From the Jump by Lacie Waldon
For Isaac, who’s always there when I jump.
Parkour.
PROLOGUE
My hair felt like it was melting beneath the beaming LA sun, and I pressed my hands against my thighs, preventing them from rubbing at my face in search of leaking blond dye. The university courtyard had no shade, and the line for student IDs was crowded enough to break the breeze. A trickle of sweat broke free of my hairline, prompting an irrational mental image of bottle-blond rivulets trickling down my forehead. I couldn’t believe I’d placed my trust in something called Hair Cair. The egregious spelling had seemed an especially bad omen the day before I started my freshman year of college, but the sale price had simply been too good to pass up. Surely my new roommate would tell me if I looked like my pores were leaking lemonade.
Wouldn’t she? She seemed like the type who would. Phoebe seemed like the type who would say anything that came to her mind, without considering how it might be interpreted. Not that she was rude. She just had confidence—the kind of self-assurance that was rare in anyone, much less a teenager. She was warm and charismatic and paralyzingly intimidating.
I was, in contrast, attempting to play it cool. Phoebe seemed to think our random room pairing destined us to be friends, and I was desperate to prove her right. Blaire Barton, author of How to Impress, which I’d checked out from the library the moment I received my acceptance letter, claimed shared interests led to deeper connection, so I searched Phoebe’s words for context and parroted it back to her.
“Oh, totally. Me, too. I love Monkey Balls,” I said, hoping I was expressing interest in a movie or a band and not some kind of sexual deviancy.
The stocky guy in line in front of me turned around, smirking before opening his mouth to deliver some crass remark. I shot him my iciest stare, and he froze for a moment before quickly shifting his gaze toward a couple of guys pelting candy at each other in the grass nearby.
“Right?” Phoebe beamed with pleasure at this shared sentiment, causing me to silently praise Blaire Barton for coming through once again. “They’re so talented. But what about Andre? He’s . . .”
Phoebe trailed off, her eyes drifting closed and her chin tilting up. Her dark skin glittered at the edges of her Afro, the same perspiration that was threatening to make me look like a microwaved Peep only making her more striking. My mind scrambled for the words to end her sentence: The lead singer? The guitarist? The drummer? It wasn’t a pop quiz. Phoebe couldn’t be looking for me to offer facts she already knew. The correct answer had to be an adjective.
“Pretty grimy in person, actually,” a voice behind us said. “Andre is, I mean. Long hair in pictures and long hair in person are two very different things.”
I turned around, simultaneously grateful for the answer and annoyed that someone had interrupted the conversation. My chest tightened when I saw the pretty girl with the almond eyes and glossy black hair who’d spoken. A tiny S dangled from her necklace, comprised entirely of diamonds. Her words refiltered through my mind, morphing from a knowing observance to a brag.
Simone Zhang. I hadn’t yet met her, but I’d noticed her on move-in day, bossing around what appeared to be actual hired help. So, it was unsurprising to discover she’d seen a famous person up close. She was clearly wealthy. All the effort I’d put into my outfit wouldn’t trick her. She was almost certainly rich enough to know my cotton sundress had been worn just a little too thin, and the sandals I snagged at the Goodwill—the best one, where the trophy wives up in the Hills discarded outfits that couldn’t be worn more than once and bags with a single scratch—might be Loeffler Randall, but they were from three seasons ago.
“Grimy can be sexy,” Phoebe said, turning toward Simone like she’d already been a part of our conversation.
My heart raced, but I kept my face blank, lifting my chin slightly to project confidence. Most people were easy to fool, but truly rich girls could always spot the things other kids missed. They were police dogs, trained to sniff out weakness. And if they found it, they would make sure you never lived it down. I pressed my thumbnail into my thigh, reminding myself that things were different now. I was just a normal college student, living in a dorm like everyone else. There was nothing for her to find out.
“Maybe it can be,” the girl said, “but not when it’s paired with perverted.”
“No.” Phoebe breathed out the word, looking both horrified and intrigued. “What did he do?”