She'll deny it, but Paige loves being the Type A Goody Two-Shoes of our merry trio. The hot coffee and the music and my friends' stupidity-it all starts to work its magic and wake me up. Paige pulls out a wet nap from her purse and wipes off the coffee that slopped down her hand. He doesn't pull out when we pass him, so we relax and Kirsten turns on some music. We pass the cop, all of us quiet and holding our breath, staring straight ahead like he can read our minds or something. If she gets two more, her parents are going to dump her from the insurance and bury her keys in the yard till she's twenty. Kirsten already has four points on her license.

'Shit,' Kirsten says, pressing down on the brake too quickly. 'Yes, you are,' I say, 'and there's a cop up ahead in the Malloy's parking lot so slow down.'

'Shut up, brat, or I'll tell your mom you're speeding again,' Paige says. Kirsten looks at me through the rearview mirror and says, 'Compliments of Paige Daniels, Future Soccer Mom of America.' 'What's in the bag?' I ask, setting it on top of my duffel and taking a sip of the best coffee ever poured. Paige is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as usual: makeup on, hair done, a whole raring-to-go-I'm-just-happy-to-be-alive look on her face.

'Rise and shine,' Paige says, singsongy, 'no naps allowed. I wrestle with my duffel, stuffing it into the tiny space next to me, and then take the coffee and bag from her. Paige tries to hand a cup of hot coffee and a paper bag back to me. Paige has shotgun so I stuff all five-foot-nine of me into the cramped, but thankfully empty, backseat. Clowns, contortion artists, and Kirsten Lee Vanderhoff-these are the people who buy MINI Coopers. It's a car designed specifically for amusement or torture. I grab my stuff and head toward the clownmobile that sits all candy-apple-red at the end of my driveway. My mom came in and shook me awake- Get up already, jeez, it's all you've talked about for weeks-then stalked back to her room like a zombie.įinally they pull in. When the alarm went off, I didn't even hear it. I just laid there imagining Kirsten, Paige, and me on the slopes, ski bunnies on the rampage no parents, hot guys everywhere. I should go back inside where it's warm and wait by the window, but I'm more tired than I am cold, so I guess I'll just stay where I am, hunkered down like a frozen gargoyle. The streetlight casts a pale glow over my yard and I'm so exhausted that the snow is starting to shape-shift into an enormous feather bed and soft cotton sheets. It's four in the morning and I'm sitting on my porch steps waiting for my friends.

What Happens Next by Colleen Clayton