Meet your main characters! She's a brainless cheerleader and he's a stalker!“Go on,” he says. “I like it rough.”
Double ugh! I’m suddenly acutely aware that I’m straddling him—wearing a micromini and heels, no less—and I can’t roll off him fast enough.
“You’re sick, you know.”
...which they proceed to fight over. *slow clap*We’ve been best friends since the first grade, and he’s just some guy. Some sickeningly hot, captain-of-the-football-team guy.
I’m almost at the lip of the dining room entrance when, at the last minute, I lop off half the mountain of mashed potatoes. (I don’t want people thinking I’m eating my feelings.) And then I make my way to the Pretty People table.
Indie? She’s the perfect combination of booty, beauty, and brains. The latter is highly debatable, given what will happen next.She launches into an inspirational pregame speech about precious high school memories and the importance of showing off our hot bods while we still have them.
*Watch the name-dropping in this book. There will be many. Maybe she’s born with it. Maybe it’s bullshit Maybelline.Devon could have brought anyone in the world to that concert and he chose me.
But it’s just this one time, right? There’s just no way he’s…following her, right?At first the guy looks like he’s trying to hold back, but then he bursts into laughter again—a full-bellied, brace-your-stomach fit—and I get the distinct impression he’s laughing at me.
Well...A chill ripples through me.
He followed me.
Weeeeeeeeell...The light from a streetlamp etches shadows into his laugh lines and makes his smirk look sinister. He pushes off the wall.
“Don’t come any closer.”
But what the hell, YA heroines were never known for their intelligence, anyway.“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I not handling the news that you’ve been stalking me as well as you’d hoped?”
“And why are you following me? That’s pretty creepy, you know.”
Will she forgive him? Of course.I want to scream at him. Tell him he’s a jerk for waiting so long to catch me, but then I become hyperaware that we’re face to face, that the length of our bodies are pressed together, and I don’t say any of those things.
The only thing that prevents Indie from being your standard Mary Sue is the fact that she is hot shit, and she knows it. In most YA books, we have a Mean Girl Queen Bee trope. In this book, the Indie IS the Queen Bee. As previously mentioned, she is beautiful, she is popular, she is the envy of all the girls and the object of desire for the boyz, being one of the aforementioned cheerleaders who’s not shy about her body, as mentioned by the awesome second part of the love triangle...And Bishop said cheerleaders aren’t smart.
Except that maybe he’s right. Because wasn’t this—the social suicide of being seen at a party with Paige—what I was just trying to avoid?
She is the epitome of the shallow, self-absorbed cheerleader who cares about nothing but her reputation and popularity.“Oh, right.” Bishop nods sagely. “Forgot you flashed your ass to half of Los Angeles earlier. Not shy at all.”
She thinks everyone’s exactly like her. Indie feels like everyone in high school has one goal in life: that of popularity. It doesn’t matter who her friends are, she will step over them and abandon them in her way to the top. Indie likes her throne. She wants to maintain her place in the school status quo, and it takes the biggest fucking event ever to get her to snap out of her bullshit, and no, I don’t have any sympathy with her for it.It didn’t make sense to me that she didn’t want to be popular.
The third-highest GPA in the school. This is what we have, ladies and gentlemen. She thinks nothing of letting a weirdo who might have broken into her house INTO her house. She thinks nothing of following weird creepazoid into the dark. She trusts whom she shouldn’t. Indie acknowledges her own idiocy while never attempting to abate it.“Well, I’m not just going to let him get away, am I?”
“Nooo,” she says, throwing as much sarcasm into one word as humanly possible, “you definitely want to run toward the ax murderer.”
This is her book, so naturally, she lives. If it weren’t, we’d be reading a tragic headline about GIRL FOUND DEAD IN DESERTED RAVINE IN HOLLYWOOD.It would be dumb to get out of the car. Worse than dumb: idiotic. But I’ve come this far already, and I can’t imagine the grocery list of bad decisions I’ve made to this point being for nothing
Because there's nothing more romantic than getting into a romantic moment while thinking about your dead mom!I’ve never wanted to be kissed so badly, so of course this would be the time Mom pops into my head—the Mom from the theater with the knife in her temple. The guilt from the car ride comes crashing over me like a tidal wave. How can I be doing this?
And his words of romance are just legendary. Shakespeare's got nothing on this dude."I was starting to think you ride the short bus to school.”
The stalker trope is not ok. A creepy, patronizing asshat is not ok as a love interest, and I am so fucking sick of this shit.“Oh, come on,” Bishop says. “He’s obviously really stupid if he’d choose that chick over you.”
“Shut up,” I mumble.
“I mean it,” he says. “She’s so obvious. Blond hair, big tits. It’s really lame. Even if her tits are pretty nice.”
“I’m kidding! They’re just mediocre.”