by AC Washer
“Well, I can think of a few guys who want to be your date,” Mickey said, glancing at me from the corner of his eyes.
“A few guys? Who? The only guys I know here are you and Edon.”
Mickey winced. “Well, whatever you do, don’t ask him.”
“And why is that?” A smooth, lazy voice said behind me, making goosebumps break out on my arms.
I spun around to see Edon at his locker, wearing rugged jeans and a dark red t-shirt that hugged his shoulders.
Even though I knew better than meeting his gaze, it would have been weird if I kept staring at his chest. At least, that’s what I thought until his warm brown eyes crinkled with humor, sucking me further in.
From the corner of my eye, I could see Mickey shift.
“Because,” Mickey said, “you’ve never been a fan of the court.”
Edon’s smile dimpled a cheek, and I felt my heart squeeze. “With a different queen, court wouldn’t be so bad. But” —Edon shifted his eyes from me to Mickey— “you keep choosing the same kind of queen year after year after year.”
“It’s not really a choice.”
Edon gave him a contemptuous look. “It was last time.”
“No, it wasn’t. I knew her better than you—she wasn’t what you thought,” Mickey said, glaring at Edon.
“Well, now we’ll never know, will we?” Edon sneered.
I blinked. “Are you guys seriously arguing about who voted for the last homecoming queen?”
When they turned their eyes on me, their expressions still dark and flinty, I held my hands in front of me in a placating gesture. “Not that that couldn’t be important and all, but it seems to be a little…out of character? Just saying.”
The corners of Edon’s mouth quirked up. And I quickly looked away before his gaze could suck me in again.
“Long story,” Mickey said.
“Very long,” Edon agreed. “But Mickey is right about one thing.” I swiveled my gaze back to his, my breath catching as he grinned at me. “Unlike you, I’m not really Homecoming court material.”
“But I’m not—”
A dark chuckle cut me off. Edon shook his head. “You will be if you stick with him,” he said, nodding at Mickey. “Not that I recommend it. I’d run fast and far away if I were you—and I’m not just saying that because I’m not on the best of terms with the court.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, since there’s no chance of me getting nominated, I think I’m safe from all the school Homecoming court drama.”
Edon shook his head and opened his mouth, about to say something more.
“Let’s go,” Mickey said, pulling me away from the lockers.
But not before Edon said, “Just remember, Kella: the offer still stands.”
That made me stop in my tracks. My mind flicked over to the first day I met him—when he’d invited me to go with him instead of to my foster home. I couldn’t forget how my gut had screamed at me to say yes that day. Just as it was doing right now.
That was it, my gut was broken.
And it didn’t help that my body had more issues than a lemon from a used car lot whenever Edon was around.
But at least my brain still worked well enough to remember Bridgette’s haunted expression—the one that had told me all I needed to know about Edon. Girls couldn’t trust guys like him no matter how attractive they were—or how much they wanted to say yes.
“Sorry, I won’t be your next ‘Bridgette,’” I said. “You’ll just have to look somewhere else.”
“Bridgette?” Edon scrunched his brows together. “What does this have to do with Bridgette?”
“She told me about you,” I said, leaving him to fill in the blanks.
“And?” Edon asked.
That wasn’t the response I had expected. “Well, didn’t you guys date?”
Edon’s laugh sent shivers racing down my back. “Who told you that? Bridgette?” Edon shook his head. “I’d rather date explosives—they’d be less dangerous.”
I stared at him for a moment, stunned. “You didn’t…you never dated…” I looked over at Mickey. “You guys lied—” I stopped myself. They couldn’t have outright lied to me—I’d have spotted a lie right away. I didn’t remember exactly what had been said, but I knew I’d been led to believe…
“It looks like you two have things to talk about,” Edon said, interrupting my thoughts, “so I’ll leave you to it.” He turned and walked down the hallway toward the office.
“Mickey,” I said, staring at Edon’s retreating form. “Why did you and Bridgette try to get me to think that Edon and Bridgette had dated…” I turned in time to see the flash of guilt on his face before he settled his features into a neutral expression. “And that you rescued her from your awful best friend.”
Mickey ran his hand through his hair. “We didn’t mean to mislead you, but Edon’s bad news. When we realized you thought that he was...”
“A scary ex-boyfriend?”
Mickey nodded. “Well, we figured it was for the best.”
“It was for the best to make me think the worst of someone?”
“It’s not that simple. Trusting Edon would be a very, very bad idea. He’d destroy you.”
Destroy me? Well, that was a little dramatic.
“You could have just told me he was bad news.”
“But you would have wanted to know why, and we wouldn’t have been able to tell you, and then you would have gone out of your way to figure it out yourself.”
“You don’t know that. And wait, why can’t you tell me?”
“See? You want to know why,” Mickey said. “And I can’t tell you. I literally cannot tell you.”
I believed him—and it wasn’t just because I didn’t sense a lie. There was a sincerity in his voice that would be near impossible to duplicate.
“Some sort of legal gag order?” I asked.
Mickey smiled. “Definitely a gag order.”
“Huh,” I said, looking in the direction that Edon had disappeared. I couldn’t help but wonder what Edon had done to make Mickey and Bridgette so protective—and to have a judge issue a gag order.
“So, do you still want to know which guys want to go with you to Homecoming?” he said once we reached math class.
If Mickey was trying to distract me from the whole Edon thing, he succeeded. “Well, yeah. So, who do I have to pick from?”
Mickey grinned at me. “I’ll tell you after math.”
“Wait, you can’t just do that!”
But the jerk winked at me and ducked into class.
I dashed in after him only to be brought up short by Mr. O’Faolain standing just inside the door, handing everyone a white slip of paper as they entered. He smiled at me, making my heart race. After that first day in class, my reaction to Mr. O’Faolain had gone from boiling over to a slow simmer that bubbled up whenever he caught my eye. Which was weird, because I didn’t go for the light-haired, blue-eyed types. Now, if he had dark hair and honey-brown eyes… the thought snapped me out of whatever daze I’d been in. I grabbed the slip of paper and sped to my desk.
As I slid into my seat, Mr. O’Faolain said, “Class, it is time to vote for the homecoming court.” He held up the slip of paper. “Before you is your list of Homecoming court nominees. You are to vote for one. Please do so now.”
I pulled a pencil out of my backpack. I wouldn’t know any of these people, so I figured I’d circle the first name on the list.
Except that name was mine.
My gaze snapped over to Mickey, who wasn’t even looking at me. He’d already circled a name and held up his paper for Mr. O’Faolain to take.
“Mickey,” I whispered. He looked over at me. “Mickey, my name’s on the list.”
He nodded, his face a mask of neutrality.
“How did my name get on the list?”
Mickey looked away from me. “It only takes one student to nominate you.”
“But I don’t know anybody except for—"
“Ms. James, is there a problem?” Mr. O’Faolain asked from the front of the room. I wanted to say yes, but it wasn’t like he could strike my name off of the ballot. Instead, I shook my head before circling a random name on the ballot.
Mickey’s name caught my eye when I scanned the column for Homecoming King. Well, that kind of made sense. He was popular, for whatever reason. But me? This had to be someone’s idea of a joke. Who would…
Edon’s face flashed in my mind. He’d been certain I’d be part of the Homecoming court, but the only way he could have known for sure would have been if he’d nominated me—but that didn’t make sense because he told me not to be part of the homecoming court.
Mr. O’Faolain stopped at my desk, and I hastily circled Mickey’s name before handing him my slip.
Mr. O’Faolain’s fingers skimmed my hand, and my mind went blank as I looked up at him, staring into his perfect, blue eyes.
“Congratulations on being nominated,” he said, bending closer toward me, his lips so close to mine that I had a hard time remembering how to breathe. “Please know that you are permitted to choose anyone you would like to accompany you to homecoming, student or otherwise.”
I swallowed, unable to break myself away from his eyes, his lips. I found myself inching toward him, ready to climb up into his arms—
But Mickey grabbed me by my belt and planted me firmly back into my seat.
Mr. O’Faolain’s eyes snapped away from me as his hand jerked away from mine. And a wave of dizziness crashed down on me from the sudden loss of contact.
I took a few deep breaths, trying to get myself together again before I looked over at Mickey. His face might as well have been set in stone as he stared at Mr. O’Faolain’s retreating back.
Just as I was about to ask Mickey if our teacher had really just hinted at being date material—and if that was even legal—another wave of dizziness swept over me. I buried my head in my arms. Maybe I needed to eat.
I battled dizziness for the rest of class, eventually giving up and letting my head rest on my desk. When the bell rang, I told myself I was going to get up in just another minute.
“Rise and shine!”
I shot up like a can of over-shaken soda, banging my knee on the underside of my desk.
“Bridgette!” I said, holding my throbbing knee. “What the—don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“Didn’t have to. You had zero situational awareness.” She gave me a smile, but her eyes narrowed into censuring slits.
“So, have you thought about who you’d like to ask to Homecoming?” Bridgette asked, grabbing my backpack and tugging me toward the door. Ten minutes ago, a tug would have been enough to make me fall flat on my face, but I was relieved to find that my knees barely wobbled.
Which was weird because I hadn’t eaten anything yet.
I shook my head. “Mickey was going to tell me about a couple guys that wanted to ask me out, though.”
“Oh.” Bridgette tossed her loose blond hair out of her eyes. “Well, that’s easy. Everyone does. Just pick one so we can get to the fun stuff—like dress fitting.”
“Don’t you mean shopping?” I asked.
“No, Stuart’s making your dress. He’s a genius when it comes to gowns, so you know it’s going to be gorgeous. Just pick out a date and you’re good to go. Personally, I’d ask Patrick. He’s got amazing reflexes.”
“Patrick? Wait, you ordered my dress?” I stopped in the middle of the hall and looked over at Mickey. On what planet was this normal?
“No,” Bridgette said. “I commissioned it. And you won’t be disappointed—Stuart’s the best. Speaking of which.” Bridgette turned to Mickey. “Stuart says to tell you to bring Kella by the store as soon as possible. He wants to get a better idea of her coloring.”
Mickey was rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger again.
“Bridgette,” he said, as if he was really searching for patience, “girls usually pick out their own dresses for Homecoming. From a rack of clothes. That aren’t made-to-order.”
Bridgette wrapped a lock of blonde hair around her finger and shrugged, staring up at the ceiling. “Oh. Well, I guess Stew can arrange that, too. So how many dresses do I need to tell Stuart to make for the rack?”
Mickey briefly closed his eyes. “Bridgette, you don’t understand. Pre-made. As in, not custom-made. As in, what Stuart already has available in the store.”
Bridgette’s eyes widened in horror as that information sunk in. “That’s a horrible idea. As Homecoming Princess, she needs to dress the part.”
“Yeah, and what’s up with that?” I asked. “Did you nominate me?”
“Maaaybe,” Bridgette said.
I stared at her. Un-be-lievable. “Why? It’s not like anyone is going to vote for me.”
Bridgette shrugged. “You never know. And in any case, you really do need to pick a date. Whoever you choose will need to get ready, too.”
“You make it sound like I just crook my finger and whatever guy I want will come. It’s not that simple. I don’t know who’s dating who, what guys are creeps. I don’t even know which guys are already taken.”
“Well, if you want to keep it simple, Mickey could give Patrick your number. The guy has really, really good reflexes. He’d be a decent choice.”
Bridgette pulled me away from Mickey as we got to our class. “Don’t forget about Patrick, Mickey!” she called as she pushed me through the doorway.
It took until we sat down for Bridgette’s words to register. I twisted around to stare at her. “You didn’t—Mickey wouldn’t do that, right? Not without asking me first?”
Bridgette shrugged her shoulders, the picture of innocence, but I didn’t believe it for one second. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”
“What?” I said a little too loudly. People were looking at us.
I lowered my voice to a whisper-shout. “I didn’t say that was okay. When did I say that was okay?”
She shrugged. “You didn’t. But you weren’t making a decision, so I figured I’d help things along.”
“That’s totally against girl code.”
Bridgette paused and looked at me with a trace of alarm in her eyes. “Girl code?”
“Yes, girl code. You do not, under any circumstances, give a guy my number without asking me first.”
“Oh!” Bridgette laughed. “I thought it was something serious.”
“It is.”
“Oh.” Bridgette pulled her physics book from her backpack. “Well, I guess I’ll need to read up on it, then.”
My eyes narrowed in irritation. “Read up on what?”
“The Girl Code.”
I thumped my head on my desk. “You don’t read the girl code. It’s just common sense.”
“Obviously not, since I don’t see a problem with facilitating contact between you and Patrick. But since it bothers you so much, I could ask him for you instead.”
“I give up,” I mumbled into my desk.
Chapter 11
After school, Maeve drove me and Mickey to the mall so we could meet up with whoever this Stuart guy was. We drove past our castle school into what seemed to pass for suburbia here. Quaint stone-faced houses that looked like something out of a Thomas Kinkade painting lined the streets, each perched on its own grassy lot. But the further into town we went, the more modern the houses became until we finally reached…another castle.
“This is the mall?” It was a huge, white-stoned edifice—sans turrets, at least—that sat atop an actual knoll. It even had those spaces at the top where archers used to shoot out of in the old medieval castles.
“The developers were the same ones who donated to the school,” Mickey said, as if that explained everything. Which I guess it did.
Maeve handed Mickey a white envelope full of cash with instructions for me to I buy a few more clothes. I eyed the thickness, convinced that it had to be a bunch of ones and fives.
“Six o’clock, sharp,�
�� Maeve said, as we slid out of the car. We were just about to head out when she rolled down the passenger-side window.
“Remember,” she said, taking turns looking us in the eye—particularly Mickey. “Covered midriffs, sleeves, finger-length or longer skirts, nothing low-cut, and nothing see-through.” It was as if she had memorized the school dress code. I pressed my lips together. I was seventeen. I didn’t need to be told how to dress myself.
She was waiting for something. I gave her a stiff nod, and she nodded back, rolling up the window. We turned toward the mall as she drove away.
The three-story mall looked spectacular on the outside, but, just like the school, looked completely normal on the inside, escalators and all. I darted to the mall map, scouring it for the usual stores. While I wasn’t a big shopper, I had window-shopped enough to recognize all the big-name stores, but there wasn’t a single one listed.
“Pix Fix, Glamour, Faeshionista…Sealie Locks?”
I shot an incredulous look at Mickey just in time to catch the flash of irritation that darted across his face.
“It’s a themed mall,” he said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.
“Themed mall?” I turned back toward the mall map, but he quickly grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me along. “What’s the theme?”
“Ancient Irish mythology.”
“Seriously? Those developers were something else.”
“You’re telling me,” he muttered. His eyes darted around and snagged on something right before he practically dragged me in the opposite direction—right into a store named Seelies.
As soon as we set foot in the entry, what sounded like a mini trumpet announced our presence. A pleasantly plump guy, no older than twenty, with orange-red hair that stuck straight up like a treasure troll, slid out from behind the counter with a wide grin splayed across his broad, potato-like face.
“Mickey! How ye be?” he asked with a thick Irish accent. “Oh, oh, and don’t be telling me.” He looked me from bottom to top, his smile deepening to the point where his eyes all but disappeared in his cheeks. “This one must be your foster sister.” The way he said it so carefully and deliberately reminded me of someone testing out a new word that they were particularly proud of.
