Page 57 of Furious

Zaynah and I haven’t seriously fought since eighth grade, when we couldn’t agree on which movie to see at the Cineplex—I wanted Godzilla, she wanted The Secret Life of Pets 2. We both thought the other was being ridiculously stubborn, which stirred up wounds as old as elementary school, and didn’t speak for a week and a half. I’m getting the feeling that this will be worse.

“What does that mean?” I ask, already knowing I shouldn’t.

“You’re always with JoJo, and you hardly even talk to me. We haven’t seen each other all summer except for work and volunteer club. I didn’t even know you two were dating until the barbecue, when I saw you kissing, and you haven’t said anything since. It’s like now you have her to get in trouble with, and you don’t want me around. We have a club event this afternoon, remember? At the nature center in Deerfield? I’m guessing since you’re with her, you won’t be there.”

“Oh my God, so? I’m always showing up. I show up for work, I show up to tutor, I show up for every school event, I show up for the club. I’m allowed to have more important stuff to do,” I hiss back as quietly as I can.

Another wrong move.

“More important than the volunteer club, or more important than me?”

“That’s … I didn’t—”

“Whatever,” she cuts me off coolly. “I was calling because I was worried. I shouldn’t have been. You’ve done this before, you know. When Max came home? I know she’s your sister and I’m just … me, but I hardly saw you until she left. And then we weren’t even supposed to talk about her, no matter how worried I was. So I guess we’ll talk again when JoJo leaves, right?”

“Zaynah, stop, I—”

The call ends.

I sit there in the stall for a long moment, steaming. Because I’ve seen Zaynah plenty this summer. We talk all the time, practically every day, and I definitely told her about JoJo before the barbecue.

Didn’t I?

With shaking fingers, I go into our text thread, stretching back and back and back. Her text this morning went unanswered, sure, as did a few increasingly unhinged “where are you?!?!?!?” messages since.

But then, dread trickling down and pooling in my stomach, I see a dozen unanswered or barely answered texts before that, from the last week alone. Including an “OMG, you and Jo!!” she sent during the party, probably typing beneath the picnic table, which I never did respond to. And there’s no mention of The Mario Kart Kiss in anything I’ve sent since that night in the attic.

Well, fine. I fucked up. This is another thing for me to fix when I get back to Dell’s Hollow. Make up with my parents. Make up with Zaynah. Apologize to the club, and to my Putt by the Pond manager for missing my opening shift. Promise everyone that I’ll do better, be better, become the girl everyone can count on all over again.

But first: Max.

By the time I slow my breathing enough to leave the bathroom (with a few customers coming and going in the meantime), I arrive just in time to find Hazel setting my plates on the table.

“Everything all right, sweetie?” she asks, seeing my face; maybe I’m not as under control as I thought I was when I left my bathroom stall cocoon.

I paste on a happy customer smile, which gets a little easier as I slide into the booth and the steam from my cheesy grits wafts over me; I really am starving. “This looks so great, thanks. Did you, um, find out when my sister comes in today?”

“Ah, I thought maybe somebody else here told you, and that’s why …” Her forehead puckers, and her voice is soft as she tells me, “Maxine isn’t coming in.”

“Like, she called out today?”

“My manager says she was let go last week, sweetie. She—can I get you something else? On the house. We make a great buttermilk pie.”

I shake my head, smile pasted in place until Hazel leaves. Then I text Jo call me, and wait and wait and wait for her to answer while my grits grow ice cold in front of me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

JoJo

The Richmond Raceway is a few miles away from downtown. Even with traffic, Rita makes it there in less than fifteen minutes. As she did last time, when she dropped El and me off outside the pawnshop, Rita looks at the Raceway and raises an eyebrow. It speaks volumes.

“You sure about this, JoJo?” she asks. We’re on a first-name basis now, and I also know the names of all her kids, her cat’s favorite spots to sleep in, and where she’s going on vacation later this summer. I’ve also told her too much about my family, my mom, and my racing aspirations.

I nod, taking in the mostly empty parking lot. “I’ve been around raceways my entire life. This feels more like home than home, honestly.”

“Just be careful, hon, okay? I’ll wait for you here.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can call another car.”