Free The Predicteds by Christine Seifert Page A

practically cover my feet.
    Brooklyn is waiting in Dizzy’s car, a shiny BMW. Nice. She’s obviously not keen on the idea of me coming with them—I can tell by the tight smile plastered on her face—but it doesn’t keep her from dominating the conversation on the ride over. Apparently, she’s scored a major coup. After the lake party, she went home with Sam, where they hooked up. “We’re pretty much dating now,” she tells me confidently.
    â€œCongratulations,” I say sarcastically. Brooklyn strikes me as the kind of girl who needs a boyfriend to feel good about herself. I should probably have some sympathy, give her a chance, but I dismiss her easily, simply because I don’t like the way she narrows her eyes when she talks, like everybody smells bad.
    I’ve always avoided Dell’s Diner on Main—it’s the kind of place that you wouldn’t feel right entering by yourself, kind of like the prom or a wedding chapel. Walking through the crowded parking lot with Dizzy and Brooklyn, I discover my suspicion was right: it is like a private party. Everybody from QH is at Dell’s, the place to be when it’s too hot, cold, early, or wet to be at the lake; the only thing to do in Quiet on a Sunday night. We are still talking about Sam when we walk into the diner and practically run into him. He’s dressed in a football jersey and cargo shorts.
    â€œHey, girls!” he calls. “Daphne, right?” he says to me.
    Brooklyn says to him, like she has a bite of old cauliflower in her mouth, “Daphne agreed to come with us. Aren’t we lucky?” She gives me a pageant smile and a hug that actually hurts. She hates me. Well, at least it’s mutual. Dizzy and Brooklyn flirt with Sam while I stand there, mushed between what feels like a zillion people in the main entryway. I stare impassively out the diner window to the parking lot. Under the streetlight, Nate Gormley—the kid I saw at the lake with January—puffs hard on a cigarette and runs his fingers through his tangled, greasy hair. January stands near him, a long trench coat covering her body, her skinny arms crossed against her chest and an inflexible scowl on her face.
    â€œGirlfriends!” Dizzy crows, running toward Lexus and Cuteny as they step through the doors. With them is Dizzy’s ex-boyfriend, Josh Heller. He’s wearing plaid shorts and a baby pink polo with the collar flipped up.
    Josh raises his hand to Sam for a high-five. They lock hands in guy solidarity. “What’s up, ya big wussy?” Josh says to Sam with obvious affection.
    â€œNothing. I see you’re still dressing like a clown, you stupid prepster.”
    They bump shoulders, side to side, forcing everyone else to step around them and give them room.
    Somebody get me a barf bag.
    â€œHey,” Josh says. “How come they got to go ahead of us?” He points out two women—probably in their late twenties or so—who walked in behind us, but who are now being led to an open table by the large windows. “That’s discrimination,” he says. He turns to the crowd milling behind him. “Right?” he asks.
    â€œRight,” a few voices respond.
    â€œDon’t start something, Heller,” Sam warns, but you can tell that Sam doesn’t mean it. “I’ve seen you in action.” He laughs.
    â€œAnd we won’t stand for it!” Josh yells.
    â€œRight.” The voice of the crowd is growing smaller and less indignant.
    â€œWe demand to be treated with respect.” By this time, Josh is laughing obnoxiously. He’s drunk. He reminds me of my great-uncle Freddie, who used to walk around carrying those tall cans of beer in a paper bag, like a bum.
    â€œYou’re such an idiot, Josh,” Dizzy says to him. She’s playful, so I can’t tell if she’s serious or not. Did she actually like this guy?
    â€œIs this a job for