Juliet Immortal

kept her waiting for long. Five minutes isn’t unreasonable.
    Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to agree.
    “What the hell were you thinking, Ree?” Her first words don’t inspire faith in our lasting friendship; neither does the shocked look she shoots me from the driver’s side as I slide into the cool leather seat. Gemma Sloop’s sleek BMW is as luxurious as Ben’s car is plain and worn, and Gemma herself makes me feel shabby in comparison.
    Her rich chocolate-colored hair swings around her shoulders, gleaming even in the gray morning light, the jagged layers emphasizing the lovely planes of her face. A gypsy shirt encrusted with hundreds of stones flutters around her torso, and fitted jeans hug her narrow thighs. Hunks of sapphire toobig to be real—but I know they are—sit in her earlobes, and another chunk perches on her right hand, gifts from her father for her sweet sixteen.
    “And wow … no makeup.” She shakes her head. “That’s a choice. One I would recommend
not
making in the future, FYI. I haven’t seen you look that scary since sixth grade.”
    “I didn’t want to make you wait,” I say, too stunned to be angry. I’d been prepared for Ariel’s mother to be a monster, but not her best friend.
This
is Gemma, the girl Ariel is so terrified to lose?
    “You could have brought it with you. I have mirrors in the car, Freak.” Her tone is light, teasing, but I know the words would hurt Ariel. Ariel hates that word,
freak
, the nickname the kids at school gave her in fourth grade, after something awful happened. At recess. Something … The memory is fuzzy, and I can tell Ariel’s tried hard to forget it. All I know is that was the moment she became the Freak, an outcast only another outcast would befriend.
    To look at Gemma, it’s hard to believe she’s an outcast, but she is. Her parents own the largest winery in the area and employ most of the town as factory hands, vineyard workers, tasting-room experts, distributors, and seasonal help. Even if Gemma didn’t dress like the daughter of a millionaire and speak her mind to the point of cruelty, school would be awkward. As it is, she’s ostracized by almost everyone.
    But she doesn’t care. She insisted on staying in public school, even when her grades improved and her parents pressured her to go back to the private school in Los Olivos at the beginning of her freshman year. She’s the type of person who only needs one friend, one follower, and sometimes doesn’t even seem to need that.
    “Whatever.” She shifts into reverse and backs down the drive.
    Rain pounds the roof as we slide from under the carport and spin in a tight circle before zipping down El Camino. The day is gray, colorless. It’s no wonder I overslept. If it weren’t for the nightmares, I’d wish I were still asleep. I’m so tired. I should be filled with Ambassador magic by now, feeling strong enough to take on the world—or at least the Mercenaries. But I don’t. I feel … off, exhausted.
    “I guess your new
boyfriend
doesn’t care what you look like,” Gemma says, hitting the word
boyfriend
hard enough to break a rock.
    “What?”
    “Melanie told me,” she says. “I can’t believe you told your mother—who you hate like ass sores—that you were going on a date, but didn’t tell me.”
    “Oh.” The date. That’s why she’s angry. Ariel decided not to tell Gemma until afterward, when she’d hopefully have a real story to tell.
    “ ‘Oh.’ That’s all you have to say? ‘Oh’?”
    “Sorry. I didn’t want to say anything unless we had a good time.”
    “Well, did you?” she asks, a twinkle in her eye. “Who’s the guy? Where did you go? How late did you stay out? Did you finally see a penis in real life? Tell me everything. Immediately.”
    I surprise myself with a blush. “No.” How much to say? I know Ariel won’t want Gemma to know the date was a joke. “It was awful. Dylan’s not—”
    “Dylan, as in Dylan Stroud?” she asks, enthusiasm draining from her tone.
    “Yeah.”
    “You went out with Dylan?” Her lips press together, the bright red of her lipstick making her mouth a crooked slash across her face. “Wasn’t that … awkward?”
    “It was,” I say, not sure why the moment has become strained. “Like I said, it was awful.”
    “Right …” She turns her gaze back to the road. “Well, of course it was. I could have
told
you it would be if you’d given me the heads-up. He’s
Dylan Stroud
.