I shake my head. “She needs to get warmed up, fast.”
“Here, let me help.” Lyla shoulders Farrah’s weight easily.
“H-H-Hartley?” Farrah stutters. Her first word, her first thought, is of Hartley.
“She’s not here,” Lyla says.
“What do you mean, she’s not here?” I ask.
“She wasn’t here when I got out. I texted her, and she said she got a real friend to pick her up, whatever that means.”
Farrah winces.
“Let’s get you out of here,” I tell her gently. I don’t add, “You can worry about fixing your relationship later,” but the implication is there.
Lyla hauls Farrah toward the door, and we file out of the factory into the humid night air. I’m so relieved to be free I could scream if my lungs weren’t frozen solid. I never want to see Rheem Manufacturing ever again.
“Lyla, give me the keys. I’ll get the car.”
Lyla fishes in her pocket and tosses a set of keys over to me. When I get to the car, I blast the heat and go meet the girls, hopping in the back so Farrah can sit close to the heat vents.
“Tulane is the closest hospital,” I tell Lyla as we pull out of the lot. If there’s any benefit to being constantly sick, it’s knowing immediately which hospital is the closest to any given location.
The hospital. I’d give a kidney for a blanket from their warmer right now, something to ward off this bone-deep cold.
“No.”
I almost don’t hear it.
Farrah clears her throat, then speaks louder. “No hospital. Media will find out.”
I protest, “But, Farrah—”
“I said no hospital.” She crosses her arms miserably over her chest, looking into the blackness outside the window.
It’s a silent drive back to the warehouse on Schilling after that. But when Lyla isn’t looking, Farrah catches my eye in the rearview mirror and mouths, “Thank you.”
School today was every bit as bad as I could have imagined. Between Ethan parading the halls with Savannah, Hartley refusing to respond to our texts, and the cold lingering in my bones, it felt like a miracle when the final bell rang.
And now I’m standing with a recovered Farrah inside a pair of double doors, and before us is an actual department store. Racks and racks of designer clothing stretch along the walls, save for the entire wall reserved for shoes of every single style and color. Not to mention that there’s a couch. In her closet. And an ornately carved dresser with a jewel-encrusted mirror and a vase of fresh flowers on top of it. Her closet is nicer than my entire house.
“Whoa,” I breathe, stepping inside.
“Dresses are over there.” She gestures to a long rack. “I’m wearing the gold mermaid one. Everything else is up for grabs.” She plops onto the couch and crosses her legs, pulling a fashion magazine into her lap. At my hesitation she adds, “Seriously. Try on whatever you like. Most of this stuff won’t get worn, so it’d be good if I could get at least one use out of it.”
I hesitantly thumb through the dresses. I’ve never cared that much about clothes, but for some stupid reason my heart races as I take in the gorgeous, expensive gowns. Every dress is otherworldly beautiful, but they’re so Farrah—bright colors and sequins and tulle and look at me—that I can’t imagine actually wearing one and not feeling like a wannabe all night.
But then I find it. The dress is black, with a streamlined design, spaghetti straps, and a plunging neckline. There are sequins around the bust that glitter under the bright overhead light, but on this gown it looks more rocker-chic than prom dress.
“Try it on!” Farrah says, and I think she’s actually excited to be doing this with me. “I bet it looks amazing on you.”
“It’s a bit daring for me, don’t you think? I mean, I don’t have a bra to go with this. It’d show.”
“Oh, honey, you don’t wear a bra with that dress.” She shoves her magazine off her lap and gets up. “Just trust me. I’ll be outside.”
She breezes out, leaving me alone in the closet. I quickly strip off my clothes, then slip into the dress, shimmying it up my hips in my hurry to not be caught naked. I pull the straps over my shoulders and adjust my breasts. I don’t have to look in the mirror to know I look good. The material feels like butter against my skin, and I suddenly understand the meaning of fits like a glove.
“Damn.”
Farrah stands in the doorway, taking in the dress with a sly grin on her face that reminds me of Hartley.
My cheeks flush at her obvious approval, but still I ask, “Is it good?”
She marches me over to a full-length mirror, turning my shoulders so I face it directly. A rush of pleasure goes through me.
Jenny and I have always been rail-thin. Mom says that we’re lucky, but truthfully, I’ve always thought I looked like a twelve-year-old boy from the neck down and didn’t feel too lucky about it. Yet somehow this dress makes me look curvy, the neckline cutting low enough to make even my small breasts look ample, the fabric pulling tight around my hips before billowing into an elegant pile at my feet.
“Well, what do you think?” Farrah asks.
“I think you were right about the bra.”
She squeals, beaming with pride. “Wait here.”
She goes over to the dresser and rummages inside, then comes back to hold a set of earrings dripping with black and silver jewels to my ears.
“I’m thinking hair up,” she says. “Maybe a few sultry waves around your face. And definitely a red lip.”
“I dunno…I’ve never worn red lipstick in my life.”
“And you’ve never worn a Monique Lhuillier gown before either, have you?” She smiles at me in the mirror.
To say it’s strange to do this with Farrah is an understatement. Still, it’s not as strange as it would have been a mere week ago, and we spend the next two hours styling our hair and considering makeup options. It’s a welcome relief from the other kinds of decisions we’ve collaborated on this week.
The doorbell rings, and I have a sudden urge to fling myself out the window. Sensing my apprehension, Farrah places her hands on my shoulders. “You look incredible. Seriously, Tucker is going to lose his mind when he sees you.” She releases me and steps back. “All right, let me look at you.”
I stand up, and she circles around me with narrowed eyes, plucking at my hair and adjusting my straps. When she deems me ready, she smiles triumphantly and links arms with me. “Perfect. Let’s do this.”
I can hear Tucker making small talk with Farrah’s mom as we descend the stairs, but his words trail off when he sees me. His eyes travel my body, drinking me in, and he makes an appreciative noise at the back of his throat. I can’t help smiling. Farrah lets me go to greet Clayton. Without her to hold on to, I don’t know what to do with my hands, and they dangle awkwardly at my sides.
“You look nice,” I say to break the awkward moment. But it’s not a lie—Tucker was made to wear a suit. He knows it too, and his grin’s almost as sexy as his tailored midnight-blue suit.
“Thanks,” he says. “So do you.”
“You kids have a car, or do you want me to call a service?” Farrah’s mom asks.
“Clayton’s driving us,” Farrah says.
“You sure, Clayton? You’re not going to have any drinks tonight?”
I flush at the mention of drinking from a parent and wonder if this is some sort of test, but no one reacts.
“I’m sure, ma’am. Thanks for the offer. Very kind of you.”
“Okay, I don’t want anybody drinking and driving. Remember, there will be eyes on you when you least expect it,” she warns, and suddenly I know this isn’t kindness. She’s protecting her husband’s image. “Your father and I will be along later.”
With that said, she pats Farrah on the cheek and ushers us out the door.
As soon as it closes behind us, Clayton lets out a whoop and runs to the car, vaulting into the front seat of the convertible without using the d
oor. Tucker laughs and gets in after him.
“Thanks for opening my door, dickwad,” Farrah says as she climbs into the back. Clayton starts the car, and rap music blares from the speakers. Tucker and Clayton start singing and doing choreographed robot moves, then laugh hysterically. Farrah slaps the back of Clayton’s head and tells him to keep his day job, which makes the guys both laugh harder. It hits me that I’m getting a close-up view of the Tucker I saw from afar—the one Ethan and I joked about from our spot by the vending machines in the caf while sharing a bag of jelly beans.
“Couple of buffoons,” Farrah calls over the music in a way that says she really doesn’t mind at all, but she rolls her eyes at me, and we share a secret smile. She rummages in her purse, then produces a tiny bottle of Jack Daniels, like the ones that are given out on airplanes. She leans in close. “A little help to get through tonight.” She looks pointedly at Clayton, then swigs a sip. “Here,” she says, offering it to me.
“Oh, no thanks,” I say, pushing it away. It’s a school night, and besides, Mom already made me promise her I wouldn’t drink. I’ve lied and snuck around enough. I want to keep my word.
“Trust me.” She leans in a little closer. “You don’t want to be sober when you meet Tucker’s dad.” She takes another swig, then wiggles it in front of me.
“She doesn’t want it,” Tucker says.
“All right, all right, then pass it over.” Clayton reaches around and snags the bottle, downing the whole thing in one gulp, then belches loudly. Tucker cackles.
“We’ll be there in, like, five seconds,” Farrah says, noticing my apprehension. “Don’t worry so much.”
I force a smile, wondering if I should have said no in the caf when I wanted to.
The sun is sinking low on the horizon by the time we arrive at the venue. If I was anxious about feeling out of place before, seeing the TV crews and photographers angling for photos of the arriving guests in their expensive suits and flashy gowns doesn’t help, and I have to remind myself that there’s no way for them to know I don’t belong here.
“Just smile,” Tucker says, sensing the direction of my thoughts. “They probably won’t ask you any questions, but if they do, just be polite and concise.”
“Or keep walking and act like you didn’t hear them,” Farrah says. “That’s what I do.” She smiles deviously.
Farrah starts smiling and waving as soon as we hit the red carpet. Ethan pops into my head. If he were here, no way he’d do it. He’d say you couldn’t pay him enough to be fake. But then Tucker and the others are all doing it too, and it feels stupider not to join in. Camera flashes go off, and I hear someone call out “Mr. St. Clair!” and then we’re inside.
The only word to describe the place is breathtaking. A staircase with an intricately carved gilded banister spirals to a second level and a balcony overlooking the dining room, where tables draped with creamy white tablecloths are set with softly flickering tea lights and fine china. A hand-blown crystal chandelier hangs over the dining room, and thick drapes cover windows that look out to a professionally manicured garden. In fact, the only thing that suggests we’re here for a charity event and not a wedding for royalty is the small stage at the front of the room with gold and silver balloons and a banner welcoming guests to the 9th Annual Children’s Hospital New Orleans Invitational Charity Event.
It suddenly occurs to me I’ve probably needed their charity in the past.
“This is gorgeous,” I say.
“You think?” Farrah appraises the place as if seeing it for the first time. Then she straightens and, under her breath, says, “Incoming. Just be polite and don’t encourage him.” And with that she and Clayton slip away.
I have just enough time to register Tucker’s soft groan before I see a man approaching. He wears a well-fitted suit and has the look of a man who models for catalogues, his salt-and-pepper hair combed back neatly and a generic smile on his face. He waves hello to someone across the hall, and then he’s in front of us.
“Tucker,” he says.
“Hi, Dad,” Tucker answers, his monotone voice showing just how happy he is to see him. His dad smiles, then turns his gaze on me, his eyes traveling from my face down to my chest. He makes a low whistle.
“Who’s your friend?” he asks Tucker.
My mouth drops open in shock, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care.
Tucker’s jaw is so tense it looks as if he could break his teeth for how much he’s grinding them together.
“Dad, this is Hope Callahan.”
“Hope Callahan.” Mr. St. Clair reaches out a hand, and I shake it, fighting the urge to wipe my palm off on my dress afterward. “I hope this doesn’t sound rude,” he continues, and I prepare myself for the rude comment that’s sure to follow, “but I’ve never seen you around any of the usual haunts, and Tucker hasn’t mentioned he’s seeing anyone. Tell me, how did you two meet?”
“At school,” I say. “We’re doing a history project together.”
“Is that right?”
“Dad, I’m sure you must have a million people who want to talk to you,” Tucker says curtly. “Don’t let us keep you.”
Mr. St. Clair stands up straighter as he adjusts his tie. “Well, it was great to meet you, Hope.” With a nod to Tucker, he takes his leave.
“Sorry about that,” Tucker says once his father’s out of earshot.
I shrug limply. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not, though.”
He looks out at the ballroom, his gaze following his dad as he shakes hands with a woman in a bedazzled skirt suit. The place is loud with voices and laughter and china tinkling, but Tucker’s silence feels deafening.
“He hates that we’re not close. But it’s not like he’s earned that, you know?” His gaze swings back to me. “He thinks giving your kids everything is what makes you a good parent. Like, ‘Here’s an Xbox, and by the way, I won’t be able to make it to your birthday again.’ You can’t buy your kid’s love.” He shakes his head, a sad, hollow laugh escaping him. “But you wanna know the craziest part? I still want his approval.”
I don’t say anything, because I don’t know what to say to something so big. My mom might not have been able to give us a lot, but the one thing we needed most was always there in abundance.
Tucker brushes a hand down my cheek. Then, without warning, he drags me against him and kisses me. I’m so surprised he’s doing this in front of everyone—in front of his parents—that I freeze. But he doesn’t seem to care, so I close my eyes and kiss him back, matching his intensity. Someone cheers, and I feel a clap on my shoulder. Just when I think it’s going to end, he goes in for more. Finally he pulls back, and I blink at him, out of breath, lips raw and bruised. He chuckles.
“What was that for?” I pant.
“I owed you a kiss.”
The note he passed me in history class comes rushing back.
Someone taps on a microphone and asks for everyone to take their seats. Tucker’s hand drops from my face, and he links arms with me, leading me to our table. As we pass by a crowd moving in the other direction, I spot a familiar face.
Everything else fades to gray.
Ethan.
He didn’t say he’d be here. Of course, I didn’t say I’d be here either. We haven’t said anything at all.
He’s wearing the fitted black suit he wore to his uncle Tom’s funeral last year, and his hair is slicked with gel. He keeps fidgeting with his tie, as if he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and when he moves, I can see the tops of his socks peeking out from his slightly-too-short pants. Ethan hates dressing up. He’s worn the same suit to every function for the last four years, and I suspect he will for the next four too. I’d be disappointed if he didn’t.
Ethan looks up suddenly, and our eyes lock. His mouth parts in shock, but when he takes in my appearance, a smile curls his lips. A flush passes over me.
But then a girl loops an arm through his, and his smile falters.
Ethan gives me a small, uncomfortable wave. Before I can return it, Tucker tows me in the other direction. I crane my neck to see Ethan, but he’s already lost in the crowd.
My heart races. Why is Ethan here?
Savannah, I realize. Her dad is some hotshot doctor.
It all makes sense. Ethan has a girlfriend. He goes on dates with her. I knew it would happen. Still, I can’t shake the greasy feeling in my stomach at seeing him on a date.
Tucker leads me to our table, where I’m relieved to discover I’m seated next to Farrah.
“You came!” Amber squeals from down the table. “Too bad you’re so far away!”
“I’m heartbroken,” Sadie mutters into her wineglass.
Farrah sighs loudly and says, “Anyway…,” until Sadie flushes as bright as her red dress.
After a few minutes of introductions and greetings, the speeches begin. I’ve had naps more interesting, but with Ethan here, my stomach roils with nerves and I fight the urge to keep looking at him to see if he’s looking back. I suddenly wish I hadn’t shot down Farrah’s offer of booze earlier.
After the speeches the waiters bring out the food, and all I can say is it’s definitely not spaghetti with jar sauce. When no one is looking, I heap loads of salt onto my plate and pop back the enzymes I need for my broken body to digest food properly. I turn and catch Farrah watching me.
“It’s for my stomach,” I explain shyly. I learned early that people don’t like it when I take pills in front of them. It’s one thing to know someone is sick, and another to see direct evidence of it. It makes it less easy for them to ignore.
But Farrah doesn’t get uncomfortable or act as if I might be contagious, like most people do.
“Must suck to have to take pills all the time.”
“I’m kind of used to it by now,” I say, and she smiles as if she actually gets it.
Dead Girls Society Page 16
