Page 19 of The Beginning and End of Everything
I stared at her, eventually mumbling a very confused thanks. Hope wore expensive-looking clothes. Her hair was perfectly styled, her nails manicured, and her face caked in more make-up than I would ever be allowed to wear. Which meant, she was the kind of girl I would expect to befriend Neive, not me.
Brandon, Connor, and I had always been the outcasts, but for whatever reason, Hope had picked me—the measch—over the popular girl.
Later in the day, Hope and I trudged into the crowded, noisy cafeteria and fell into line with the other students. She shot death glares at Neive while we made our way through the line.
“Do you have some personal vendetta against Neive or something?” I asked Hope, taking my tray from the cafeteria worker.
“No. I just don’t like girls like her.”
We found an empty table and set down our food. Hope dropped into the seat across from me, grabbing her apple and taking a bite. “So, do football players really shove kids into lockers in America?”
I shrugged a shoulder. “I guess.”
A tray clattered to the table. “Hey, poss.” Brandon sank to the stool beside me, his eyes locked on Hope, and a smile crossed his face that made it hard to breathe. Connor plopped down on the other side of me, already shoving half a slice of pizza into his mouth.
Hope paid no attention to Connor, she was too busy giving Brandon a once over. Her nose wrinkled. “I can smell pikey a mile away.”
Brandon thumbed at Hope. “Who’s this bitch?”
“Hope.” I swallowed down her last name because I knew Brandon would lose it if he figured out who she really was, but an arrogant grin had already twisted Hope’s glossed lips.
“McGrath,” she finished the introduction, and Brandon’s eyes rolled back in his head on a hard huff.
“Hey.” Connor paused to lick grease from his fingers. “Doesn’t your family own McGrath Whiskey?”
“Yeah.”
He flashed an innocent, wholesome smile that marked him as the good boy. “Nice to meet you. I’m Connor.” He held out a grease-covered hand, but Hope just eyed it until he finally dropped it to the table and went back to his food with a hint of a shrug.
“Tell me you aren’t trying to be friends with her, poss.” Brandon nudged my shoulder. “She’s a redheaded, rich snot.”
I shoved him, and he nearly toppled off the stool. “She’s nice.”
“She’s a bitch.”
Hope’s eyes narrowed. “Only to pikeys.”
Brandon’s stare hardened on her. It was almost like watching two dogs circling a bone, foaming at the mouth. Then Brandon scooped mashed potatoes onto his fork and turned the utensil around. A deep smirk settled on his face.
“Brandon.” I grabbed at his arm, but he yanked away. “Don’t you—”
The fork pinged back, and a glob of food hurdled toward Hope, splattering her shirt. On a gasp, she scraped off the potato with her fingers, then hurled an entire apple at Brandon. It made a distinct crack when it nailed him on the forehead, and a hush fell over the cafeteria—except for the slurp from Connor’s downing his milkshake, eyes trained on the catastrophe at hand.
“Oh, that’s it.” Brandon snatched up his tray, nostrils flaring.
I wasn’t sure whether he intended to throw the whole tray at her or just sling every scrape of food off.
“Brandon,” I shouted. “Stop!”
The tray was still raised by his head when he faced me, brows knitted together. “You’re defending her? She’s a soulless ginger, poss.” He pointed an accusing finger at her with his free hand. “She’s not one of us.”
But I wanted her to be. Which meant I needed to play at Brandon’s weaknesses, and the only weakness I’d ever seen him have was for me…
“Neive called me a mankie measch this morning.” I tugged at his sleeve, and he dropped the tray a little, his attention directed at me. “She knocked my notebook to the floor, then stepped on it. Hope called her names, snatched Neive’s notebook, and gave it to me.”
Brandon tossed the tray to the table, sending mashed potatoes and peas into the air. He huffed before dropping into his seat. “Still soulless,” he mumbled under his breath.
9
