“I didn’t think he could,” Adara says. “I thought you had more self-respect than that.”
“But I knew he could.” Stella winks at him. “He’s charming and you’re weak. I was right.”
Griffin stands there, stiff and silent.
“We made a bet.” Adara links her arm through his. “A latte at Kaldi’s coffee shop to whoever was right.”
I stare at Griffin. “You knew about this? You started this?”
He makes no indication he even hears me.
“I must confess,” Stella coos, turning her attention to Adara. “I did cheat a little. I gave Phoebe some motivation to spend time with him—to befriend him. If you want to call the bet, I understand.”
“No,” Adara assures her. “You were right. Whether you urged her along or not, she still fell for him like a lead anchor.”
My head is spinning.
It was all because of a bet. He spent time with me, treated me like a friend, all because of some stupid bet. The whole Hercules thing was probably a total lie. And that garbage about breaking up with Adara.
Before I can stop myself, I take two steps toward Griffin, pull back my hand, and slap him as hard as I can. I don’t wait around to see if I leave a mark.
“Nicole was right about you. You’re a selfish bastard.” I barely have control of the tears trying to fill my eyes. “Stay away from me.”
Then I run all the way home.
Mom tries to get me to talk when I won’t even leave my room for dinner, but I tell her it’s just hormones and she leaves me alone. Even if she doesn’t believe me.
Spending an entire day locked in my room, avoiding all social interaction, gives me a lot of time to think. I go back over all the moments with Griffin, analyzing each one, and decide that I can’t tell when he was being straight and when he was playing me. Which only reinforces my decision to stay as far away from him as possible. I can’t trust myself to tell which Griffin I’m talking to.
Around ten o’clock I decide to check my e-mail.
I have been avoiding it all day—just in case there’s another drama/crisis/problem waiting for me in my inbox. After deleting all the spam—you would think the gods could develop some sort of supernatural spam-blocker—I have three new messages. I decide to open in the order of most likely to make me feel better—or rather, least likely to make me feel like worse crap.
The first is from Coach Jack at USC.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Cross-Country Scholarships
Miss Phoebe Castro, I am pleased to announce that you are being considered for the Helen Rawlins Memorial Scholarship. Pending your successful admission to the University of Southern California, you will compete with three other candidates for this prestigious scholarship that will cover your tuition, books, fees, room and board for up to four years of undergraduate education.
Annual renewal of the scholarship is dependent upon maintaining an above-average academic record and participation in the USC cross-country team.
Best of luck,
Coach Jack Farley
This isn’t anything I didn’t already know. Coach Jack told me at camp that I was up for the scholarship, even though the official announcement wouldn’t be made until the fall. He also said that if I get through senior year with a B average and do well in cross-country meets then the scholarship is mine.
Six months ago that didn’t seem like a difficult task.
Today it seems impossible.
I move that message into my USC folder and go on to the message from Cesca.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Jerk Alert
I’m sorry I’ve been acting like such a jerk, Phoebe. There has been so much going on and I don’t have you here to talk to about any of it. When you said you couldn’t tell me what that IM was about I guess I just took out all my frustrations on you.
Forgive me?
Cesca
I saved her message for second because I couldn’t tell what it was going to be like from the subject line. She could just as easily have been calling me the jerk.
I am massively relieved that she’s apologizing—not that she needs to. I’m the one with the secret. I should be apologizing, too.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Just As Jerky
Forgiven.
Now do you forgive me? I really, really, really wish I could tell you what I meant, but it’s not my secret to tell and it affects a lot of other people. Just know that there aren’t any important secrets between us and there never will be.
Love and kisses,
Phoebe
After clicking send I stare at my inbox, wondering whether I want to open the third message. It’s from Griffin. Curiosity gets the better of me.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: If I could do it over . . .
. . . I wouldn’t treat you so badly.
I’m sorry.
Today wasn’t about the bet.
Give me another chance.
G
Just like him: brief, cryptic, and full of crap.