“Rachel James. Her father owns a car dealership, which apparently makes her Princess Chevrolet.” Lydia rolled her eyes.
“So she’s rich, and the other girl is poor?” I asked.
Arden tipped her hand back and forth. “Allison is average, like Preston. Both of them worked at the smoothie place over the summer.”
I didn’t need to hear any more. “It’s like An American Tragedy.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Lydia said. “Yes, it’s a total dick move—”
“That’s the name of a book,” I explained.
Arden pulled out her phone, swiping several times before looking up at me. “I’m ready.”
Lydia frowned at her. “What are you doing?”
“Taking notes. Go ahead, Mary.”
“It’s about this guy named Clyde, who’s really into this rich girl but figures she’s out of his league because he’s working class, so he gets together with someone from the factory where he works. Only then the rich girl does notice him, but when Clyde tries to dump his poor girlfriend, she tells him she’s pregnant.”
“Dang,” Arden whispered, pausing in her typing.
“That’s not all. Horrible, wishy-washy Clyde takes the poor pregnant girl sailing, and she ends up drowning.”
“He murdered her, didn’t he?” Terry asked.
“That part is sort of ambiguous. In his mind it was an accident, but Clyde isn’t the most self-aware guy on the planet. He spent the first part of the day thinking how great it would be if she wasn’t around anymore, and the second part not trying very hard to save her when she fell overboard.”
Lydia narrowed her eyes at Preston, the Perfumed Philanderer, who was demonstrating his virility by hoisting his non-girlfriend in the air. “Tell me he didn’t get away with it.”
I drew a finger across my neck.
“Somebody cut his throat?” Terry asked.
“Electric chair.” To the best of my knowledge, there was no way to mime that particular fate.
Arden’s lips pursed. “I might need to drop a warning in Allison’s ear.”
“Ix-nay on the water sports,” Lydia intoned, crossing her arms in a forbidding manner. “Or we could pull the plug on Preston right now.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. Discussing such matters in the abstract was one thing; the idea of confronting wrongdoers in the flesh had never crossed my mind.
“Remember what you told me when we were in sixth grade, Lyds?” Arden patted Lydia’s arm. “Vigilante justice is a double-edged sword.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “Which one do you think is worse, death by train or death by drowning?”
Terry didn’t hesitate. “Drowning is way better. It’s right up there with hypothermia for a peaceful way to go.”
“You could say it was death by other people’s selfishness,” I mused. “Both times.”
Arden pointed at me. “Yes. I like that.” Her fingers flew across the screen of her phone. “First a train, then a boat. All we need to round out the trifecta is one that happens on an airplane.”
Lydia gave her a look.
“Which is obviously not going to happen in one of Mary’s books. Duh.” Arden flicked herself in the forehead.
“There were some carriage rides that definitely took a turn for the worse,” I offered by way of consolation.
Arden’s lips parted. I could practically see the question hovering, but before the words emerged a boy wearing a glowstick headband trotted up to Lydia. He spread his arms wide as if about to fold her into his embrace. Which was strange, as I would not have pegged her as the hugging type.
“Lydia!” He raised his arms even higher, palms up.
“Danny,” she replied, poker-faced.
He shimmied his shoulders. “Do you know what time it is?”
Lydia’s coolness melted into a grin. “Let’s do this.” She held out her hand, allowing him to tug her into motion. The two of them disappeared without a backwards glance.
“Is that her boyfriend?” I asked. Another question hummed underneath: Do you all have boyfriends? Surely Terry would have mentioned that fact vis-à-vis Alex Ritter’s attentions.
“Lydia will dance with anyone,” Arden explained. “Good luck getting her to make a more serious commitment, though.” She glanced at me. “I think you’re going to be really good for her.”
I pointed to my collarbone. Me?
“If you tell her someone’s worth her time, she might actually listen. Let down her guard for once. Take a chance on love—or at least like.”
There was an edge to her voice I would have liked to explore further, but at that moment our lavender-haired hostess reappeared, beckoning urgently to Arden.
“Either she wants me to make snack mix, or somebody spilled something and she needs a stain removal consultation. Those are my two superpowers.” Arden’s brows drew together. “Will you guys be okay?”
“Sure,” I said, though part of me was tempted to grab her by the ankle and hold on.
Terry and I exchanged a look. It was the first time we’d been alone, without Arden’s effusiveness or Lydia’s strict focus to keep the conversational ball rolling. A lot of people assume two introverts will automatically be comfortable with each other, but sometimes it’s the opposite, due to a double helping of awkward silence.
“Did they have parties like this at your old school?” I asked, before the quiet could grow too entrenched.
“Maybe.” She glanced my way, gauging whether I would accept this as an answer. “I didn’t have much of a social life.”
“Really?”
“It was a bad year.” She looked down. “I kind of split up with my friends.”
An unspoken you too? trembled on my tongue. “What happened? I mean, if you don’t mind talking about it.”
Terry played with the clasp of her purse. “Puberty, I guess? I started wearing contacts, because glasses make my nose sweat, and then I got my braces off and . . . stuff.”
I heard the words she wasn’t saying: I turned beautiful. To some it would have sounded like a Cinderella moment. What more could a woman want from life than to win the beauty lottery? But I’d read plenty of stories in which prettiness was more of a curse, like wearing a target on your face. Helen of Troy, anyone? Not exactly an aspirational lifestyle. Far better to have a noble brow, or graceful figure, or some other subtly striking feature for the discerning admirer to notice, preferably after they learned to appreciate your strength of character.
“I went through something similar,” I told Terry, in an effort to bolster her spirits. “Not the transformation part”—I circled a hand in front of my face—“but with a person from my old school.” My brain shied away from the word friend.
“Really?”
She sounded interested, or at least desirous of a distraction, so I gave her the broad-strokes version of the Shunning.
“People suck,” Terry said when I finished.
“Yeah.” I felt my shoulders relax. Reliving the memory didn’t carry the same sting, especially with such a sympathetic audience. “Is that why you transferred?”
“Partly. They also have a better science program here, and I need that for what I want to do.”
“Doctor?” I guessed.
“Forensic pathologist.”
It was like hearing Snow White aspired to a career in bare-knuckle boxing. “That’s very, ah, specific.”
“Me and my mom watch a lot of crime shows.” Her eyes slid briefly to me. “We read, too. Mysteries, true crime—stuff like that.”
“Cool.” Generally speaking, Porter-Malcolms were not genre snobs.
“I was actually thinking tonight is kind of like an Agatha Christie,” Terry observed.
Since I didn’t recall stepping over any corpses, I raised my eyebrows in question.
“We’re getting picked off one by one. Now it’s down to you and me, which means either of us could be the killer. Unless someone faked her own death to throw us off t
he scent.”
“That’s a very layered analysis,” I said admiringly.
I would have liked nothing more than to continue this line of conversation, but an unfamiliar form slammed between us, forcing Terry and me to step farther apart.
“ ’Sup, ladies,” said the deep-voiced stranger. He leaned closer to Terry. “My friend thinks you’re hot.”
I waited, assuming there must be more, but no: that was the whole speech. Not exactly “You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.” And okay, there were probably very few high-schoolers who could approach the level of Captain Wentworth’s passionate letter at the end of Persuasion. Still, this guy ought to have been able to manage a simple, Hi, my name is So-and-So, do you mind if I join you? What did he expect Terry to do, fall to her knees in gratitude? His slack-jawed grin conveyed very little, aside from a certain smug blankness.
“Would you excuse us?” I said, because someone had to raise the tone of this encounter. I cut my eyes at Terry, indicating that she should join me.
“Do you know him?” I asked when we had stepped out of hearing range.
She shook her head. The look on her face was trusting, as if I were about to take care of everything. Which would have been a lot easier if there were clear social rules to follow in a situation like this. Even though I had no desire to live in an era of corsets and chaperones and zero career prospects for women, it was hard not to feel nostalgic for old-fashioned civility. In those days, a young man wouldn’t have been allowed to accost us until he’d been formally introduced.
Since that convention had gone the way of white gloves and calling cards, I lifted my chin, determined to handle this my own way. As I approached our would-be swain, Terry fell in behind me. “Please tell your friend that we received his message, which I’m sure he meant to be flattering—”
“We have half a case of Keystone in back,” the guy interrupted, directing the words to Terry. (No prizes for guessing where the missing half had gone.) “You want to check it out?”
The leer that accompanied these words made it clear he was proposing more than a look-at-my-beer expedition.
Terry tugged on my sleeve. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she whispered.
“Maybe?” The way I saw it, there were several possibilities, ranging from He’s drunk to When hell freezes over.
“Dissociative identity disorder,” she pronounced, not bothering to lower her voice. “I’m pretty sure the quote-unquote friend doesn’t exist.”
“Hey,” said the guy, and for a moment I thought he was objecting to the diagnosis. Then his hand clamped onto my hip.
I half jumped, half spun out of his grip. “What are you doing?”
Far from being chastened, he completed a slow inspection of my body—or at least the part from knee to neck. “You’re cute.”
There it was again, the air of noblesse oblige, like he was doing us a favor. My nostrils flared. “No.”
“For real. You have kind of a”—he waved his hand as though cleaning a mirror—“decent little body.”
It took me a second to realize we were speaking at cross-purposes. “I wasn’t disagreeing with you.” Though given my druthers, I would have chosen a more impressive adjective than cute. The larger issue was that he assumed his opinion mattered to me. “I meant no as in ‘no thank you.’ Not interested.”
His face gave no indication my words had registered. On the contrary; his arm reached out as if to grab me again.
“I have pepper spray,” Terry said, brandishing her purse.
He grunted a laugh.
“Pretty sure she’s not kidding.” I let a warning note enter my voice. The situation seemed to be heading south rather quickly, but I still had faith in the power of words. “Don’t you think it would be better to walk away? This whole thing is getting unnecessarily awkward.”
Mr. Uncouth looked at me as though I’d issued a violent fart instead of a diplomatic suggestion that would allow him to save face.
“Whatever.” He stormed off as abruptly as he’d arrived. If I hadn’t jerked aside, he would have shoulder checked me out of the way.
I resisted the urge to make a rude gesture at his retreating back. “Charming.”
A new voice, male and amused, spoke from behind me. “I prefer ‘unnecessarily awkward.’”
The muscles in my back seized, an instinctive response to danger. With a mounting sense of dread, I forced myself to turn.
Not again. The words sounded in my head like clanging cymbals; talk about a fire-to-frying-pan scenario. Poor Terry, subjected to constant attack by importunate males. A spark of outrage lit me from within. “Unbelievable.”
“He is, isn’t he? I don’t know what people see in that guy,” Alex Ritter observed, as though picking up the thread of an ongoing conversation. Shifting slightly, he smiled a greeting at Terry.
Oh no you don’t. “Who’s to say the two of you aren’t in cahoots?”
His lids lowered in a slow, catlike blink. “Cahoots?”
“That’s right.” I lifted my chin. Although he wasn’t encroaching on our space like the other guy, a hint of scent teased my nostrils: something soapy and a little bit green, like a forest. I didn’t know enough about the male toilette to guess whether it came from his hair or clothes or skin.
He lifted one hand, shifting the curl artfully draped across his forehead. “You really think I’d ask someone like Chad to be my wingman?”
“Why not? After him, anyone would look good.”
“Actually, I thought you might need a rescue.” His voice was low and laced with humor. “From the smooth moves of Chad.”
Playing the hero; how opportunistic of him. “We had it under control.”
Terry nodded agreement. I waited for his attention to swing back her way, but he continued to study me, head tipped to one side.
“You look familiar,” he said at last. “Have we met?”
I frowned, almost disappointed he would resort to such a clichéd line. Frankly, I’d expected more suaveness from a rake of his stature.
“Should I take that as a no?” Alex asked.
“You tell me,” I replied, sidestepping the question. The last thing I wanted was to remind him of our long-ago run-in and see the utter lack of recognition in his eyes—again.
“I’m Alex.”
“I know.”
He extended a hand, which I had no choice but to shake. I would have preferred to keep him at a safe distance, like a character on a page, instead of feeling his warm hand grip mine. And now I was blushing, which he was sure to misinterpret, when all it really meant was, I am uncomfortable right now.
“Mary,” said a familiar voice. “What are you doing?”
Dropping Alex’s hand, I took a hasty step back. “Cam. Hi.”
My sister had made zero concessions to the party atmosphere. Despite the grass stains on her jersey and scabbed knees, she appeared utterly at ease—a lioness in nylon shorts. We stared at each other in mutual consternation until I realized she was waiting for me to answer her question.
“I came with friends,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. Was it really so strange to think that I had secured an invitation to the party?
Cam’s expression didn’t change. (It seldom did.) “I thought you were helping the twins.”
I shook my head. “Auditions aren’t until tomorrow.”
Her attention shifted to Alex Ritter.
He inclined his head in a mock bow. “Cam.”
“Alex.”
He made a show of trying to see something behind her. “Where’s your shadow?”
In the doorway, I glimpsed a broad-shouldered young man watching Cam intently, as though she’d abandoned him midconversation. Were they here together? Like on a date?
“I need to talk to my sister,” Cam said, her gaze never leaving Alex. “My very young sister.”
A slow smile bloomed as he looked from Cam to me, clearly delighted at having solved the mystery of
my identity. “I guess I’ll go—before it gets unnecessarily awkward.” I refused to make eye contact, certain that if I did he would wink at me. “See you around, Mary.” He raised a hand in a general farewell.
Terry watched him melt into the crowd before pushing off from the wall. “I’ll give you guys some privacy.”
Cam held up a hand. “That was for him. You can stay.” My sister gave me a considering look. “You’ll be there tomorrow. For the play?”
“Othello,” I supplied. “And of course I will. Just like always.” Going to one measly party didn’t mean I was lost to all sense of responsibility.
“Did you say Othello?” Arden had materialized with a silver mixing bowl in one hand, trailed by a red-faced Lydia.
“Sorry, I’m being rude.” She held the bowl out to Cam. “Snack mix? I made it myself.”
“These are my friends,” I said to Cam. “Arden, Lydia, and Terry.”
My sister’s assessing gaze lingered on each of them in turn before she nodded a greeting. Only then did she help herself to a handful of snack mix. “It’s good,” she told a visibly relieved Arden before returning her attention to me. “You don’t need a ride?”
“We’ve got her covered,” Arden promised, linking her elbow with mine.
Before turning to go, Cam sent me a loaded look. “Be careful.”
“I’m a very safe driver,” Arden assured her.
I suspected the warning had more to do with Alex Ritter. As if I didn’t know any better; I was fifteen, not five.
“So.” Arden leaned into me. “Tomorrow. The play.”
“It’s just auditions. The performances are in December.”
“Are you trying out?” Lydia asked.
“Me? No. I always help out behind the scenes.”
“You’re a volunteer,” Arden translated. “Which means you’re basically doing community service.” She handed the bowl of snack mix to Lydia, freeing both hands to grab hold of mine. “And that’s flipping perfect, because guess what else is on my list of activities?”
“Um, community service?”
“Bingo!” Arden squeezed my fingers. “Technically I had it down as ‘padding your college application,’ but it’s basically the same thing. And you know what that means?”
By the Book Page 6
