It was Pippa’s idea to go to Spain for two weeks. A last hurrah before we start school. She is half-Spanish from her mother’s side, and one of her aunts, Alma, lives in Barcelona, which means a free place for us to crash.
“Let’s make a new rule.” I adjust my backpack over one shoulder as we dip below the green, glowing FARMACIA: 24 HORAS sign. “No more aggravating the locals. If your ass gets in a street fight, I’m going to walk past and pretend I don’t know you.”
That’s a lie. I’d take a bullet for her. It’s just that I would strongly prefer not to.
“Please.” Pippa snorts, picking up a green basket on her way to the personal-hygiene section. “We have two weeks to let our crazy hang out before we get back to reality. College is serious business, Lawson. Now’s exactly the time to get in a street fight. Especially with a hottie like that dude.”
She tosses shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, and two toothbrushes into our basket. I add Tylenol, sunscreen, and body lotion. Neither of us wanted to pack anything that could detonate in our suitcases.
Pippa stops in the middle of the aisle with shaving supplies. “Do you think they sell Plan B over the counter here?”
“Why? Are you planning on having unprotected sex with a rando?” I ask.
“Your girl is curious, okay? Nobody said anything about taking it.” She shrugs, then grabs my hand and tugs me to the next aisle. I’m aware we’re about five decibels louder than everyone else in the store. It’s not empty either. There’s an elderly couple talking to the pharmacist, a pregnant lady squinting at a laxative bottle, and a bunch of guys in soccer uniforms checking out jock itch creams.
She stops by what we refer to as the Sexy Time aisle. Pippa runs a flame-tipped stiletto fingernail over different products.
“Don’t forget to buy condoms.” I nibble on my black nail polish, desperate to get out of here. I want to throw myself into her aunt’s shower and wash away the twelve-hour flight, then decompress. “You know, just in case you change your mind about bringing back chlamydia as a souvenir.”
“Chlamydia is a lame souvenir.” Pippa swings her gaze my way, grinning. “We need a real souvenir. We’re getting tatted here.”
“You’re getting tatted here,” I correct. “I’m not.”
“Why? It’s not like you have a fear of needles.” She eyeballs my septum ring, popping an eyebrow.
I tuck it inside my nose. “Piercings are fine. Tattoos mean commitment, and I don’t do that. Might I remind you, I can’t even commit to a cereal?”
“You so are committed to a cereal,” she huffs. “Reese’s Puffs.”
“As enamored as I am with Reese’s Puffs, I’m always happy to destroy a bowl of Frosted Flakes and Apple Jacks.”
“Apple Jacks.” She shudders. “Sometimes I think you’re beyond help. Anyway, you have to get a tat. Your mom’s going to be hella proud if you take the plunge.”