It brings Renner a disturbing level of joy to remind me that I failed my driver’s test—twice. The first time, I couldn’t parallel park, even after five attempts. The second time, my bumper just barely kissed the side of a very pregnant woman in the DMV parking lot. I cried about it and basically offered her my future firstborn child in apology. （She did not want my unborn baby and looked appalled by my offer.） But in my defense, she was wearing the exact same color dress as the pavement.
“Okay, no one parallel parks,” I remind him.
“Everyone parallel parks.”
“You sit on a throne of lies.” I huff, anxious to get out of the van. His mere proximity feels detrimental to my well-being. “Take a right at the light.”
“So, did you ask Clay Diaz to prom yet?” he asks, fiddling with the volume on a Kane Brown song.
The mention of Clay makes me want to punch something. “None of your business.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“As if I’m going to ask him after yesterday,” I snap.
Renner lifts a shoulder. “I don’t really get what the big deal is. You dropped a couple tampons in front of him. So what?”
I don’t have the patience to explain the rules of the patriarchy to him. I stiffen and avert my gaze out the passenger window. We’re ripping through downtown at least ten miles over the speed limit. “It’s not just the tampons. The whole thing threw me off. I bombed my scholarship interview.”
“And that’s my fault too, I suppose?”
“Yes. Yes, it was.”
“Relax. I’m sure it wasn’t half as bad as you think.”
“Easy for you to say. You just breeze through life willy-nilly, with no regard for other people’s time, and everyone still loves you no matter how much you mess up.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” he says so quickly I second-guess whether I’ve heard him correctly.
My body stiffens, unsure how to react. A mea culpa? From Renner? It’s a weak, slightly backhanded one, but it’s an apology nonetheless. This is new. “Is J. T. Renner actually apologizing? I must be hallucinating.”
“To be clear, I’m only apologizing for ripping your bag. Not for standing in front of my locker, where I had every right to stand.”
I remain unconvinced. “Is this some sort of trick? This just isn’t . . . a you thing to do.”
He lifts both brows. “Maybe there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Doubtful.”
I know Renner well. Too well, in fact. Every good leader must know their enemy. Knowledge is power. Over the past four years, I’ve collected intel via personal observation, trusted human sources, and straight-up social media stalking. If we’re being honest, I could probably write his autobiography. I know he eats the toppings and cheese first on his pizza （a serious red flag）。 He has a small scar on the left side of his chin from a brutal football hit in ninth grade. While generally adventurous, he has extreme phobias of heights and germs. In fact, he will never share a utensil or a drink with anyone. Admittedly, he’s also a good friend （to people he likes, at least）。 He goes out of his way to make sure everyone’s included in plans （well, except for me）。
He bumbles on when I don’t respond. “I can . . . uh . . . buy you a new bag?”
“It’s fine. I don’t need a new one,” I assure him.
He scratches his head. “Well, I feel like I owe you.”
“You definitely do. And you can repay me by not letting prom go up in flames.”
“Yeah, ’cause that’s my master plan: organize a shit senior prom and ruin everyone’s night, just to spite you.”
I shift in my seat. “I’m not ready to count that possibility out. Spiting me is your modus operandi. And you’ve already made your first move by strong-arming me over the theme.”
“You really need to let that go. Your idea sucked. Deal with it. And everyone else loves Under the Sea,” he brags.
“Not me.”
“This sounds like a good villain origin story,” he says.
“It is pretty good,” I agree, drumming my chin, then flicking my gaze back to him. “You’ll be my first victim.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything less. Just don’t ruin my face. I’d like to have an open-casket funeral.”
“Of course you would. And a horse-drawn carriage to cart your body through town too, right?”
“A gold stagecoach could work, yes.” I bask in silence for a solid minute until he breaks it. “Still no prom date, huh?”