No. Are you mental? There wasn’t anything wrong with it. I was simply shocked. Not even really jealous. It was probably the camera and the singing that cinched the deal for Jeanne.
“We should get going,” I heard Jeanne say breathlessly, pulling away. “Before Tree sends out a search party.”
Bit late for that.
“Fine.” Ritchie didn’t move. Jeanne didn’t protest. Unable to bear it anymore, I turned and half-ran-half-walked from the park to the car.
“Did you find them?” Chris asked. His expression grew concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, um . . . ” I managed to crack a grin, waving a hand to sum up all the words I was struggling to find. “Jeanne and Ritchie, er . . . they were kinda . . . ”
“Kissing?”
I nodded.
Chris bobbed his head, as though he wasn’t the least bit surprised. He’d expected it, even. “Ritchie acts like he’s made of stone, but on the inside, he’s just as human as the rest of us. I guess that makes it inevitable, then.”
“Makes what?”
“Us,” Chris said in the same unaffected tone. “If those two have hooked up, then the obvious next step is for the remaining singles—us—to do the same.”
For a moment, all I could think of was Chris kissing me the way Ritchie had kissed Jeanne, passionate and fierce, uncaring of who saw . . . then I jerked back to reality. Because I was me, and that made it impossible.
“Um,” I said stupidly.
“Logic,” Chris shrugged. Had he always been standing so close? I could even smell him, a mixture of cologne and fish and chips.
“I’ve only known you a day!” I blurted, confused by the raging torrent of emotions in my head, my heart, everywhere. I felt dizzy. “It’s ridiculous, just because Genie and Ritchie . . . I mean, in a few days we’ll go our own ways and I can’t . . . I’ve never even . . . and you . . . ”
Chris’s face fell. “Teresa, I wasn’t being serious. It was just a joke. Like how in movies and everything . . . y’know.” His cheeks were just as red as mine. “Sorry. I feel like an idiot now.”
Oh.
My heart thudded once more in my ears, then fell silent. The alley was unnaturally still.
Of course he’d been joking. And embarrassment didn’t even begin to cover how that made me feel.
“I’m sorry.”
He looked miserable. “Me too. I didn’t realize you—”
“No, no, I just—”
Jeanne and Ritchie chose that moment to reappear from the park. Ritchie was sporting his usual poker face, but Jeanne carried a silly smile. She either didn’t pick up on my distress, or didn’t care, walking straight past both of us and sliding into the driver’s seat.
“You coming, Tree?”
No “Are you okay?” or any attempt to convey what had happened with Ritchie. Nothing of what you’d expect from a best friend.
I got in wordlessly and Chris did the same. The tension was almost palpable.
“Everybody buckled in?” asked Jeanne, absently. “Let’s go, London calling.”
I PRETENDED TO HAVE A HEADACHE, TURNING toward the window and not uttering a word. Chris was similarly silent, a dramatic change from earlier, but Jeanne filled the resulting void with a mixture of chatter and singing. As traffic built up, slowing us to a crawling pace, she gradually grew less sunny and more irritable.
“Stupid lorries,” she growled. “Oi! Get out of the fast lane! You’re a bloody hundred-ton lorry, not a bloody sports car!”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Every time she swerved, my head banged against the glass.
It was a miracle that in the forty-five minutes it took to arrive outside of Jeanne’s friend’s flat I managed not to throw up. When we arrived, I helped to haul our suitcases up several flights of stairs as if in a stupor, not registering our hosts’ faces or names. Even the flat itself slid from my memory the second I stepped outside for some fresh air.
“Tree!”
I kept staring at a lamppost, waiting for it to turn on. It was the only one that hadn’t yet.
“There you are.” Jeanne tapped my shoulder. It hurt more than it should have. “Ashley says there’s a great club down the road with a really good DJ. It’s been a long day; I’m dying to unwind.”
The idea of going to a crowded room full of sweaty people and booming music was appalling at the moment. Especially if Chris was going, too.
“Nah. Can we not?”
Jeanne stopped bouncing. Not because she was concerned about me, but because I was rejecting her idea. “Don’t be a killjoy.”
“I’m not. I just don’t want to go. And anyway, if you’re driving tomorrow, you probably shouldn’t either.”
“The law.” She rolled her eyes and resumed bouncing on her heels. “You’ll have to come and keep an eye on me, Tree, just in case.”
“I’m not your freaking babysitter, Jeanne.”
I regretted the words as soon as I’d said them. I hadn’t meant to sound so bitter, hadn’t meant to . . . yet at the same time, I’d wanted to say something to that effect for a very long time.
Jeanne went rigid. “Excuse me?”
I struggled between apologizing and pushing my point further. Everything was building up, everything I’d let fly over my head returning with vengeance. “You still haven’t got the memo, eh, Tree? I don’t care what you think. Never have,” she’d said. Not entirely a joke. She hadn’t asked me if I wanted to come on this trip, because she needed a sidekick and didn’t want to give me the chance to say no. Not because she genuinely wanted to give me a surprise. I hadn’t wanted to go inside Elm House, yet we had anyway. She never asked me if it was okay for the boys to join us. Hell, unlike Chris, she’d never asked if I minded being called “Tree,” no matter how strongly I hinted at disliking it. And here we were, alone, and she wasn’t going to bring up the fact she’d been making out with Ritchie. I wasn’t someone who she thought to confide in, and that hurt more than anything.
“I’ve had enough,” I said, willing myself to look her in the eye, “of being bossed around by you. So go to your stupid club, but I think I’m going to go home.”
Jeanne flinched as though I’d slapped her. Then her eyes narrowed. “Pardon me for making choices you’re incapable of.”
“You never give me a chance! It’s always your way or the highway, and I’m sick and tired of it!” I cried. “Just because I think inside my head rather than aloud, it doesn’t mean I need the likes of you to decide things for me. I’m fed up of being dragged around by you!”
“Thing is, if I didn’t drag you around, you’d never have a life,” she scoffed, folding her arms and leaning against the lamppost, which flickered twice before turning on and casting a spotlight over the path. “Look at you, dropping out the second things get out of your comfort zone. It’s just a club, for Pete’s sake!”
“That’s exactly the point,” I said, softer than before. “This isn’t about the club, but you don’t care enough to dig that deep. It always has to be about you.”
She stared at me. One hand began twisting her hair, a nervous habit of hers, and I wondered if she ever noticed such quirks about me.
“You . . . ” she trailed off and shook her head.
Voices echoed from inside the flat, and for a moment, we both turned our attention to the window, watching, saying nothing. I took a deep, steadying breath. I didn’t want to do this; despite it all, Jeanne was still my best friend. We could talk it out like grown-ups.
Then she laughed and pivoted back inside. “Come on, Tree. I’m going to get ready.”
My gut clenched. It was easy to imagine what she’d tell the boys: It’s just Tree being silly. Don’t worry, she’ll get over it. She gets all hissy when she’s tired, nothing unusual . . . who’s ready to party?
There was only one thing for it. If I ever wanted to be taken seriously, I had to make good on my threat.
Move, Teresa, move! I shrieked at myself, willing my legs to walk
in the other direction. To just once find the strength to stand up for myself with enough vigor that Jeanne actually noticed. But all the fire and bravery I’d managed to muster before was slinking away at a remarkable rate, and the pacifist part of me was wondering why I was trying to make trouble when there didn’t have to be any.
“Tree, are you coming or not?” Jeanne yelled from the door. “Don’t sulk, come on.”
I hesitated, then, bitterly hating myself for it, followed her inside.
Perhaps she hadn’t thought to pack food or maps, but I found my suitcase contained a perfect clubbing outfit: black tights, a miniskirt, and a fitted black blouse I hadn’t had the courage to wear yet. I put it all on, deciding that if I was going to do this, I should at least do it properly. It all felt horribly tight: my clothes clinging like a second skin, the dollop of mousse Ashley (Jeanne’s cousin, who was putting us up for the night) coated my hair in, the triumphant smirks Jeanne kept flicking in my direction. I don’t think I’d ever been less enthusiastic about dancing.
“Oh, cheer up,” Jeanne said, coming to share the mirror beside me. She was wearing a shimmering, silver mini-dress with floaty, off-shoulder sleeves, and looked sickeningly good. Her blond hair had been sprayed to give off an almost grungy image—artfully distressed. “You’re tired, I get it. This will help. Trust me. Just smile.” She demonstrated.
I didn’t smile.
Chris and Ritchie, having no extra clothes, had cleaned up rather than changed. They both still looked very good, enough so that I momentarily forgot why I was in a foul mood. Then Jeanne waltzed in, smiling at Ritchie, and I soured.
We all piled into the car, the scent of hair product overwhelming, and followed Ashley’s directions. The club was in another semi-urban area, right on the border of London proper, and located on the floor above a nail salon. The lineup of people outside was probably a good sign, I supposed. If I was trying to be positive.
The second we got out of the car, Jeanne and I were swarmed by groups of boys. It wasn’t anything personal; the club wasn’t letting groups consisting only of young men in, so their only way through was to pretend to be friends with the likes of us. Jeanne pretended to think about it, then agreed on the condition they bought her drinks. Nobody consulted me.
“You’re eighteen, right?” Chris asked me when we were three groups back from the bouncer. It was the first time he’d spoken all night.
“Yup,” I said. “I’m legal. Don’t worry, I won’t drag the group down.”
Wow, that sounded bitter. I forced a grin, and he grinned uneasily back.
The club was typical of others I’d been to. Dim lighting, red velour sofas scattered around round tables, a bar, and a tiny dance floor crammed with bodies next to the DJ’s table. Music thrummed through the speakers at such volume I felt my bones shaking. Most people there were around our age, dancing, chatting, and otherwise mulling about in the sea of shiny clothing and white, grinning teeth.
“Do me a favor,” Jeanne said, leaning right into me so I could hear over the music, “wink if I look funny. Like, if my lipstick smudges or—”
“I know the drill.”
“Good, good.” She glanced over her shoulder, where the group of guys we’d brought in with us were hovering. “I’m gonna go cash in on some drinks. What do you want, Tree?”
I shook my head. “You’re driving home, Genie.”
She waved a hand. “Relax. Anyway, it isn’t every night where the opportunity presents itself to have the most expensive drink on the menu courtesy of someone else.”
I wanted to argue, but she’d already turned her back on me.
Great. Awesome.
Usually, I loved this sort of thing. The neon lights, the energy, the new remixes, the excitement of checking out local talent . . . but tonight, I just wanted to go home. I just wanted to go to sleep and wake up somewhere else.
“Buy you a drink?” some anonymous young man from Jeanne’s pack asked, noticing I wasn’t moving. “Or a dance?”
“But do you think I should still be here?” I asked, turning to him anxiously. “Am I being silly?”
“Um . . . ”
“I mean, if you were me, what would you do? Would you suck it up or . . . ?” I shook my head. “Sorry. I’ll dance.”
Crammed in the pulsing mass of the dance floor, I tried unsuccessfully to lose myself in the music. I kept waiting for Jeanne, who knew I wasn’t feeling right, to come and check up on me.
After a while, a slow song came on and I headed for the toilets. And, of course, Jeanne was there too.
“Oh, hey,” I said automatically. “You too?”
“I’m not slow-dancing with some creep.” The harsh lighting was unflattering, even on her. “That’s what always happens.”
“Look—” Just talk it out. “—I want to go now. I need to talk to you somewhere else, you—”
“There’s a tear in your tights,” she pointed out, overriding me. “The night is young, Tree, loosen up a bit. I’m sure whatever it is will be just as important tomorrow.”
“You know full well what it is!” I hissed. “And no, I don’t want to wait until tomorrow.”
“You want to borrow my tights?” She snorted. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. But seriously, you might want to change.”
My hand shot to my leg, where sure enough, a wide ladder had appeared down the back of my thigh. Perfect.
“Jeanne—”
Another song started, the bass so intense that the bathroom door began to rattle. Jeanne headed out.
“Look, if you want to go, just go.”
If you want to go, just go.
This was ridiculous. She meant go back to Ashley’s. I think she also knew that that wasn’t where I’d go if I left.
And really, how was I supposed to get anywhere at this time of night? Walk around suburban London in my miniskirt and ripped tights, in an unfamiliar neighborhood? I’d never dream of letting Jeanne do that, especially if I suspected she was upset. But in reverse . . .
I sucked in a deep breath. I shouldn’t have come here. I should have made a point earlier.
So, I would just have to do it now.
Unfamiliar neighborhood, here I come.
It occurred to me that introverts were perhaps among the most discriminated against groups in the world. Starting in primary school, kids were praised for being leaders and always having their hand up in class, for having lots of friends and being able to speak well in front of others. People who preached confidence were considered inspirational, and the kids that were able to follow through were considered role models. Growing up, most jobs required an outgoing personality, and those who weren’t like that were regarded as dull or meek. It never occurred to those who thrived in the spotlight that perhaps we introverted people had dreams and desires just as vivid as theirs, that perhaps we were also equally valuable, but in different ways; they’d been taught from the start that their way was the only right way. That our way was a flaw that needed fixing.
That was the problem between me and Jeanne. She genuinely felt she was doing me a favor by forcing me to do all these things; she didn’t realize that I simply didn’t want to change. I admired Jeanne, but at the end of the day, I wanted to be myself rather than her. And heck, even she wanted to change.
For blocks, I fought the little voice inside my head egging me to go back. I was more than a bit disappointed that I wouldn’t make it to Stonehenge, but a point was a point and it had to be proven.
And really, the reasonable part of me said, do you want to spend the next few days awkwardly crammed together with Chris?
Nope. No, I did not.
I found a bus station outside the perimeter of a housing estate, a sprawling landscape of hundreds upon hundreds of identical homes in varying states of neglect. The sky here was nowhere near as dark as it had been in Suffolk, polluted by enough light that I couldn’t even see the stars.
An old man came to sit beside me, confirming that this bus
would take me as far east as I needed to go. However, it was running late.
When the bus did arrive, it was just as unremarkable as the rest of the surrounding area. I dragged myself to my feet, shuffled after the old man, and took in all the empty seats; there were only three other passengers.
“Excuse me.”
“Huh?”
The bus driver was an obese woman with stains of ketchup (at least, I hoped it was ketchup) all over her chest. “I’m not your mother. You have to pay.”
I reached into my skirt pocket and felt my stomach drop. I had nothing but a Murray Mint wrapper. My purse and all my money was in my purse back at the flat. I’d used my spare change to get into the club, and there was nothing left.
So, as though the day couldn’t get any more mortifying, I was forced to step off the bus and watch it disappear around the corner.
Well . . . shoot.
It had been at least a twenty-minute drive from the flat, and I had little to no idea what direction to head in. I considered phoning my mum, then remembered I had no money. I considered going back to Jeanne.
No. Do not do that.
At least walking around wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. There were a lot of odd people hanging around, but nobody really paid me much more than a sideways glance. I kept to the main roads, avoiding alleys like the plague, and tried to remember the way through a haze of churning, unpleasant emotions. Left at the secondhand car dealership, turn right past the school, right again at the brand-new-but-already-looks-dated strip mall . . . and hey, voila, there it was. The nondescript condominium I just about remembered from before.
I retraced my steps to the flat in zombie-mode, ringing the bell to be buzzed inside, praying I wasn’t mistaken.
“Hello?”
“Um . . . ” I struggled to remember her name. “Ashley? It’s Teresa—Tree—Jeanne’s friend. I need to grab my purse.”
“Oh.” There was a pause. “I’ll let you in, hang on.”
Ashley helped me scour her flat for my purse, to no avail. To my dismay, it became apparent that if my purse was anywhere, it was still in the car. I hadn’t thought about that. If I wanted to go home tonight, I’d have to confront Jeanne again and risk being talked out of leaving.
Shooting Lights Page 5
