![]() ![]() “Of course I wish I had your tan.” Shannon winds one of my shoulder-dusting butter-colored curls around her index finger and tugs. “I missed you, you bitch,” Shannon says, pecking my cheek. The only one who could without taking my gel manicure to the eyeball, really. She’s the only one who’d dare to call me Rissy. I don’t need to look up to know that Shannon Salter is speaking. “I was hoping you would,” I reply without shifting my gaze one iota. So why is it, when I walk into Stratford High on the first day of senior year, I am immediately reminded of what I don’t have? Why must all six feet three inches of Chase Harding, unreciprocated love of my life, be the very first person I see? Why must he be right down the hall from the school’s entrance, cracking up guys from the football team, stupid-hot calves on blatant display of stupid-hotness? ![]() Sure, my dad’s a disappearing shithead and I didn’t get the pony I wanted for my ninth birthday, but overall, I’d say life’s delivered pretty nicely. Granted, if ever I get too whiny about anything, my mother will start comparing my woes of not having my own car to her woes of not having her own shoes growing up in Russia, but even in my worst moments of spoiled bratdom, I know that having good friends, decent grades, frequent party invites, and perpetually clear skin makes me one of the luckiest of the lucky. All things considered, high school’s been pretty good to me. ![]()
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