Parrish pushes the sleeves of his jacket up to reveal his sea of colorful tattoos.
“Gamer Girl, you’re staring at me again,” he says, leaving me to choke and sputter in my Pokémon sweats, my oversized anime hoodie, and my lime green headset. My heart thunders, and my throat feels tight and scratchy all of a sudden. Between the two of them, Maxx and Parrish could start their own world-crushing influencer brand. Tack Chasm into the deal, and they could rule every social media platform known to man. “I already warned you: don’t fall in love with me.”
Maxx lets out a tired sigh, but I’m unfazed. That ember in my belly burns and burns and burns, drawing the dark smoke of my anger out.
“If I’m staring, it’s only because I can’t believe anyone under the age of sixty wears khaki. Maybe it’s just a ‘young republican, country club’ sort of a thing.”
Parrish smirks at me and steps closer, leaning his forearm on the wall above my head so he can stare down at me with that stupid Insta-worthy face of his. I beg the universe to send a horde of pimples his way, anything to mar that perfect skin and steal the cocksureness from his face.
“And what about your outfit, Gamer Girl?” he taunts, when he damn well knows my real name. “Did you get lost on your way to a subreddit about first person shooters?”
“Let me kick your ass on one, and we’ll see,” I retort, looking past Parrish to Maxx. He’s watching the interaction between the two of us with an expression that I can’t quite puzzle out. He looks irritated, but when he speaks, he doesn’t sound like it.
“Gamer Girl?” he queries, because unlike Parrish, he hasn’t heard me up in my room gaming on my computer until four in the morning. Sometimes, I leave the door cracked, just to see how many times my new stepbrother gets up for snacks. I counted a dozen just last night. Also, I noticed that he sometimes glances in my room to see what I’m doing. I pretend like I’m not aware of any of that.
“If the label fits.” I shrug my shoulders as Parrish lets out a harsh, derisive sort of laugh.
“Oh, it fits,” he says, looking me over yet again, like there’s something wrong with a girl who enjoys video games.
I was thinking of working on my Twitch channel tonight, but I’m not sure if I can handle trolls and misogynists and pervs right now. I considered starting a brand-new channel to try to disguise my identity, but nothing stays secret on the internet for long. By the end of the week, it’ll be just like my original channel: filled with people asking about the kidnapping, about Saffron, about Tess the crime novelist, about my Princess Diaries-esque rise in class.
My stomach roils and I slip the headset down to rest against the back of my neck.
Maxx’s mouth twitches with a genuine smile as Parrish frowns even harder, like something about me is just bugging the ever-living crap out of him.
“Do you want to go with us?” Maxx asks, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of Tess’ office. Her door is closed, and I can hear the Killers’ song Mr. Brightside playing on repeat. We have that in common, playing songs on a loop. I’ve listened to RADWIMPS’ Sparkle about thirty times today. “If you turn your lights off and lock the door, Tess will usually leave you alone.”
Parrish gives Maxx a scathing sort of look, like he can’t believe his friend is passing on such valuable tips to an intruder.
I think for a moment; my natural inclination, of course, is to stay here. Like I said, I’m a great indoors person. And an introvert. But … this house, it isn’t home. I’m not entirely sure a party would feel anymore alienating or uncomfortable than this sterile room with its pretty lake view. I did, at least, take it upon myself to shove the bed into one corner. No offense but people who put their beds dead center in the middle of the room are weird AF. I’d rather do the teenager/single person thing and shove it into a corner with only a single nightstand. It’s preferable than free floating in such a large space; I need to feel grounded.
Parrish looks past me and notices before glancing back in the direction of Tess’ office door.
“We need to get going. Make up your damn mind.”
“I’ll go,” I say, addressing X rather than Parrish. “Let me slip my shoes on.”
“Don’t you need to change?” Parrish asks, his voice this lofty, annoying condescension that makes me want to scream. I look back at him in his stupid khaki-colored jacket and his designer slip-on sneakers.
“Don’t you?” I retort, because I long ago decided that any friends who can’t accept me because of the clothes I wear are not friends that I’d want in the first place. I slip on a mismatched pair of Converse—one green, one black to match my hair, much to Parrish’s chagrin—and off we go.
