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The thing about Lyla Garrity is, she gets it all. The boyfriend and the bright future. The quarterback and the good boy. Buddy Garrity’s money, but apparently none of his genes.
Brittany has cautiously hated Lyla for years. It’s really the only sane option. Lyla is the kind of girl who will sympathetically tell you when your mascara is running raccoon-wild, in a whisper that implies you should be embarrassed, and would be, if she hadn’t swooped in like an angel of mercy to set you to rights. Lyla gets straight A’s while pouting with boredom through most of her classes.
Lyla’s a team captain, and Lyla gets to fly.
Everyone showers sympathy on Lyla after Jason falls, and Lyla eats it up. Brittany isn’t heartless—she doles out her fair share of hugs and pointed questions. Lyla’s even pretty when she cries. Lyla’s the kind of girl who stars in every guy’s dreams, but she won’t even swear. Lyla’s always surprised when something happens to her, good or bad, as if she doesn’t pretend to be the main character of everyone’s life.
“So what’s Jason like in bed?” That’s Madison, brasher than half the rest of the squad put together.
Lyla flips her ponytail over her shoulder. Lyla waits, smirks, waits a second longer. “Ladies don’t kiss and tell.”
Brittany’s stomach is lumpier than she wants it to be, under the unforgiving uniform. So much for a swimsuit summer. So much for having Britney’s abs. Lyla’s waist tapers in perfectly smooth lines, the faint pattern of her ribs traceable when she lifts her arms.
Lyla bakes a mean cupcake, though she apparently doesn’t eat any of them herself.
(Brittany’s puking up lunch in a bathroom stall, and Lyla swings in, stands at the sink and asks, “Does it smell gross in here?”
“Of course,” Jessica answers. Jessica, one of Lyla’s little sycophants, even though Lyla doesn’t have friends. Doesn’t keep anybody close but her golden boyfriend. “It’s a bathroom.”
Lyla giggles.)
Tim Riggins punched Jason Street. Scratch that. Jason punched Tim. Jason punched Tim, and Lyla was there. There’s never been any beef between Six and Thirty-Three—they’re practically gay for each other, or that’s what the joke would be, if anyone dared to make it. So why would Jason—
Lyla was there.
“She traded him in like a car,” Madison says, almost admiringly.
Brittany narrows her eyes. Feels her throat close up. Waits till it opens, and says, “How long do you think she waited?”
Says,
“I have an idea. Just need a little paint.”
Says,
“Hey, my cousin showed me how to make a website.”
It isn’t right, and worse, it isn’t fair. You can’t play the grieving girlfriend and jump into bed—into the backseat of that old black truck, more likely—with your crippled boyfriend’s best friend. You can’t hold your head up and be down for anything. You can’t have the perfect body and the perfect life, the perfect quick fix to a tragedy that didn’t even happen to you.
Brittany digs her nails into her palms. It doesn’t really sting; her nails are regulation-length. Her mascara’s running.
She opens her laptop.
Slut, she rages, fingers flying. Slut, whore, you think you can take whatever you want—
The thing about Lyla Garrity is, she deserves what she gets.