FINCH
Day 9
By Monday morning, it's clear that '80s Finch has to go. For one thing, the picture of him in the Bartlett Dirt is not flattering. He looks unnervingly wholesome—I suspect he's a goody-good, what with all the not smoking and vegetarianism and turned-up collars. And, for two, he just doesn't feel right to me. He's the kind of guy who's probably great with teachers and pop quizzes and who actually doesn't mind driving his mom's Saturn, but I don't trust him not to screw things up with girls. More specifically, I don't trust him to get anywhere with Violet Markey.
I meet Charlie at Goodwill during third period. There's one down by the train station, in an area that used to be nothing but abandoned, burned-out factories and graffiti. Now it's been "regentrified," which means it got a new coat of paint and someone decided to pay attention to it.
Charlie brings Brenda for fashion backup, even though nothing she wears ever matches, something she swears she does on purpose. While Charlie talks up one of the salesgirls, Bren follows me from rack to rack yawning. She flips halfheartedly through hangers of leather jackets. "What exactly are we looking for?"
I say, "I need to be regentrified." She yawns again without covering her mouth, and I can see her fillings. "Late night?"
She grins, bright-pink lips spreading wide. "Amanda Monk had a party Saturday night. I made out with Gabe Romero." In addition to being Amanda's boyfriend, Roamer is the biggest prick in school. For some reason, Bren has had a thing for him since freshman year.
"Will he remember it?"
Her grin fades a little. "He was pretty wasted, but I left one of these in his pocket." She holds up a hand and waves her fingers. One of her blue plastic fingernails is missing. "And, just in case, my nose ring."
"I thought you looked different today."
"That's just the glow." She's more awake now. She claps her hands together and rubs them all mad-scientist-like. "So what are we looking for?"
"I don't know. Something a little less squeaky clean, maybe a little sexier. I'm done with the eighties."
She frowns. "Is this about what's-her-name? The skinny chick?"
"Violet Markey, and she's not skinny. She has hips."
"And a sweet, sweet ass." Charlie has joined us now.
"No." Bren is shaking her head so hard and fast, it looks as if she's having a seizure. "You don't dress to please a girl—especially not a girl like that. You dress to please yourself. If she doesn't like you for you, then you don't need her." All of this would be fine if I knew exactly who me for me was. She goes on: "This is the girl with the blog, the one that actress Gemma Sterling likes? The one who saved her 'crazy classmate' from jumping? Well, screw her and her skinny, skinny ass." Bren hates all girls who aren't at least a size twelve.
As she rattles on, about Violet, about Gemma Sterling, about the Bartlett Dirt, I don't say anything else. I suddenly don't want Bren or Charlie to talk about Violet, because I want to keep her to myself, like the Christmas I was eight—back when Christmases were still good—and got my first guitar, which I named No Trespassing, as in no one could touch it but me.
Finally, though, I have no choice but to interrupt Bren. "She was in that accident last April with her sister, the one where they drove off the A Street Bridge."
"Oh my God. That was her?"
"Her sister was a senior."
"Shit." Bren cradles her chin in her hand and taps it. "You know, maybe you should play it a little safer." Her voice is softer. "Think Ryan Cross. You see how he dresses. We should go to Old Navy or American Eagle, or better yet, to Abercrombie over in Dayton."
