The Monday after the Loskis’ dinner party, Darla tracked me down at school and forced Bryce Loski back into my brain.
“Jules! Whoa, girl, wait up! How have you been?” “I’m fine, Darla, how are you?”
“No, seriously,” she whispered. “Are you doing okay?”
She shifted her backpack and looked over each shoulder.
“I got to thinking, you know, that was just so cold of Bryce. Especially since you’ve got that soft spot for him.”
“Who told you that?” “Like I haven’t got eyes? Come on, girl. It’s a given.
Which is why I got to worryin’ about you. Are you seriously all right?”
“Yes, I am. But thanks for thinking about me.” I eyed her and said, “And Darla? It’s not a given anymore.”
She laughed. “How long’s this diet gonna last?” “It’s not a diet. I’ve just, uh, lost my taste for him.”
She looked at me skeptically. “Uh-huh.” “Well, I have. But thanks for, you know, caring.”
All through first period I was still feeling strong and right and certain,
but then Mrs. Simmons ended the lesson a full fifteen minutes early and said,
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