Cool for the Summer, Dahlia Adler [classic literature list .txt] 📗

Shamir Ben-Dror, who fancies himself an amateur bartender but only makes anything remotely potable about forty percent of the time. I think about accepting one anyway, but things already feel so loaded. I’m afraid I’ll do something even more stupid than I almost did upstairs if I get a drink into my system.

“I’ll pass, but thanks.” I look at Chase. “Feel free to help yourself. I’m happy to be designated driver if you trust me with your keys. You should be celebrating.”

He grins, and it’s too freaking adorable. “You are a very cool girl, Larissa Bogdan. I’ll take one of those, Shamir, my man.”

“Bottoms up!” says Shamir, and he hands Chase a cup. They clink their drinks, and I watch Chase down his and look like he’s gonna puke. While I pray vomit isn’t in my future, it’d probably be worth it to hear “You are a very cool girl, Larissa Bogdan” over and over again in my dreams.

Never mind it’s Jasmine who taught me how much it can mean to offer to be DD.

I am definitely not thinking about that.

I am not thinking about her at all.

Chapter Five

I get home fifteen minutes after my midnight curfew, but the deal is as long as I text before twelve to say I’m fine and running late, I’m OK. I’d texted at a quarter to, when it was obvious that driving a plastered Chase home in his car with Shannon following in hers to bring me home afterward wasn’t going to be without time delays, so I’m in the clear. But when I let myself inside and find my mom up and waiting on the living room couch, I worry that I’ve misstepped.

I’m even more concerned when she asks, “How was Jasmine’s party?” as soon as I close the door behind me.

“Good,” I say cautiously, positive I never told her exactly what I was doing tonight. “How’d you know it was Jasmine’s party?”

My mom has a very knowing smile that I absolutely hate, and there it is. “You think she planned that whole thing on her own in a single week? Please.”

“Ugh.” I drop onto the other end of the couch and pry off my strappy sandals. “You being involved in my social life to that extent is officially weird.”

“But it was a good party, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” I grudgingly admit. I should’ve guessed my mom had something to do with it when I spotted the pickle-flavored potato chips. My mom is always trying to make those happen. She’s convinced if people just tried them, they’d fall in love. So far, she’s converted exactly no one. I’m pretty sure that bowl was still seventy-five percent full when I left, and I’d eaten most of it. What can I say? I’ve gotten used to the taste. My mom loves pickled everything and her Russian genes run strong. “But it would’ve been better at Hunter Ferris’s house.”

“Because I wouldn’t have had anything to do with it?”

“Because Jasmine has been kind of a bitch ever since she got to Stratford.” Somehow, without any drinks in me, the words I’ve been dying to speak come loose. “She’s trying to pretend we were never friends—don’t ask me why.” No, really, don’t ask me. “She’s barely acknowledged we’ve met before this.”

Okay, that might not be the most even-handed presentation, but whatever. My mom, my side of the story.

“Oh, milaya, that doesn’t sound right.” Mama reaches out and strokes my bobbed hair, and suddenly I’m aware of how much shorter it is than the shoulder-blade-sweeping style I used to wear. “You two were so close. She’s probably trying not to be overly dependent on you for a social life. Make her own way and all that.”

“Why? She’d be well within her rights to jump into my social circle,” I say, even though I’m relieved she hasn’t. “Lord knows that’s exactly what I did with hers.”

“Yeah, but you know Jasmine. She’s very … independent. She wants to do things herself.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “And I’m not independent? Are you saying I’m a leech?”

“Bozhe moi.” She sighs deeply, like she always does when she thinks I’m pushing teenagedom to the max. “Lara, I did not call you a leech. But you do have a tendency to rely on other people rather than forging your own path, and that’s not what Jasmine’s like.”

“You know I’m even more offended now, right?” I say, pulling away from her hand.

She closes her eyes. “Of course you are. I think that’s my cue to go to bed. Spokoynoy nochi, milaya. We’ll talk tomorrow when it’s not so late.” She kisses the top of my head and pads off to her bedroom.

While my mom is following up her ill-fated motherly talk with a good night’s sleep, I’m wide awake in my room, pacing and looking through all my pictures, old postcards, and other souvenirs. My mom doesn’t know what she’s talking about; my whole world is evidence I’m a freaking social butterfly.

I mean, yes, okay, Shannon is definitely the social director of our group, but who cares? That’s one of the reasons I love Shannon—she’s such a caretaker in her own weird way, and she knows the rest of us can’t plan shit. It doesn’t bother Kiki or Gia how often she takes charge. And yeah, Shan usually chooses where we’re going, but in fairness, she’s always the one driving.

But also, it’s not like they’re my only friends. I’m friends with Jamie, and kind of with Taylor. And with Deanna, who sits next to me in Spanish—we talk during class all the time. And Chase! Chase and I are certainly friendly these days.

So there, Mother.

And it’s not just school. I had a great summer with Keisha, Derek, Owen, Brea, Jack, Carter, and She Who Must Not Be Named. She wasn’t even present when I marathoned the Star Wars movies with Keisha, or for either of the two times I joined Brea and Derek at hot yoga.

I’m feeling smug and self-satisfied for all of two seconds when