Page 100 of Dirty Like Seth
I’d never seen her starstruck over Jesse or Zane. She’d known them for half her life. Dylan, for whatever reason, was a different story. Angie had always had a mad crush on Dylan. It was fucking hilarious, to me, and some days Ilivedto see her go all tongue-tied and weak in the knees when he took off his shirt or bent over, oblivious, in front of her. I could laugh because I knew she’d never act onit.
In my little sister’s mind, Dylan was a thing of untouchable perfection to measure all regular dudes against; she didn’t even want to touch him and risk the fantasy dissolving. She’d told me as much. Her exact words were,Dylan Cope is mystandard.
She was content in her unrequited crush, in worshipping him from a safedistance.
But Seth, somehow, she could both crush onandtalk to, apparently—even as the tiny cartoon hearts throbbed in hereyes.
“How many albums have you played on?” she asked him, watching him drink his coffee. Her blue-eyed gaze kept snagging on hislips.
I understood; Seth had incrediblelips.
“Including the one I did with Dirty,” he answered, “four.”
“What’s your favorite song?” sheasked.
“Of alltime?”
“Yes.”
“If I had to pick… ‘Carry On WaywardSon.’”
“I don’t know thatone.”
“Great song,” my dad putin.
“It’s Kansas,” Seth informed my sister. “From nineteen-seventy-six.”
Angie wrinkled her nose a bit. “Have you ever met LadyGaga?”
“No.”
“KatyPerry?”
“Saw her across a room once. Does thatcount?”
“And you didn’t go over toher?”
“Nope. Bigmistake?”
“Uh, yeah. Have you seen herboobs?”
“Angie, we’re at the dinner table.” That was my mom. She smiled apologetically at Seth, as if to say,Sorry my daughter’s such aperv.
“What kind of girls do you like?” Angie pressedon.
“Smartones.”
“Do you like blondes?” Angie wasn’t blonde; her hair was light-brown. I was the only blonde in theroom.
I threw her a warninglook.
“I’ve been known to,” Sethsaid.
“How long were you addicted toheroin?”
“Angeline,” I warnedher.
“What?” she protested. “It’s on theweb.”
