Juliet Immortal

He’s a sociopath.”
    “I know. He just seemed so nice at rehearsals.”
    “That’s because he’s pretending to be someone else,” Gemma says, making a valid point. Ariel’s crush on Dylan developed while she was watching him play Tony, the boy who falls in love with the little sister of the leader of the opposing street gang in
West Side Story
.
    West Side Story
, the musical based on Shakespeare’s
Romeo and Juliet
. Which means that—should Romeo decide to continue with the drama club—he’ll be playing
himself
. I’m sure he’ll find the irony delicious.
    “I mean, don’t you think there’s a reason a gorgeous guy like that doesn’t have a girlfriend?” Gemma asks. “Or even some steady friends with benefits?”
    “Because he’s a jerk.”
    “He’s insane. He and Jason both are, and their band is embarrassingly lame. Dylan can sing, but I swear he looks like he’s having a seizure when he plays guitar.” She turns left and then almost immediately right, taking us into the heart of Solvang’s tourist district, a place Ariel thinks of as Disneyland for grown-ups who like wine.
    The town is built to look like an old-fashioned Danish village, with wine-tasting rooms on every corner, testimony tothe region’s growing industry. Gemma’s parents’ tasting room is the largest, taking up two stories of a redbrick building on Mission Drive. We pass it on our right.
    A heavy wooden sign advertising Sloop Vineyards sways in the wind, but Gemma doesn’t slow down to look at it. She’s far less impressed with her family than most of the other Sloops. It’s one of the few things I’m finding likable about her thus far.
    “You should just say no to Stroud,” she says, obviously not ready to let the subject drop. “Crack is a better habit to start than Dylan.”
    “I know. We’re not going to go out again.”
    “Good. He’s not the kind of mistake anyone should repeat.” She reaches over and kicks up the heat. “You want to go get a croissant? I’m starving.”
    “Yes. Please.” Thank god. Food.
    She drives in silence for a moment, before reaching out to poke me in the leg. When she speaks again, her voice is softer. “But you’re okay, right? Your mom said some guy she’d never seen drove you home. I know you, and you wouldn’t get into a car with some strange dude unless—”
    “He’s not strange. She didn’t even meet him.”
    Gemma’s eyebrows shoot into the air. “Oh, so you made a looovvee connection after all, did you? Who is it? Does he go to SHS or the priv-ass school? I can’t believe you weren’t—”
    “No, it’s nothing like that. He’s just a friend.” I hurry to correct her, turning to look out the window as she parks in front of the Windmill Bakery, a larger-than-life re-creation of a windmill with a dark tile roof that gleams black in the rain. “Really, I don’t like anyone like that.”
    “Well, you could. You should,” she says, shutting off thecar and reaching into the backseat to grab her purse. “Just not Dylan.”
    “I know. Thanks for worrying about me. I … I’ve missed you,” I say, not wanting to let this opportunity to mend the rift between Ariel and Gemma pass me by. I might not care for her, but Ariel does, and it’s not as if Ariel has friends to spare.
    “Aw, man.” The hard light in Gemma’s eyes fades, and for a second I can see that she cares. Or that she wants to care.
    But there’s something wrong inside her, too, something damaged that makes her more like Ariel than I guessed at first. Ariel’s memories don’t give me any clue what that something might be, but it makes me feel for Gemma. Makes me smile when she squeezes my hand.
    “I’ve missed you too. I’m sorry, I’ve just …” She sighs, her words trailing off. “There’s been drama. Mostly with my dad, but also with this guy …”
    “A guy? Like … a
guy
guy?” Ariel’s memories tell me I shouldn’t be surprised. Gemma always has a guy. Or two.
    “Oh yeah. Definitely a
guy
guy. But it’s a mess.” She rolls her eyes and reaches for her door. I follow her out of the car, hurrying through the downpour and under the awning of the bakery. “We should talk. Catch up,” she says, holding the door open as I dart inside. “I’ll tell you all the shocking details. Want to meet back here for lunch?”
    “Sounds good.” Lunch actually sounds
great
. So does breakfast. The smell of sugar and fried dough fills my nose, making my stomach growl,