Rosemary is perched on a chair at the kitchen table. Long flowy skirt, bare feet; she hugs her knees, smoking as she watches us. She’s thin with dark hair cut in an angled bob. I’ve seen her before at the cafe. I thought she was just Carly’s roommate. And even then I didn’t understand how Carly could stand to live with her. She’s exactly the kind of rich bitch Carly is always complaining about. Or maybe she is the rich bitch Carly was complaining about. She has this look on her face like she’s just too cool to care for any of it.

Rosemary doesn’t try to hide that she’s watching us. She stares, but she doesn’t say anything until we’ve taken eight trips out to Carly’s rusty, orange Pacer, and we’re grabbing the last few boxes. Finally she says, “You’re not going to introduce me to your girlfriend?”

My face gets hot and I know it’s red and I feel so awful, because the last thing Carly needs is me acting like being her girlfriend is some kind of terrible thing. So I rest the box of cassette tapes on a chair and offer my hand to Rosemary to shake. “April,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

Rosemary ignores my hand and gives Carly a death stare. “She’s perfect for you,” she says, and I know it’s an insult, even though I’m not sure why.

“Let’s go, hon,” I say to Carly, picking up the box again. It’s funny how two seconds ago I was embarrassed she thought I was Carly’s girlfriend and now I’m pissed that she thinks I’m not good enough to be.

When we get in the car, Carly bursts out laughing. “ ‘Hon’? Really?”

“Too much?” I say.

“You rock,” Carly says, and really smiles, not just the smug tight-lipped deal she pretends is a smile.

— Chapter 25 —

Carly said that even though she has her own place, she’d still come by every week for 90210 and pizza, but she calls ten minutes before the show starts to say she can’t make it because of a psych paper and we’ll have to catch her up next week.

“We ordered a large and everything,” I say to Adam when I hang up the phone. I’d even run to the convenience store to pick up a six-pack of Dr Pepper, because Carly likes that more than Coke.

“It’s fine,” Adam says, handing me a plate with two slices. “I’ll bring leftovers for lunch tomorrow.”

“She’s not going to know what’s happening next week,” I say. “Even if we explain.”

Adam laughs like I told a joke.