Skyy could not get the girl off her mind. There was a certain elegance in the shear simplicity of the act. She may have surrendered the flag, but at least she had done something. The selfie to beat all selfies. The sext to end all sexts. She was notorious now. Talked about. Noticed. Robin Rabinsky, Robin Rabinsky, Robin Rabinsky. The name filled the air of the hallways. There was a rumor that she had arrived in the parking lot and then left. Someone said she was under age and that anyone caught with the photo on their cell would become a registered sex offender. She was in guarded lockdown in the school office, on a photo shoot for some skank mag, already rushed out of state by her parents, sitting in a cell at juvie. Whatever. Robin Rabinsky had made her move. With a mere snap and send, this nobody had leapfrogged the social frontrunners into a zone inhabited by herself alone. Skyy was fascinated by the girl, by the act, by the response. It was shocking when nothing ever seemed shocking anymore.
A girl suddenly ran up to a group near Skyy. “Come on! She’s in the parking lot,” she howled, grabbing at her friend’s arm. “Not fucking kidding you!” The group suddenly broke and ran toward the lot.
The car was a Nissan 350Z tricked out all Tokyo Drift. The decal on the deeply tinted back window read, “Badass Boys Drive Badass Toys.” The driver was black, thin with lean muscled arms stretched out gripping the chrome steering wheel. He was clearly from another town. Bridgewater by the color of him. He sat low in his seat, black-on-black tattoos up the arm, sunglasses dark, eyes barely over the steering wheel staring forward without expression. A badass boy driving his badass toy.
The girl sat in the passenger seat in a pair of shorts and a tank top, no bra, bare feet up on the dashboard, coolly staring out at the gathered crowd like they were nothing more than sheep grazing in a field outside her window. A badass girl with her badass boy. She hadn’t gone into hiding at all. Robin Rabinsky was right there representing her badass self. And she was… Hot. Not a single one of the gathered student body of Down River High - not the cheerleaders, not the jocks, not the stoners, not the goths, not the dorks, not even the wiggers in their ridiculous do-rags - not one of them would get anywhere near that car. They just stood there beyond the imaginary line of safety and gawked, paralyzed by the utter and complete blinding Hotness of the previously unknown Robin Rabinsky.
Skyy found herself strangely elated by it. She wanted to run and tell someone. “There she is! There she is!” she would scream, grabbing them by the sleeve, pulling them toward the parking lot excited, breathless, thrilled, dying to know more. This was major league what this girl had done, a nuke bomb combination of modern 4G digital telephony and new school fuck-me sexuality. If you wanted someone to want you, this was how it was done.
And it just so happened there was someone Skyy Allen wanted and she wanted him very, very much.