Page 7 of Law Maker
Mandy narrowed her eyes like she thought I was lying, but I wasn’t. I didn’t hate Sharon. I hated that Dad never spent time with me anymore. I hated that my worth was reduced to grades. I hated that he yelled whenever he was stressed—which was all the time. Most of all, I hated that Mom would be sad if she saw how cold we were with each other.
Sharon made Dad happy. She drove me to school, work, and hip-hop. Ididn’thate her. I just hated that five years ago, Mom’s place had been left vacant for Sharon to take.
Mandy slid the closet door open. “Gosh, Demeri, do you own anything that isn’t gray or black?”
I picked up a pink highlighter and waved it in the air.
“You’re weird,” Mandy muttered, shaking her head. “I want to help you pick an outfit for tomorrow’s party, but everything looks like funeral wear.”
“Whose party?”
Mandy giggled. “Dean’s.”
My gut churned. With her wavy chocolate hair and hazel eyes, Mandy was pretty. Lots of boys at school would date her—if she weren’t hung up on the worst guy possible.
Dean was a good-looking senior, but he made my skin crawl. The way he tossed girls aside like used condom wrappers didn’t help.
“I can’t go tomorrow,” I said, closing the textbook. “I’m grounded. And I work, remember?”
Friday’s dinner rush meant better tips—and a small step closer to my dream of buying my own car. Grill&Go was a popular diner in Stetbourg, and even though my supervisor Cynthia was a pain, I liked the job.
Mandy shrugged. “Call in sick. It’s one day. I’m sure you can find a way to get your dad to let you go. He left you without a birthday party—just say you’ll be at my place.”
“He won’t let me.” I stacked my textbooks and notebooks in a neat pile on the desk. “And I really need the money.”
Scoffing, Mandy rifled through my closet. “Boring, boring, boring … You don’tneedthe money, Demeri. Your father owns a freaking racingteam.” She slid a short black dress off the hanger and held it against her chest. “You could wear this.”
She wasn’t listening—or, as usual, didn’t want to. Same difference.
“Ineeda car,” I said. Without one, I was stuck relying on Sharon. She never said she hated driving me, but her huffs and long sighs were enough.
Mandy hung the dress on a spare hanger and shoved it between two gray hoodies, wrecking the color order Mom once taught me. “What youneed,” she said in her listen-to-me tone, “is to just ask your father. You think pretending to be independent is cool, but honestly, it’s stupid when all you need to do is open your mouth and—”
“Mandy.” I cut her off, the knot in my stomach pulling tighter. “He won’t buy me one, and I can’t keep depending on his girlfriend. I’m sorry about the party. Really. But it’s not a priority.”
“No.” Mandy let out a sharp laugh. “I’mnot a priority.Our friendshipisn’t a priority. You know I need to be there if I want Dean to finally notice me.”
I slid my gel pens into a pink holder. “He sees you every day at school, Mandy. I’m sure he’s noticed you.” Along with a dozen other girls he’d shoved his tongue at. She deserved better, but saying it would only piss her off more.
She pursed her lips. “So, you won’t go? That’s your final decision?”
“I’m sorry.” I stood. “I can’t pass up a hundred bucks in tips. I promise I’ll go to the next party with you, just not this one.”
“Whatever.” Mandy grabbed her purse and jacket, rolling her eyes. “You just turned eighteen, but act like you’re thirty with a mortgage and kids. Job, money,” she mocked as she headed for the door. “I’ll tag you in stories so you see what you’re missing. Happy birthday, I guess—if you can actually be happy.”
I tried to be. Maybe I couldn’t. My eyes burned. I blinked hard, then walked her out and leaned against the front door.
I’d always imagined best friends as two halves of a heart—fitting seamlessly, beating in unison. For a while, that was us. But over the last couple of years, our priorities kept drifting apart. A crack split the heart, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fill it.
Dragging my feet back to my room, I tidied up and grabbed my diary. November was almost here, too cold to sit outside, but I pulled on a hoodie and headed for the bench by the backyard fountain. Writing eased me more than the sessions with Dr. White ever did. I trusted my pink notebook more than the therapist Dad chose without asking if I even liked him.
I opened to a fresh page and wrote about Mandy and our almost-argument, about my frustration with math. . . and about Asher. He was coming tomorrow, now that he’d signed with the team Dad bought.
Nerves gripped my chest. Asher wasn’t fifteen anymore. He was twenty—a pro athlete.
Sharon never liked talking about her son with me. Everything I knew came from sports news. That’s why I knew all about his career, but nothing about the man he’d become.
With the pink book in my lap, I leaned against the bench. The fountain’s gurgle soothed me enough to close my eyes. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t over. I still had to sit through birthday dinner with Dad and Sharon once they got back from the mall. Maybe if I faked being sick—
