughing.
“Lets get outta here.” Derrington smashed into a table of silk scarves on his way to the exit.
“Wait!” Dylan’s smile faded quickly. “I’m just gonna grab a few size-four dresses and slip them on. You know, to help you get an idea of what your sister will like.”
“The only thing you’re grabbing is that potpourri.” Camille pinched the bowl and marched it over to the register. “If you can afford it.”
Dylan’s heart began to pound. Had she not been humiliated enough for one day? Pigeon poo–covered sweats? Biking a boy though town? And now mistaken for a vagrant?
“How much is it?” Derrington pulled a crumpled twenty out of his jeans. “I guess my sister could use it in her bathroom.” He fanned the air in front of his nose. “She’s a total bran lover.”
Dylan cracked up.
“It’s sixty dollars.” The woman scowled, folding her thin arms across her flat chest. “You need forty more.”
“I got it.” Dylan slapped down her ultra-exclusive American Express black card.
Camille lifted the card to her face. “You are hardly Merri-Lee Marvil.” She reached for the phone.
“True.” Dylan grinned. “But my mother is.”
“Score!” Derrington wiggled his butt.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Marvil.” The woman managed a smile as she put the phone back down. “It’s just, with credit card fraud being what it is . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “Let me help you start a room. We have some lovely things from Brazil. And of course we can forget about the potpourri mishap.”
“Maybe you can”—Dylan fake-sniffled—“but I can’t. And neither will my mother.”
“But—”
“Butts are for kissing!” Dylan shouted back. “So kiss this!” She wiggled her rear while Derrington stuck the mannequin’s bony fingers up her perfect mannequin nose. And with a flip of her rosemary-mint scented hair, Dylan marched out.
They laughed all the way to the dollar store. They laughed while they picked out sixteen “sweet” presents for his sister— a massive jawbreaker, caramel-scented car-freshener, and earmuffs shaped like lambs. They laughed while he bought Pinkberry with the change. And they laughed while they shared it.
So what if her size-four fashion show never got off the ground? The rest of her was soaring.