Cancelled, p.1
Cancelled, page 1
VIKING
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
First published in the United States of America by Viking,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2024
Copyright © 2024 by Farrah Penn
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
Ebook ISBN 9780593528327
Text design by Sophie Erb, adapted for ebook by Michelle Quintero
Cover art © 2024 by Sadie Lewandowski | Cover design by Kelley Brady
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Acknowledgments
About the Author
_146464156_
Mom, this one is for you —F. P.
1
KimberlyH has Venmo’d you $20—
SavannahL has Venmo’d you $20—
KingsleyB has Venmo’d you $50—
When it comes to people like Carson Jenkins, I really don’t charge enough for my efforts.
We’re sitting on the floor of my bedroom and he’s giving me this unflattering, pitiful look, the corners of his mouth slipping down as if I’ve just insulted his favorite video game. His tortured vibe makes me itchy with impatience, but I push through it. Because if I want that sweet cash, I have to help him.
Not have to, I tell myself. Want to. I want to help him because I’m brilliant at what I do.
“Let me see it,” I say for the second time.
Carson’s expression shifts to full-on moping. It’s not a good look. He has a death grip on his iPhone, squeezing it so tight that his knuckles turn white. From the sight of him, you’d think his mother had accidentally stumbled upon his entire porn search history. Which isn’t the case. I can tell him that particular scenario would be a million times worse than this one, but knowing Carson, he’d probably prefer to deal with that hiccup instead of our current problem.
“It’s bad,” he admits, his round brown eyes full of concern. “I really messed up. You can’t help me out of this one.”
I grin. Oh, he of little faith.
“Your doubt in me is insulting.” I gesture to the phone, which is now coated with Carson’s stress sweat. Blergh. “Show me.”
He hesitates, and I force myself to take a deep breath. Carson is here because I’ve unintentionally earned the title of Greenlough Academy’s Flirt Expert. If you need help texting your crush, I’ve got you. I’m the master text-message crafter. The witty-reply whisperer. The Mother Teresa of Flirting, if you will. Except, you know, Mother Teresa didn’t charge for her humanitarian gestures. She was a selfless soul; may she rest in peace.
It’s not that I’m not selfless. I just really need the money. What I do is both a skill and an art, and I take pride in my ability to navigate tricky texting territory.
This does not mean, however, that I am a hookup wizard. I cannot help someone whose only goal is to get laid. I foster meaningful relationships through conversation that, sure, sometimes leads to more. But for the majority of my peers, it’s about me finding opportunities for one person to know another person using the safety net of texting.
My flirt coaching started with my reputation as a serial dater. During my sophomore year, I experienced nine short-lived romances—or situationships, since most were of the casual variety. This drew attention from my curious classmates, especially those who wanted help getting their crush’s attention.
Basically, my ability to publicly advance my love life led to me figuring out what my peers were struggling with in their own dating circles: communication.
This means I take different texting styles into account. Are they big emoji users? (Or worse, Bitmoji users?) Do they send huge paragraphs or multiple short texts?
Everything about their style is key. It keeps the interaction flowing. Bonus if there’s textual chemistry.
I helped my best friend, Tahlia Nassif, get with Ann Chu shortly after this realization. She told class president Rhea Zhang about me, who told Vince Ramirez, and, well, it spread like a good movie: when word gets out about all the reasons you should go see it, more people start buying tickets.
My ticket price for coaching starts at twenty bucks. If it leads to a date, it’s fifty. I don’t feel bad for what I charge. I know my worth. Plus, Greenlough Academy is located in the (rich) city of Pacific Palisades and is filled with (rich) kids who have access to parental money. It means more to me than it does to them.
So if I want that sweet payment, I have to help this emotionally distraught disaster of a boy.
Carson texted me about his 911 situation earlier, insisting he needed to explain in person. Hence why he’s on the verge of a breakdown on my bedroom floor.
He heaves a tragic sigh that’s a decibel too dramatic, unlocking his phone. I watch as he opens his conversation with Kendra Wilkens, fellow senior and captain of Greenlough’s dive team.
Carson
i liked the stance you took in lit. about the consequences isabel faces in the portrait of a lady.
Kendra
oh! thank you
So far, so good. I told Carson to pay compliments not only based on Kendra’s looks but on her opinions and insights. And I mentioned that he should be specific so she knew he was listening. He’d followed that advice.
Carson
i’m probably not gonna pass our exam.
Kendra
don’t say that!
Carson
idk, I’ll probably get a D. maybe a C.
Carson
anyway
Carson
do you have a meet this weekend? maybe I can come? we can get in-n-out after?
Carson
or not, idk
Carson
if you don’t eat meat there’s other places
I wince. Carson sent those texts at eight last night, and Kendra never responded. He came on too strong, too awkward, but it’s reversible damage.
I can get Kendra to text him back.
“Okay, first?” I begin. “It’s not sexy when you put yourself down. It makes you look insecure. People like confidence.”
Carson rereads his one-sided conversation. “So . . . I should have told her I’d ace the exam?”
“No,” I say quickly. “That’s too arrogant. It’s a fine line. Confidence is, you know, playing it cool. Not second-guessing yourself.”
Carson looks at me like I’ve just explained the binomial theorem in fluent French.
I move on, needing him to understand the rest. “Second, why’d you shoot your shot? You started texting her two days ago. I told you that you have to let this build for a bit.”
“I thought it would be a good opportunity—”
“It wasn’t.” I don’t need to hear his argument because, as we both can see, it failed. “If you want to go out with her, you have to give her room to anticipate it. C’mon, dude. She doesn’t want to throw on date clothes after being in a pool all day. Not when she’s smelling like chlorine and has wet hair.”
His shoulders slump. “Right. That makes sense.”
“But”—I raise my eyebrows—“we can fix this.”
It takes me a few moments to get it right, but I craft a text for Carson to send to Kendra a few hours before her meet:
Carson
I’m sorry for coming on so strongly. you’re going to do great today. if you want to hang out sometime, my treat. we can even debate the proper use of sporks. but if not, no worries
Personally, I think adding their inside joke about sporks is genius. It also takes the pressure off Kendra and makes Carson seem a thousand percent chiller.
I’m positive he’ll get a response.
I crack my knuckles, satisfied. “And when she hits you back, you know what to do.”
“Venmo, I know,” Carson says, adjusting his glasses. He’s cute in that indie-singer-soft-nerdy-boy kind of way. Kendra inherited a record collection from her dad that she frequently features on Instagram. They’ll for sure hit it off.
If anything came from my reputation as a serial dater, it’s the income I make as the school’s flirt expert. I’m one of the only seniors on academic scholarship, and money has always been a concern. My mom’s an assistant day-care manager who works Postmates shifts by night, but we’re not immune to the occasional financial pinch. Sometimes I’ll spot her on bills because as wildly fascinating as the medieval times were, I do prefer twenty-first-century electricity.
She would have savings if it wasn’t for my twenty-two-year-old brother Smith, who’s been in and out of expensive rehabs for his drug addiction. It’s a sensitive subject that we tend to avoid.
We certainly don’t ask my dad for money. He remarried years ago and now lives in Calabasas with his new wife and two small kids. I was fifteen the last time I saw him in person. We had milkshakes at Johnny Rockets, where he presented me with a very belated birthday card that sang a Disney song when you opened it. Nothing says I love and cherish you, my darling daughter like a card blasting “Hakuna Matata” throughout a packed burger joint.
Anyway, he sent child support checks until I turned eighteen, which was three weeks ago. That was the extent of our interactions. He’s never made me a priority in his life, so I don’t make him one in mine.
“You think she’ll respond?”
“She will.”
A conversation sparks when curiosity is present. I don’t believe Kendra is disinterested, so the key to keeping this exchange exciting is a delicate back-and-forth. The focus shouldn’t be one-sided.
Carson slides his iPhone into his pocket. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” I push myself into a standing position. I’m wearing the rainbow-polka-dot pajama bottoms and oversized T-shirt I slept in last night, and my bangs are rumpled to one side of my head instead of lying flat. Hot mess, thy name is Brynn.
Carson’s phone chimes. We look at each other. He hasn’t sent the text to Kendra yet, but he scrambles for his phone as if he did. Maybe he’s hoping she’s responded to his texts from last night, which yeesh. Unlikely.
While he checks, my eyes catch my banana costume crumpled near my nightstand. I’d worn it last night, not because I make outrageously eclectic fashion choices (for the most part), but because it was Halloween.
It was a last-minute decision. Truthfully, I’d been hoping to thrift a Shrek costume. I wanted to walk around playing “All Star” by Smash Mouth on my phone because it’s an iconic bop, but I would’ve settled for an inflatable T. rex costume paired with the Jurassic Park soundtrack. Halloween is fun when you don’t take it too seriously. But I couldn’t find anything halfway decent at Goodwill, so I’d settled on my banana costume I hadn’t worn since seventh grade.
“Is it Kendra?” I ask.
“Uh.” He blinks, his attention flicking from my costume on the floor to his phone screen. “No. It’s not.”
I notice the weird shift in his tone. Maybe it’s personal.
“I should go,” he says, fumbling to put his phone away.
I shrug, holding open my bedroom door. “See you.”
Then he leaves like my house is on fire.
Weird.
I head into the kitchen and pour myself a bowl of off-brand Cocoa Puffs that my mother crassly dubbed “Cocoa Pellets.” I squint at the bowl, concluding that the sugary taste overrides the questionable shape.
Carson proved to be a good distraction from my own suckfest of an evening, because last night I’d broken up with my boyfriend. In a banana costume no less.
I think about texting Otto to make sure he’s okay but reconsider. I shouldn’t open that line of communication. I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear from me.
It wasn’t an awful breakup. In fact, none of my relationships—flirtationships, situationships, whatever you want to call them—have ended in a dramatic demise. They have, however, all ended because of me.
Well, except for one.
The thing is, I can sense impending disappointment like a dog sensing an earthquake right before it hits. And when I do, I get out before there’s lasting damage. Heartache isn’t an experiment worth repeating. It’s mentally taxing and extremely unfun. I’d rather be alone until I can chase another heart-pattering high that will eventually peter out.
Anyway, feelings don’t fix problems. Look at my mother. My dad left, my brother is never around, and whenever shit hits the fan, who has to fix it?
Me.
I’d felt the familiar disappointment sink in last night. Otto drove us to Keith Whittle’s after-party once the school’s Halloween dance came to a modest end at nine-thirty, but not before we stopped at the abandoned car wash off Clifford Avenue—aka our usual hookup spot.
Otto’s BMW was tight quarters, but it was better than my nonexistent vehicle that provided exactly zero privacy.
I was straddling Otto in his back seat as he desperately tried to find the zipper for my banana costume. (Spoiler alert: No zipper. You literally had to peel that thing off me.)
“Why’d you have to wear this thing?” Otto mumbled, his lips vibrating against mine.
“Because I like it. It’s very a-peeling on me.”
My pun went over his head. “No, it’s not. It’s really baggy.”
I flattened my palms over both sides of my head as if to cover its ears. “Shh, you’re going to hurt its feelings.”
He just stared at me. “Whose feelings?”
I theatrically looked up and sighed. My sense of humor was wasted on him.
“Never mind.” I pulled myself into the passenger’s seat, readjusting my bold outfit. “Let’s head out.”
Keith’s house was located right in the center of the Palisades suburban paradise, where the homes were more like modern villas than standard two-stories. Keith had it all. Backyard basketball court. Ocean view. A pool. The dream.
We found liquor and mixers in the kitchen, and I made myself a drink before I went looking for my best friends. I found them dancing in the living room with some tipsy classmates. Tahlia was dressed as Winifred Sanderson, her orange hijab wrapped in a braided knot. And Marlowe, who’s unapologetically loud and trans, had acquired sunglasses identical to Lady Gaga circa 2008.
I joined them, warm and silly from the liquor, shamelessly incorporating bits of flossing and dabbing into my dance moves. Ironically, obviously.
Otto watched me from the kitchen with Duncan Rowe and Thomas Randkin, two of his football buddies. I didn’t exactly love Otto’s friends. All they talked about was televised sports and overpriced sneakers. Also? They thought making fun of people was a personality trait.
Duncan was dressed as Batman. His arm was wrapped around his longtime girlfriend—and my ex–best friend—Lenora Kahue, who made the perfect Moana. Part of me wished I could compliment her choice of costume, but I knew she would only slight me. We caught eyes for a second before she flicked her gaze away, scoffing. I swallowed. It hurt more than I thought it would.
Still. I wasn’t going to let Lenora ruin my night.
