Blame it on New Girl Stupidity. Friday night, I made out with Conner. First on top of a cliff, then later in his Jeep and for a brief second on my porch before my father opened the door, grabbed me by the sleeve, and yanked me inside.
Stupidity? No. The stupidity was when Saturday came; I waited on my porch. No Conner. Then Sunday. Hm. Still no Conner. The boy lived next door. Was it really possible for me to miss him? Did he have a secret tunnel or something?
Monday morning. Physics class. This should be interesting. Only it WASN’T interesting. It was awful. Conner, sweet, adorable-boy-next-door Conner, didn’t look at me. Like even once. In fact, the son of bitch put his palm on his face to block my view. I was humiliated.
Brandi nudged my shoulder. “You okay, Stella?” she asked. “You look positively nauseous.”
“Yeah,” I said, glaring in Conner’s direction. “I do feel like PUKING.” Conner straightened up, but didn’t look over. Bastard.
Brandi eyed me for a minute and then looked in his direction. “Oh,” she said, puckering her lips. “I see Conner has struck again.”
I turned sharply to her. “What?” My stomach was so knotted up, I felt like I’d just gotten done doing like a million crunches.
“He’s sort of…” Brandi bit on her lip, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “He’s got somewhat of a reputation. There’s a pretty good reason why Trish is such a bitch.”
And then I knew. “She’s totally his girlfriend, isn’t she?” My face stung.
“Yep.” Brandi put her arm on mine. “For like two years.”
Shit. Oregon sucked.