6 s i x : is there something I don't know?

"Jason, go away," Claire yells ahead of us.

"No, you go away," he barks back.

"My brother," she whispers back at me.

"Oh," I nod.

He stops in his tracks, turning around once he heard a second set of footsteps.

"No," Claire asserts. "No, no, no."

My expression morphs into bewilderment because of her outburst.

She shares a knowing expression with Jason. Stabbing her index finger at him, she continues, "No. Go to your room. Please."

"Wait," he smirks, "I want to know the name of this lovely lady you've brought home."

I grimace at his boldness. Some things don't need to be said.

Claire rolls her eyes in annoyance. "Gen, Jason," she points between us, "Jason, Gen."

Sighing, she says, "Okay, you've met. Now, go away."

He smiles coyly, then throws his hands up in defeat. I can tell he's annoying, but that's how big brothers are. What's the real reason she doesn't want me to meet him?

We settle on the brown plush couch in the center of the living room. This is a pretty sizeable apartment, and the restaurant's right by some office buildings… they're making bank. This place is no shoe box, which my parents assured me we'd be living in if we'd moved into New York City.

"But it's the city," I would exclaim, waving up jazz hands at "the city."

The suburbs are so boring in comparison.

"Tapatio or Pisqueya?" Claire holds up two bottles of hot sauce.

"Both."

"Hmm," she hums, apparently shocked by my choice.

What can I say, I know how to handle my hot sauce.

"Ha ha ha," I'm gasping for air about 30 seconds later.

Patting my back, Claire chuckles lightly. "Are you okay?"

I can hardly form words, as my tongue is throbbing. What the fuck was in that hot sauce?

Just when I can muster a few sounds, I pick the most useful words for my efforts: "F-Fu-uck you."

"Hmm?" she jokes. "F-f-f," she says, mocking me.

I roll my eyes, which are starting to tear up, by the way.

"If you didn't like hot sauce, you didn't have to pretend you did," Claire chuckles. "This is Dominican style. I see we have to work with your heat tolerance."

And I thought Tabasco was hot.

Once I've cooled down, we continue eating the delicious chicken stew she ordered for us. Since I ruined mine with that god-awful sauce, we switched plates.

"Mmm," I moan.

"It's good right?" she beams. "Like an orgasm."

I almost choke on my rice. She practically guffaws at my reaction to her bluntness.

I love this girl already. She kind of reminds me of Cas.

"So, tell me about yourself. Who is Genevieve…?"

"Williams," I finish.

Who is Genevieve Williams?

There are plenty of answers I could give her: she's a rower for her school's crew team, she brightens the eyes of adults with her work ethic and respect, she has dependable friends, she has a boyfriend, whom she loves, she—

"Yeah, tell me more," Claire raises her brows.

"Do we really know who we are?"

She looks dumbfounded, until she erupts into a laughing fit.

"Okay," she finally breaks the laughter, "I get that we're in the big city, but you don't have to be so cryptic."

Great, now she thinks I'm weird.

"I'm kidding," I chuckle, trying to save it, "I'm just a normal person, trying to give back with Marie's Soups—"

"It does look good on college apps," she shrugs.

"No, I met my required community service hours years ago. I just wanted to give back during the summer—to do a little more," I explain.

Her look of horror tells me I've said too much.

"I promise I'm not weird," I blurt.

"I hope not," her brother saunters in unexpectedly.

Claire's fury from earlier shows its head when she turns to him.

"Te voy a ser mia," he says lowly.

Claire's ears start turning an alarming shade of red, and she shoots up out of her seat, engaging in a fiery staring match with Jason.

"Tengo un novio, y yo nunca sera tuya," I cross my arms in defense.

They both turn to me, delivering shocked expressions.

"I'm also in AP Spanish," I shrug bashfully.

Claire's expression shifts to impressed, as she swiftly gives me a triumphant high five.

"We're officially best friends," she beams.

And like a sad puppy, turned away by a stranger, Jason slithers back into the room he came out of.

"What's up with him?" I ask, with one eyebrow raised.

"He's probably mad because another one of my friends couldn't become one of his conquests," she shrugs.

Wow… that's a lot to unpack.

"Oddly nonchalant of you to say," I chuckle nervously.

What happened to the other girls?

"I've decided that the only way to keep a friend was to kill anyone who showed the slightest interest in my whore of a brother. It's worked so far," she smirks.

What the—

"Relax," she cackles again, "I'm totally kidding. I only make the other girls disappear."

At this point, I'm staring at her, deadpan.

Her eyes widen with more laughter. "Eventually, he disposes of the girls, and of course they come running back to me for friendship and a chance to get in his good graces, but after he's done with them, I am too."

She seems to be talking about this calmly, but I can tell that he's indirectly hurt her in the past.

"Friends are sacred. He needs to find someone else."

"And that's why I like you."

"So it wasn't my fashion taste or my friendly charm?"

She just stuffs more stew into her mouth.

"Claire!"

I playfully punch her in her side, and when she's swallowed her mouthful, she says, "I could have sworn you didn't know Spanish before—"

"I don't like to showcase all my talents at once," I shrug with a grin.

After drinking some much needed water, I get back to my car, after we've exchanged numbers of course. Something tells me that Claire's gonna be a friend I just won't be able to shake… I need that right about now.

"Hey, come over," Sophie texts.

It's been a long day.

The clock reads 12pm.

I've only been out for 4 hours? It feels like it's been forever. I guess it's just that small, molecular part of me that's introverted, and screaming for me to curl up in my bed with Netflix and snacks.

"Is that a question or a command?" I respond.

She sends the eyeroll emoji.

I roll my eyes, too. No one can see it, but I'm returning her sass. And in this act, I put the car in reverse—without looking behind me.

Someone hisses, "What the hell?"

"Shit," I mumble.

Did I almost hit… who is that?

"You know I could sue you for reckless endangerment and—!"

I put on the Bluetooth as soon as he started naming charges.

If he knows what's good for him, he'll get the hell out of the road.

With Kehlani blasting through the sound system, I continue backing up, hoping he got out of the way.

"Hey," a high pitched voice squeaks.

Fuck, what is it now?

I slam the breaks and turn off the ignition. I hope I didn't hit two people today. They should have walked faster… doubt that'll hold up in court.

To my surprise, the spaghetti-strap bodycon dress clad secretary from earlier and Drake Staple were standing behind my car, with matching expressions of fury.

"I'm just trying to get out," I plead.

"You could have hit—were you even looking through your mirror?" Staple inquires.

No.

"Yes, actually. Here's a little tip: don't wear dark clothing in parking lots."

The secretary—I can't remember her name for the life of me—just pouts and shakes her head.

How could she manage to make herself seem the most childish out of the three of us?

He just crosses his arms tighter. If he wasn't seething before, he is now.

This isn't like me. I don't snap at my superiors—especially not at adults. I could use a recommendation of his or something. I have to clean this up.

"I-I'm sorry. I hadn't seen you. Are you hurt, or—"

As I'm mid-sentence, he just walks away—not another word or sound… not even acknowledgement that he's okay. The secretary follows.

I'm hoping to God or seriously any power out there that they didn't remember me from the orientation meeting this morning… that's highly unlikely, though, especially for him.

Shit.

Why go through all the trouble of listing charges that he could bring against me and making such a fuss when he was just going to walk away? Asshole.

When I finally get to Sophie's house, I can barely stand. This day has been… something… wild, funny, exhilarating, and more than anything, it's been a break from the harsh reality waiting for me.

"Jeez, you look like shit," some guy blurts, opening the door after my 12th ring.

I push past him and search the living room. "Where's Sophie?"

He shrugs brainlessly and plops himself down on the couch… Ms. Carrolton's Italian leather couch. He's soaked in chlorine, and he smells of pure liquor.

I take a moment of silence for the couch and proceed to find Sophie.

Liquor and Sophie don't go together… ever. I should have known something was wrong when she sent the emoji. She usually preferred to text with text, and she was good at articulating herself.

Her mom never likes random people in their pool, and yet there are dozens of sweaty teens—and probably some adults—in said pool.

If she broke her sobriety…

What if that text was a call for help?

"Heeey, babe," a voice slurs by my ear.

Aaron?

"Aaron, what are you doing here?" I ask.

"Don't worry about it. I'm with the boys," he smiles, as his eyes roll to the back of his head.

"Oh, the boys," I mutter dismissively.

I hope that I didn't act like this when I was drunk at Josh's.

Suddenly, a familiar brown head pops up out of the water.

"Sophie!" I call.

She snaps toward the direction of my voice.

"Genny!" she shouts.

No one calls me that… except her.

I remember the first time she got wasted. We broke into my parents' liquor cabinet at one of our sleepovers, and unsurprisingly, I was the lightweight out of the two of us. I passed out after drinking too much, but I remember hearing her telling me a story. I can't remember specific details, as I was in a drunken stupor, but she kept calling me Genny.

She'd say, "Genny, this is fun. We-We should do this at every sleepover," as we were literally on the brink of unconsciousness, on my kitchen floor.

I'd only seen her that drunk maybe two or three times. Every time, she calls me Genny, and I think back to the first time. She was telling me something… confessing, I think, but I can't remember. She can't either.

"Sophie," I say at normal volume, looking down at the remains of a once orderly home.