by Lucy Auburn
I must have gotten tipsy by proximity when the drunk girls went through the room, because I'm looking at him again and parting my lips.
Blake reaches out and grabs my upper arms—softly, gently, like he's waiting for me to tear away from his grip.
I don't.
"Aren't you scared of me?" I demand, heart beating a staccato rhythm. "The whole point of this was to frighten you."
"I'm not scared." His eyes are wide, his voice like a feral animal caught in a trap. "I just never thought it would happen this way, when it happened."
My brows come together. "What do you mean?"
In answer, he presses his mouth to mine.
Chapter 37
The kiss is electric and alive. I don't know how, but our mouths move together like they were made for each other, as if this kiss were a part of the plan from the beginning.
Blake pushes and I pull. He squeezes his hands on my upper arms, and I dig my fingernails into his wrists. His mouth tastes like mint toothpaste and the foam I blew in his face.
When he puts his hand on the back of my head and pulls me towards him, it makes the kiss deeper, wilder, like something we might destroy each other with. His teeth nip at my lips, not gently, and it makes me moan. I curl my fingers against his neck and press the filed curves of my nails into his skin until his pulse is something I'm practically holding in my hand.
I feel like any moment one of us will draw blood.
The fire is alive within me. Rage consumes me, fueling my hate, which feels so much like passion. It'll poison me to death before I get the chance to see my seventeenth birthday, just like my brother. Its heat flickers against my skin.
No, that's not the fire of my rage. That's real fire.
I yelp and push Blake away, stumbling back. The hem of my grungy white vintage dress has caught on fire. Somewhere in our painfully pleasurable make out session I got too close to the candles.
"Here!" Blake pulls his dark blue Coleridge blazer off and beats the hem of my dress, while I jerk it away from my body, dancing and hissing. "I think I got it."
Patting away the last bit of the flame, I look up at him. "I guess that adds a bit of realism to the production."
We stare at each other. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and another kind of heat travels up my body. There's gold and yellow in his eyes from the reflected candlelight.
Looking at him now, with his hair mussed from my hands and his shirt still hopelessly smudged and wrinkled, he looks like a boy. Not a statue come to life, or a photo in a magazine. Just a boy, with a complicated life and a difficult past, staring at the girl he just kissed.
His first kiss.
I don't think either of us expected that it would be me.
For some reason I'm waiting for him to say something. Maybe, we shouldn't have done this, or that was a mistake. I would even settle for a cutting insult about my skills, or a revelation that he lied, and he's actually kissed every girl who attends Coleridge, one by one.
Blake says nothing at all.
He just pulls his blazer back on, buttons it up, pats down his jet black hair, then turns on his heel and leaves.
Reminding me all at once what he really is: the boy who left my brother high and dry, when he quite probably knew it wasn't him who assaulted Mariana that night.
Suddenly my stomach turns, and if it weren't for the fact that I have a show to put on and a job to do, I'd run right out of here and let all of my dinner loose on one of the porcelain thrones of Rosalind Hall. Instead, I have to back up into the shadows and let myself become the darkness again, listening for the sound of giggles and screams approaching me, prepared to play the part of the dead girl seeking revenge.
Our scare shifts last two hours, which gives me plenty of time to mingle with the other guests. Though the front lobby, a few of the rooms, and the upstairs study nooks have been turned into the haunted part of the house, the dining area and the back garden we share with the Lovelaces are free of the spooky and the scary.
Pulling my hair back into a ponytail, I head to the dining area. Tricia and Sasha are already hanging out by the drink station, swapping war stories.
"I swear, I thought she was gonna piss herself."
Tricia's eyes are wide. "You dropped the whole skeleton on her?"
"Hey guys."
They glance over at me, and my heart does a little skip beat as I wonder if my makeup is so messed up that it's obvious I just had a very weird encounter with Blake Lee. But that's ridiculous—they wouldn't know it was him just by looking.
Sasha says, "Hey Brenna. You frighten any of the other girls tonight?"
"There were a few that were definitely freaked out. I really used the darkness of my corner against them. More than once I waited until they were within arm's length to pop out of the shadows."
Tricia grins. "Spooky. We had fun too."
Glancing around, I ask, "Have you guys seen Chrissy? I was just about to ask her how she did."
"She's in the garden apple bobbing last I checked." Sasha motions towards the back door. "You should go check it out. People are getting wild."
"Thanks." Glancing around at the tables, I frown. "Have you seen my purse?"
"We put it down here." Tricia reaches under the sink and grabs my purse, a nondescript brown pleather thing among its designer brethren. "Someone said they saw a boy rifling through them, so we figured we'd shove them somewhere harder to get to."
"Weird. Well, it's not like they stole anything from me."
Sasha makes a slashing motion in the air. "It was probably some pervert looking to get his rocks off. A few of the other girls put a change of clothes in their bags for after the haunted house is over. I bet he was sniffing panties."
"Gross," Tricia shoots back.
Checking my bag, I find nothing missing, so I throw it over my shoulder and head out back to look for Chrissy. She was right earlier when she mentioned the fact that we don't get together often. While I don't always miss her gossiping ways, I do miss her simple, bubbly personality. Out of everyone here, she understands my loathing of the Elites more than most—though I've never really found out what she did to deserve their derision in the first place.
Sasha was right about the party out back. There's loud music playing in the garden that stretches from Rosalind Hall to Lovelace Hall. Students are everywhere, wearing all kinds of costumes and masks, drinking things out of Solo cups that may or may not be alcoholic.
Mrs. Reynolds is somewhere, supposedly looking over the students with a small staff, but no one seems worried they'll be caught with any contraband. This is their playground, after all, and they're the rich kids who do what they want with it. They're fearless in a way that's foreign to me. The only comfort I have to make up for our differences in privilege is the fact that I have the power to take down any one of them who crosses the line—if not forever, then at least for long enough to make things uncomfortable.
It's easy enough to spot the apple bobbing basin in the middle of the garden courtyard. But there's a winding maze of foliage between here and there. The night air is cool and relaxing, so I take my time heading in that direction, not wanting to rush things. It smells like warm apple cider and fallen oak leaves out here, a hint of winter's coming cold on the air.
Making my way over to the apple bobbing area, I scan the figures around me for Chrissy. It's dark here, the path to the basin lit with just a few little UV lamps shoved into the ground. I don't see any sign of her—all the bubbly blonde heads I spot belong to others. For a moment, I consider looking for her further down in the garden, but a quick peek into the tall hedges reveals that the only things going on in the dark corners involve two people, not three. So I decide to wait for her here.
Three girls are gathered on one side of the basin, their hair tied into ponytails, hands behind their backs. A boy I don't recognize—he must be one of the senior year boys—has his phone in his hand, the stopwatch app out, three fingers in the air.
; "One... two... go!"
The girls bend at the waist and shove their faces into the cool water, mouths open to try to grab the floating apples. Someone to my left makes a crude comment about the girl in the middle's gag reflex; he gets an "accidental" elbow to the waist for that and finds somewhere else to stand in the crowd. More and more students are gathering around the wide basin, which is at least ten feet across, watching the girls as they pull apples out one by one. The first to get five and drop them in the bucket by her feet will win—something. Bragging rights, maybe, or something else. It's unclear.
I'm up on my tip toes, watching as the two girls on either end fight their way to the fifth and final apple, when I smell something distinctive. Warmth, freshly baked goods, a kitchen full of light and laughter, sharp cinnamon. It's a scent I should associate with apple pie or my childhood home, but I know that's not what's coming up on the path behind me. Whirling around, I look for Cole.
I spot Holly first, headed my way.
Then someone yanks my purse off my shoulder and throws it to the ground. Before I can find the culprit, he's gone, disappearing into the crowd. Meanwhile all my things have have spilled out of the purse and are getting stepped on by the careless crowd. Diving for them, I grab my student ID first and hunt for my wallet, which had forty bucks in it from my last paycheck—money I can't afford to spare.
"Here, I'll help." Holly is by my side in an instant, hands reaching out and nabbing my things before they get broken or destroyed. "I swear all these kids are too tipsy to pay attention to where they're walking."
"Thanks. And yeah, they are."
"I was just coming out to tell you what a great job—"
She breaks off suddenly, staring at something in her hand. Cradling my phone and its cracked case in my hands, I look over at her, wondering what she was about to say.
Then I freeze.
In her grip, lit by the tiny lamps all over us, is a credit card with her name on it: Holly Schneider. It's one I recognize very well—because it paid for my recent highlights and makeup.
Based on the look of confusion on Holly's face, she doesn't recognize it at all. Of course she doesn't; she never even opened the application.
But slowly, second by second, she gets it. Understanding dawns.
And she turns to look at me.
Chapter 38
"I can explain." Can I? No, I can't, not properly. Another lie, then. "It was..."
But I trail off in the middle of the sentence, because she's looking at me, everything she's feeling on her face.
When I imagined this moment, the moment I'll be exposed to her, it went a dozen different ways. Maybe Cole told her about my brother; maybe he explained I lied about my name. Or Tanner told her, or Blake, maybe even Lukas if he knew about it.
The Holly I imagined ranted. Yelled. Kicked me out of our room, out of the Rosalinds, and no longer considered me a friend. She joined Cole in his taunting pranks and bullying. She stood over me after the fall from the rock climbing wall, a sneer on her face, her shiny dark hair like a curtain behind her.
The real Holly is looking at me right now, not in anger or resentment or superiority. Because the real Holly isn't angry.
She's betrayed.
There are tears in the corners of her eyes. A frown that wrinkles her forehead. Bitterness to her lips, which quiver with sadness.
I find that I can't lie to the real Holly.
Because unlike the version of her I imagined when I handed over her credit card and charged everything to her name, the real Holly is a good person. A true, loyal friend. One who deserved better than me.
"Why?" she asks, a tremble in her voice.
I can't seem to tell her anything but the truth. "Because you could afford it, and I couldn't."
"Oh." She takes me in, her eyes looking at me from so close that I can see every shade of green in her irises. "If you had asked, I would have said yes."
Then she hands the credit card back.
I take it in numb fingers, every emotion drained out of me, so cold I find myself wishing for the fire from before. There's nothing in me now but fear—and regret.
Holly gets to her feet and turns to leave.
I scramble up after her, grabbing as much of my stuff off the ground as possible and dropping it into my purse. The credit card I shove into the front pocket, wincing at the feeling of it in my hand, its numbers already rubbed off slightly on one end from me handling it so many times, staring down at her name and wondering why she was born in one life and I was born in another.
"Holly, wait."
She doesn't slow down. Her long legs and her muscular calves take her down the path quickly. I know I should turn around, let her go and cool off elsewhere, but the panic in my chest won't let me do anything but chase her down and grab her shoulder to stop her from leaving me behind. "Holly, I can explain."
"Can you, Brenna?" She whirls on me, eyes flashing, hands tightened into fists. "Somehow I fucking doubt that you can."
People are watching us, turning away from their private make out corners, heads swiveling like witnesses of a car crash.
I should stop this now before it becomes more public. Before everyone knows. I should...
"Well? I'm waiting." Holly lifts her chin. The tears in her eyes roll down her cheeks. "Tell me why you stole from me."
Her voice is loud enough that people hear.
Tomorrow, this is all anyone will be talking about—unless, of course, something bigger happens. But it would have to be pretty damn big to eclipse this.
She's expecting an answer. Again, all I have is the truth. "I didn't think you would notice."
Her head rears back like she's been slapped. Wiping the tears off her face, she advances on me, and I cower back. Holly, unlike Blake, I can't seem to face—because when I look at her I see the truth of myself reflected back.
It's as if there are a thousand snakes beneath me, twining around my feet, squeezing the air out of my chest, coiling like a rope around my neck. A voice whispers: you'll hang just like your brother.
For a moment, Holly's face blurs through the tears gathering in my eyes, and I can't tell if I'm looking at her or at the face I used to see in the mirror, twisted in unfathomable anger and hate.
Fear takes over me, makes me shiver.
"Holly, don't—"
"Don't what, Brenna?" she snaps at me. "What do you think I'm going to do—hit you? Hurt you? Play dirty little pranks on you?"
"No," I answer honestly, as the crowd around us goes quiet, as I step back so much that I feel the wooden basin behind me and have to stop. "I didn't say that."
"Good. Because I don't like you looking at me like you're afraid, Brenna." Her voice is calm and even. Despite the clear anger in her, Holly is measured and in control, rational and incapable of doing what I do: giving in to the darkness. "I won't be the bully you must imagine me to be—because that's why you stole from me, isn't it? You think you deserve what I have. You think it should be yours. Like you're some kind of Robin Hood. Like it was justice."
Tears are thick in my throat. "It wasn't," I admit, my voice barely audible to my own ears. Holly leans in, looms over me, her mouth a thin line of calm anger. "What I did was wrong. I'm sorry, Holly. I shouldn't have done it."
She shakes her head, dark hair sliding over her shoulders like silk. In a sad voice, she says, "I thought we were friends."
Then she turns around. Walks away. Leaves me alone in the darkness without a single sympathetic soul at my side. And I know one thing, without a doubt: I did this to myself. I've dug my own grave, willingly.
I thought I had nothing to lose.
I forgot that I had Holly.
There's a murmur in the crowd. People are looking at me in various states of shock and confusion. Bile rises in my throat, quick and hot, and I'm struck by the urge to get out of here—to run away fast, as fast as I can, and never look back.
Maybe Blake, Cole, and Tanner were right. I don't belong at Coleridge.
I never did and I never will. Nothing is more proof of that than tonight. Even Martha Hayes must think I'm a trespasser, or the candles I lit for her wouldn't have burned me for daring to dress up in her likeness. I have to get out of here before something else goes terribly, horribly wrong.
So I push off from the basin, searching for the best way to get out, the path with the fewest people on it. That's when I spy them, coming straight for me, anger on their faces: Piper and Georgia.
There's no chance to get away. They're on me in a moment, one girl on each side, grabbing my upper arms in grips so tight it hurts.
Piper says, "This is for Holly."
"We'll do what she won't," Georgia mutters, face twisted up in a cruel smile.
They pick me up, heave me over the side of the basin, and push me down in the shockingly cold water. Hands descend on my head, push me down beneath the surface. I struggle to push up from the bottom, but their strength keeps me down, my lungs burning, skin numb from the cold.
It feels useless to fight it. Maybe I deserve to drown like this.
As the darkness closes around me, something else rises up inside my chest: the fire of my old anger, returned to keep me warm. Water trickles into my mouth, bursts down my throat towards my lungs.
And I reach up, nails out like claws, to scratch and fight. I pull the arms that hold me down until they stumble and fall into the water too.
Then I stand up, gasping for air, coughing out the cold and surging towards the edge of the basin. There's a whole crowd of students around it, peering down into the darkness.
They watched. They all watched as those two girls tried to drown me. I shove them out of the way, water sluicing down my dress in giant puddles, shivering in the night air.
Then I bend down, scoop my purse up off the ground, and force my chin up. Ignoring the whispers around me, I pick a path that'll take me the Hell out of here.
