Love Over Matter by Maggie Bloom

spits, “Are you crazy?! ”
    “ Wha— Uh, wha—” I stammer.
“What?”
    Her nostrils flare. “Don’t play dumb,”
she fumes. Her hand goes for my face, presumably to scratch my eyes
out. But instead of her fingernails, my lashes bat up against the
creamy white letterhead on which I’ve etched my alibi
note.
    Over Rosie’s shoulder, Haley grins so
maniacally she should hold the pose for a horror-movie poster
(doesn’t she realize that black lipstick makes even healthy teeth
look rotten?). “Calm down,” I say, my voice weak and
unconvincing.
    Rosie rattles the note in my face.
“Your parents would’ve had an aneurysm if they’d seen this. Is that
what you want? After everything your mother’s been through? You
blew it this time, Cassie.” She shakes her head. “Totally blew
it.”
    She has a point, but I’m not sure what
business it is of hers. I wiggle sideways, stutter-step around Opal
and lurch for the exit. If my housekeeper is going to berate me, at
least she can do it in the privacy of Ian’s van. But I hope she
knows that, if push comes to shove, I will dredge up the subject of
George’s hoodie, which she so callously destroyed (and I’m not
nearly done being sore over).
    The sound of feet slapping pavement
competes with the folk music drooling out of the Love Machine’s
passenger window. “Can you believe this?” I shoot at Ian, who’s
mellowing out behind the wheel, my hand slicing through the air at
Haley and company. When I try the door handle, my wrist balks (this
van is so old its internal whatchamacallits and thingamajigs are
decaying). Ian leans over and unlatches the door from the inside. I
get one foot on the floor before there’s a tug on George’s
hoodie.
    It’s Rosie again. “Where on Earth are
you going?”
    Has she gotten supremely, undeniably,
out-of-control pushy, or what? “You read the note,” I say. “Figure
it out.” I heave myself into the passenger seat, shoo her out of
the way and slam the door (in my defense, though, that’s the only
way the thing will close).
    It finally dawns on Ian to ask,
“What’s going on?”
    I give a frustrated shrug.
“I have no idea. Apparently, my sister and”—how can I refer to Opal
and Rosie without coming off as an über jerk?—“her friends think they’re my
babysitters. You’d better watch out. They’ll be after you
next.”
    Rosie’s head pops into the window
frame (is she balancing on the van’s holey running board?). “Oh,
hey Ian,” she says nonchalantly.
    Ian beams the first true smile (other
than the one he dusted off for Jeanette at graduation) to hit his
face in a year. Maybe more. “Hey.”
    This might not warrant
explaining at the moment given the current annoying circumstances,
but here it is: Ian has a thing for Rosie. Or at least he did, last
I knew. And who could blame him? She’s gorgeous, smart, friendly,
and spirited. Heck, I’m even considering falling for her. “C’mon, Cassie,”
she says, reaching inside the van and touching my arm. “We’ve gotta
get back to Milbridge before . . . well, before your
parents do.” She sighs. “Okay?”
    We’ve come too far to give up now. And
I can’t let George down, regardless of the trouble this little
jaunt may cause. But before I can argue
further . . . “We’re kind of in the middle of
something,” Ian explains cryptically. “Sorry.”
    Rosie pulls a mock-sad
face, leaving me convinced Ian will crumble before Bob Dylan
finishes crooning about Maggie’s farm (excuse the hippie song
reference; the only entertainment we’ve got on this trip are Ian’s
dad’s fossilized cassette tapes). “Just tell me what you’re doing,”
prods Rosie. From the peanut gallery comes a chorus of yeah s. “Maybe I can
help.”
    From anyone else, I’d assume this was
a trap. But Rosie is too sincere for such shenanigans. Ian studies
me and waits, leaving the decision to spill (or not to spill) the
beans in my court. “Fine,” I say. I motion at