Relying On Ben and Jerry (Waltham #1)

Chapter Twenty-Two: YOLO

I would my lying my booty off if I didn’t say that the biggest problem I faced the night of the party was the state of my hair. I’ll admit that I had a barrel full of other problems as well, but the real tragedy in all of this was my hair.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” I demanded, looking out the window skeptically. Kline glanced down at her lap where her directions were sitting, her hands on the wheel as the car idled outside of a picturesque white house that I was almost a hundred percent sure I had seen in a magazine once, her eyebrows scrunching together as she tried to read the print on the page. She looked back up at me and opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly it snapped shut and she stared past me blankly.

“I’m going to have to say that the kid vomiting into the bushes while holding a red cup means that’s a 10-4.”

One of my problems was that I couldn’t resist looking.

“Oh, that’s gross,” I announced, grimacing over at her. “Is there anywhere to park?”

“Gee, I don’t know,” Kline replied. “There’s hardly enough room in the street to drive for miles.”

“What is up with you today?” I demanded. “You’re acting all crabby.”

“I didn’t get my daily dose of caffeine,” she explained to me with a senseless shrug. “Standing between me and my dose of caffeine is a sin, man, and my mom hath committed it.”

“It’s nine o’clock at night,” I pointed out, rolling my eyes. “It’s too late in the day for coffee.”

“Dude,” she said, “I don’t stand between you and your Chunky Monkey.”

And because that was about as true and Robin Hood wearing some spiffy tights, I had nothing else to say.

I glanced back at the house fleetingly as she drove to the edge of the street, nearly killing us as well as another driver as she snagged a spot like she was sliding into first base instead maneuvering a metal death trap of rubber and glass and . . . well, metal. I clutched the oh-shit bar as she pulled in whistling, the other driver sitting on their horn. Kline checked her hand.

“And I didn’t even break a nail,” she told me proudly, holding her hand out for me to observe the phenomenon as well. I didn’t point out that Kline bit her nails and therefore didn’t have any to break and instead glanced back at the street, where the car was still hovering, the window rolled down as the middle-aged old lady stared us down.

She gave us the bird. And by “the bird”, I mean the Napoleon Dynamite, I-fly-and-poop-on-cars, thumbs-hooked-together bird.

“Only in Boston,” one of my best friends sighed, shaking her head.

“What was that?” I demanded incredulously as the woman stepped on the gas and shot away like the CIA was chasing her. Kline pulled on the parking brake and turned off the radio, shrugging her shoulders.