David hovered near the edge of the crowd, gaping at Katy’s car in the early morning light. What had happened? He remembered the paint and the roses. They were a grand romantic gesture. Right? But the rest? Did he do all that? He didn’t remember doing all that. It wasn’t romantic. It was fucking creepy.
“What sort of twisted. . .” Katy stormed past. “When I find the sick little twist that did this. . .” She stomped up to Mrs. Crawley’s house and banged on the door.
David breathed out. The way she emphasized the word “twist,” it almost sounded like one of her nicknames. Twist. Wasn’t that a kind of dance, too? She liked dance stuff. “Twist,” he said quietly to see how it sounded. He liked it more than what everyone called him now. And anything was better than David. David was quiet and. . . lame.
He’d have to keep it a secret though, until he figured out what to do about trashing her car.
How had that happened? He didn’t remember. . .
Twist pushed through the growing crowd. He had as much right to be there as anyone. More even. He pushed through for a better look.