American Girls by Alison Umminger Page A

She clicked off. “Keep your eye out for Doughnut Dynasty; it’s coming up on the right.”
    â€œActual doughnuts? Fried with real sugar?”
    â€œYou’ll like Dex. You both have the palate of five-year-olds.”
    We pulled into Doughnut Dynasty, and Delia ordered a half dozen of the daily selection at the drive-through: one pink coconut, two chocolate sprinkles, what looked like a jelly or custard, a caramel pecan, and a Nutella banana.
    â€œI’m just gonna have a chocolate sprinkle,” I said. “There are two of them.”
    â€œWant to rephrase that as a question?”
    â€œNo.”
    The minute I ate the doughnut, I wanted all five more. I wanted a dozen, all to myself, in some closet where I didn’t have to hear about what they cost or how many empty calories they had in them.
    â€œOhmigod, please tell me you’ve at least tried these.” I was shaking down the napkin for any sprinkles I might have missed. They were that delicious.
    â€œSugar makes my face swell.”
    â€œSugar makes my face smile.” I was practically salivating at the thought of chocolate. Since Birch was born, my mom didn’t even notice if I ate brownies for breakfast. Maybe my sister was right, maybe I was a sugar junkie.
    â€œAnd then you’ll crash and complain about how tired you are all afternoon.”
    â€œDo you talk this way to Dex?”
    â€œDex lives on sugar.” Delia honked at the too-slow driver in front of us. “He never crashes because he’s completely addicted. Sugar is as toxic as any poison.”
    â€œIt’s not that toxic. I remember when you used to drink Mountain Dews on the way to drop me off at school. You weren’t, like, dying or anything.”
    â€œBut my skin was terrible. It’s your body, Anna,” she said. “And I’m only concerned because I want you to be your very best self while I’m at work.”
    â€œYou’re not taking me with you?”
    â€œThis week you’re going to Dex’s work.”
    â€œOkay, so pretend that I’ve forgotten everything you’ve told me about Dex. Who is he and what does he do again?”
    â€œSee, I knew you weren’t listening. Was that so hard to admit?”
    Yes, I thought, because it is a lie. I couldn’t hear something she never said.
    â€œWell, where to start—he’s biracial, but probably whiter than I am.”
    While Delia was equal opportunity about the BMWs she would borrow, when it came to actual dating, frat-boy white was last year’s color. In high school, she was strictly interested in black guys. She found the one Nigerian exchange student to take to prom. She once broke up with a perfectly nice biracial kid from the suburbs because he was “too white.” I think Roger slipped in because he had an accent and wore eye makeup on a semi-regular basis. By sheer virtue of his awesome command of Euro-weird, she must have overlooked the pasty glow of his flesh. Never mind that she herself had a lack of pigment rivaled by the walking dead. If I could have rolled my eyes, Exorcist -style, into the back of my skull, I would have.
    â€œBut he can’t be whiter than you because you’re actually white.”
    â€œHa-ha,” she said. “You’ll like him. He’s a writer.”
    â€œRoger is a writer,” I said.
    â€œI know, I know,” she said. “You hate Roger. But he’s not a writer like Roger is a writer. He writes for Chips Ahoy! ”
    It is a miracle that I didn’t spit my doughnut onto her dashboard.
    â€œYou mean Chips Ahoy! with the Taylor twins? Seriously?”
    She nodded her head, and we both started laughing at the same time.
    â€œThat is the worst show in the history of the world,” I said.
    Chips Ahoy! with Josh and Jeremy Taylor was a show about two very rich teenagers named Dan and Mickey Chip. For unknown reasons, they’re traveling the world on