Labels are for filing. Labels are for clothing. Labels are not for people. —Martina NavratilovaAshton“I can’t believe you’re making me play this.”
Her cackle makes me smirk, even if she’s forcing me to play the game with the worst graphics in history. Minecraft is the babysitter for grade school kids who are all jacked up on Mountain Dew when mommies and daddies around the world need a break.
It’s not for people like us.
Real gamers.
“I’m going to build a cute pen here to house my sheep,” she tells me. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll make you one too.”
“I don’t want sheep.”
“Pigs?”
“I could lock you in my pen.”
“You sayin’ I’m a pig?”
We tear our attention from the train wreck graphics to look at each other. Mia’s dark, sculpted eyebrow is popped up, trying and failing to give me hella attitude. She’s anything but a pig. Guys practically trip all over their damn feet when she’s around.
Straight guys.
I’m a little fucking crooked.
“Did you see the way you annihilated that pizza, MiMi?”
She groans, jerking her dark brown eyes back to the screen. “Pineapple is my weakness.”
“Oink, oink,” I tease.
A loud, unladylike snort escapes her, sending us both into a fit of laughter. For the fun of it, I start wrecking her dumbass pig pen because it’s in the spot where I’m going to build a pool. She screeches, all kinds of pissed at me, and starts kicking me.
“What the fuck?” I groan, dodging her small but deadly socked feet. “Keep those weapons on your side of the couch, dickhead.”
“You owe me a new pen!”
“Stay here with me tonight and I’ll let you build ten pens.”
She grows silent, darting her eyes over to me. “I already promised Sasha I’d go.”
“I’m sure there are fifteen other girls just waiting to do Sasha’s bidding. You don’t even like them,” I grumble.
“I do too,” she argues. “Sasha is in my Humanities class. I know you think she’s a snob, but I like her. She’s been inviting me to a lot of stuff lately. She’s just trying to be nice.”
But we both know that’s not true.
Sasha is the president for Delta Delta Delta. A gorgeous senior with a trust fund. The girl’s family runs in the same circles as mine. Where our dads may associate, Sasha and I do not.
I’m not cool enough for her.
Which means Mia’s not either.
But pledges are pledges, I guess, and Sasha is on a hunt for them.
We’re too normal, Mia and me. Or unrefined. Maybe even a bit rebellious. We’re certainly not the types who fit perfectly into a mold. It’s what brought Mia and me together in the first place this past summer. She’s my best friend, albeit by accident, but still my best friend.
“You’re mad,” Mia says, frowning. “Why are you mad?”
“I’m not mad.” I’m so mad. Mad that she can’t let this whole “I want to fit in” bullshit go. Of course she’ll never admit that’s why she’s doing it. Her excuse is that she wants to make friends.
She has a friend.
Me.
The best one.
The only one.
I’m not a possessive bestie or anything.
“You’re pouting,” she says, her lips quirking up on one side. “For someone who claims to never pout, you sure do it a lot.”
“I do not.”
“Ask your dad. He’ll agree with me.”
“That’s unfair. My dad loves you more than me. We’re not asking him.”
“Because it’s true,” she sings and then laughs. “Seriously. It’s just a club. And if you weren’t such an antisocial asshole, you could go with us. Sasha likes you.”
Sasha tolerates me because my dad is the dean.
“Hmph.”
“Come on,” she chirps. “Enough pouting. Let’s go next door and you can watch me get ready. Help me pick out something sexy. I might meet someone hot.”
At this, I laugh. “You’re asking me for outfit ideas?”
She skims over my worn Nirvana T-shirt and holey jeans. My face is sporting scruff because I can’t be bothered to shave unless Dad rides my ass about it. And my mop of messy brown hair… Yeah, my style is a little too fucking grungy to be giving advice to others.
“Gay men know style,” she tells me, grinning as she stands.
“That’s some stereotypical shit right there. Sit your ass back down. I’m about to build that pig pen back up for you and stick you in it.”
“Dick.”
“Vagina.”
We both laugh.
“Just come next door with me,” she pleads. “I’ll let you eat gummy bears.”
Wicked woman taunting me with my favorite candy.
“I can’t. Duty calls.”
“You’re going to go whack off to gay porn?”
“You’re such a bitch,” I say with a laugh. “No, asshole, I’m meeting some brainless hockey player. Needs answers for a test. Bad grades in a class and if he doesn’t get them up, they won’t let him play.”
“Why is he coming to you and not the tutoring center?” she asks, her eyes narrowed in question. “You’re not exactly the star student of Atlantic Pointe.”