Very LeFreak by Rachel Cohn

Spring Break incident was the looks he gave her now, underneath the angry look he put on for pride’s show. Underneath the anger, hurt and longing shone too forcefully through.
    Very’s conscience was glad for the dark now that the fire had burned out. Darkness didn’t require thinking.
    “Jean-Wayne went inside to bed.”
    “Well. Good, then.” Very dropped to her knees in front of Bryan. “There’s something I want to give you.”

CHAPTER 8
    The Long and Winding Road
(Back to Columbia)        
    As life changed, playlists evolved, updated/deleted/added on to every day, like a prayer (which was an awesome song, by the way, despite Madonna’s faux religious angst, and it deserved inclusion on many a booty-shaking-themed mix). Very did not identify herself as belonging to any particular group of music-obsessed persons. She was not an indie-label DIY hipster, not a grunge girl, not a death-metal monster, not a gangsta hip-hop girl, nor any other stereotype that could be pinned on a person’s musical identification. She simply loved music. She loved soul, rock, punk, hip-hop, even loved classical and some opera (Aunt Esther’s influence). She loved vinyl, too, of course, loved the records’ scratchiness and how they required so much more listening concentration—which she had little of, so therefore did not listen to vinyl as much as, for instance, her mother had. Musically, Very did not discriminate against the uncool or champion the overly beloved. She didn’t classify herself as “eclectic,” knowing that the mere self-classification of “eclectic” musical tastes meant one’s tastes were, in fact, anything but. Mostly, she loved any song she could sing, dance, laugh, or cry to. She loved being able to listen to any radio station beaming from anywhere in the world through an Internet stream; a lifetime of Internet radio was the method by which she’d received much of her musical education (with a bonus shout-out to that French disco radio station, Hot Mix Disco Radio Hot Hot Hot, or, in the French DJ’s parlance, Hawt Meex Deeeescooo RahhDeeOhhh Hawt Hawt Hawt , so brilliantly awful one almost never needed to change the station).
    Yet, musically, as with everything else in her life lately, Very was experiencing information overload. Too many song possibilities. Accordingly, she couldn’t make herself stop making mix lists. She already had two going for today: “The Long and Winding Road (Back to Columbia),” songs of boredom for the awkward car ride back to NYC, tunage that was completely overshadowed by the day’s more radical playlist, “BJs Don’t Count, Despite What Lavinia Says,” a pleasant Fugazi / Bad Brains–fest. But neither of which complemented tomorrow’s list, which Very was already calling “Songs to Slash Your Wrists To” in anticipation of her meetings with the dean and her RA, and since apparently Lavinia had decided to stop speaking to her.
    “Merritt Parkway is faster than I-95 for getting back to the city,” Very said from the passenger seat next to Lavinia, who was driving them back from Aunt Esther’s. “It’s more windy, but it’s lots quicker. I can tell you how to go if you want.”
    Lavinia shrugged. Silent.
    From the backseat, Jean-Wayne said, “She doesn’t like the narrow lanes on the Merritt. Makes her nervous.”
    Oh, so now Jean-Wayne was speaking for Lavinia?
    Very hadn’t realized Lavinia could be so passive-aggressive. Or maybe it wasn’t that Lavinia was being passive-aggressive so much as that, true to her word, she really wanted not to deal with Very for a while. That, and Jean-Wayne sincerely loved to be helpful.
    The previous night, when Very had finally gone to her attic room to sleep, she’d found Lavinia, still awake, on her king-sized bed, which had once belonged to Aunt Esther’s son. “I saw you,” Lavinia said.
    “Huh?” Very said. Lavinia couldn’t have seen what she seemed to be implying she’d seen. Very had glanced