Whistleblower ✓

29 | karaoke queens

I assumed Bodie St. James would take us to La Ventana in a truck. I don't know why. I guess I just figured that white guys who played football were precisely the demographic to drive around in a mud-splattered Toyota Tundra with the windows down and country music blasting.

So it came as a real slap in the face when I spotted a familiar black Tesla.

We'd agreed to meet in a little parking lot outside of one of the older and grungier freshmen dorms. The asphalt was littered with cigarette butts and—poetically—one old, used glow-stick bracelet. I'd run into Ryan on my way to campus. He was telling me about the time he'd broken his wrist attempting to skateboard along the edge of the fountain outside the student union, but I was a little preoccupied with glaring down our method of transportation for the evening.

Bodie stood with his back against the driver's side door, his head down as he scrolled through his phone. He'd had practice that afternoon (I knew this because Andre had complained about all the conditioning, not because I was, like, a stalker). His hair was damp from the shower and the bridge of his nose was sunburnt.

My stomach tightened, inexplicably.

It took me a solid four seconds to notice that Olivia was standing next to him, flipping through her notebook and jotting down last-minute notes.

Ryan announced our arrival with a loud and drawn out, "Let's gooo!"

Olivia looked up.

Bodie smiled and said, "Well, we're looking festive."

It was a sarcastic observation.

We'd all somehow worn black.

Olivia looked, as she always did, like she was on her way to an outdoor musical festival—just a somber one. Her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose were strobed an iridescent pearl pink, but her bell-sleeved dress and artfully scuffed ankle boots were black.

Ryan was in a black bomber jacket and jeans so tight I wondered if he had any feeling at all in his feet, which were encased in a pair of faux-alligator sneakers.

I'd just borrowed Hanna's black corduroy overall dress again. Lame.

And Bodie was in black jeans and a denim jacket—a perfectly unremarkable outfit. There was absolutely no reason for me to stare at him. None at all.

"We look like we're going to a funeral," Olivia said with a snort.

"Shotgun!" Ryan hollered.

There was also no good reason for me to want to elbow Ryan out of the way as he jogged around the car, but I tried not to think about that as Olivia and I climbed into the back seat together through the stupid falcon-wing doors. The leather seats were soft as butter. I wanted to cut right through them with my fingernails out of sheer anger and spite.

"Nice car," I said, my voice thick.

"It's Kyle's," Bodie said, his eyes meeting mine in the rear-view mirror.

I know, I thought as the engine turned on with a low, eco-friendly rumble. The fact that Fogarty drove an electric car made him no less of an asshole.

❖ ❖ ❖

The closer we got to Los Angeles, the worse the traffic on the 10 became.

Ryan was in charge of navigation and music selection, to the detriment of everyone's happiness. He had a flare for incredibly grating techno music and 1960s throwbacks—Bob Dylan, the Rolling Stones, some Elvis Presley.

When the Beach Boys came on, I caught Bodie mouthing the words in the rear-view mirror.

It was a small relief when we finally pulled off the freeway and navigated into a more upscale neighborhood dotted with boutiques and furniture stores. We passed two burger places and a BBQ joint before we spotted La Ventana—a saturated sunset orange building with a roof made of arched clay tiles, like russet scales, and an outdoor patio in the front that was hidden behind a wall and several squat, thick-trunked palm trees.