by Beth Reekles
I would’ve stammered some vague answer, but why should I lie to them? It’s nothing to be ashamed of, but I can’t help it. When you spend years being ridiculed and trying to keep to the shadows, you kind of learn what people want to hear from you.
But I steel myself and say, “Nope, never had a boyfriend.”
“But you’ve kissed a guy, right?” Tiffany asks.
I laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound as nervous as I feel. “Why?”
They’re not going to let me stall, though; Summer elbows me playfully. “Just answer, already—we’re not going to judge you or anything.”
I close my eyes briefly and take a deep breath. “No. I’ve never kissed a guy, either.”
The two of them exchange glances and look surprised. I’m flattered that they look so shocked, like they legitimately think I could have kissed a boy.
“I’m totally setting you up with Bryce,” Tiffany announces happily. “Summer, don’t you think they’d be cute together?”
“He’s totally into you,” she agrees. “Go for it. It’s not like there’s anything stopping you.”
I shrug. “I barely know him.”
“Then you get to know him …” Tiffany pulls out her phone, tapping away at it as she carries on talking. “I’m all over it, don’t worry. A little get-together at my place Friday night. My parents are out then—some conference out of town. I wasn’t planning on doing anything, but I cannot resist now. It’s perfect.”
“How little are we talking? Like, fifty people?” asks Summer.
“Yeah,” Tiffany says. I don’t bother to point out that fifty people hardly seems like a small get-together. “I’ve got this all under control, Madison, don’t you worry. You and Bryce will be the Brangelina of Midsommer High in no time.”
“Hey, quick question,” Summer says. “Madison or Maddie?”
“Madison,” I say quickly. “Madison. Not Maddie.”
My instant reply is the only thing that might betray the horror I feel at the name “Maddie.” I don’t want to be associated with the old me.
“Madison’s cooler. Totally chic,” Tiffany says distractedly. “Okay … done. Oh, and Madison, you need to accept my friend request on Facebook.”
Chapter 12
During the following week, I was introduced to a few more people—most of them friends with the popular clique—and spent my lunches with Tiffany and Summer.
I still talk to Carter in Art and Photography, even when he suggests I stop.
“Your friends won’t be too impressed if they discover you hang out with me in Art class.”
“I don’t really care,” I tell him. I do care a little, but not enough that I’d rather not speak to him at all.
By the time Friday morning finally rolls around, though, I can’t stop fidgeting all through double AP Physics.
“What’s eating you?” Dwight asks, a chuckle in his voice. “You can’t sit still.”
“Tiffany’s having a party tonight.” Even my voice sounds nervous—jumpy.
“I heard about it the other day,” he adds by way of explanation. “Why are you so worried?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. I just—I didn’t do parties much in Pineford.” He’s the only person I’ve told that to. I clamp my mouth shut instantly. I shouldn’t have said that.
But it’s Dwight, I think. Dwight’s … different.
“Everybody, listen up.” Dr. Anderson claps his hands together and leans forward over his desk, looking out at us all through his glasses. The class falls silent, as always. “I’m about to announce your projects for the semester, so you’d better be quiet and listen to what I have to say.” He pauses for a minute, just to make sure he has our attention.
“I will be officially giving you your projects next week, but I’ll tell you what you’ll be doing now. It will count for twenty percent of your final grade, so I recommend you take it seriously. You will create, with your partner, a presentation on a scientist of your choice. You will tell us all about their contribution to the scientific world. It must be a physicist. We are not especially interested in Gregor Mendel’s pea experiments, however useful to our understanding of genetics they may be. Thomas Young. Willebrord Snell. Wherever possible, you will carry out experiments related to your chosen scientist’s findings. But if you are going to choose Newton, please don’t attack your partner’s head with apples. We don’t need to give anybody a concussion.”
There are a few chuckles at that.
“As I said, I won’t assign this project formally until next week, but you may begin to think about it now. Remember, twenty percent of your final grade.”
A few moments of silence pass before Dr. Anderson says, “There are only a few minutes left—you may all pack up and leave.”
There’s a collective scraping of stools as everyone gets up, shoving their things into their bags.
I, on the other hand, turn to Dwight with a look of dread consuming my face. “Experiments? You mean, I can’t just copy and paste from Wikipedia?”
Dwight laughs. “We’re doing it with our lab partners, Madison, so I really hope you’re not going to copy and paste from Wikipedia.”
I sigh melodramatically and say, “I’m destined to fail …”
He gives me a shrug and a comforting smile. “It’s an AP class, so of course he’s going to make us do experiments. Nothing lethal, or even remotely dangerous, though—don’t worry. Besides, you’re buddied up with me, so I don’t know why you’re looking so scared.”
“Well, it’s just …” I trail off, then run a hand through my hair, frustrated. “Ugh, I hate physics. I hate science. I suck at school.”
Dwight laughs and bumps my shoulder with his as we head out of the door. “Calm down, Madison, it’ll be fine.”
“I can barely keep up in class,” I say miserably. “You’d be better off doing this project by yourself, believe me.”
“Look, I already have a couple of ideas, and it won’t even be too hard once we figure out what we’re doing. It’ll be fine.”
I make a strange noise to express my doubt. It comes out as “Nngaaah,” but Dwight seems to understand me just fine anyway, and laughs a little.
“See you around, Madison,” he says.
For Tiffany’s party, I decide to make like my new friends and wear a dress. I choose a white lacy one that’s not actually too short—though I feel so hideously self-conscious that I trick myself into thinking it is short.
It doesn’t take me long to do my hair and put on a little makeup. As for jewelry, I find a pair of simple faux-pearl studs and a thick cream bangle with floral patterns, which I put on my left wrist. I’m ready in half an hour—which is just as well, considering Summer’s picking me up in ten minutes.
I grab my overnight bag and jacket, and then head downstairs into the lounge. Dad’s working late, so it’s just me and Mom.
“Oh, Dice, you look lovely,” she tells me with a proud smile. “What time do you think you’ll be home?”
I shrug. “Remember, I told you Tiffany said I can stay over. That’s what Summer and Melissa are doing.” I pat the small overnight bag I packed to emphasize my point.
“If you want to come home earlier, just let me know.”
“Yeah.”
“And I spoke to your dad,” Mom carries on. “We were both thinking, if you do want something to drink it’s okay—not much, of course, but we trust you. And if you are thinking of drinking there, if the others are, we’d both rather know you were drinking safely.”
“Really?”
She nods.
“Well … thanks,” I say. “But I wasn’t going to drink, so it’s okay.”
Mom sighs and smiles, the look on her face telling me there are no secrets kept from a mother. She says, “Dice, I’m not an idiot. I know what the parties Jenna went to were like. If there’s going to be drinking—”
“If there’s going to be drinking,” I interrupt, “I don’t really care. I don’t want t
o drink. But thanks for the offer, Mom.”
She looks a little dubious.
“I’m a hundred and thirty-eight percent sure, before you ask.”
“Mm.”
I hear a car pulling up outside and give my mom a quick kiss on the cheek, then head to the door, hurrying down the drive as fast as my one-inch heels will let me. I say hello to Marcus, who’s taken shotgun, and slide into the back of Summer’s blue Ford.
Lucky for me, Marcus turns up the music, so I don’t have to make conversation; I’m too excited to formulate a coherent sentence right now. But can you blame me? I settle back into the seat with a grin. My first party. Here I come.
When Summer slows before pulling onto Tiffany’s long driveway, I get my first glimpse of the house.
It doesn’t let me down. For one thing, there are gates outside: big electric gates that keep unwanted guests out, and have an intercom at the side. They’re already open, so we drive through.
Neat lawns line the long gravel driveway, and I can make out sprinklers set into the grass. The house itself is an impressive sight—there are huge windows, and everything is modern and expensive.
“Welcome to Chez Blanche,” Summer tells me with a giggle as she and Marcus climb out of the car. I grab my bag and slide out of the backseat.
I’m glad I didn’t opt for higher heels. I don’t know how Summer manages to reach the front door in her three-and-a-half-inch stilettos.
There’s music thumping from inside the house, and it gets louder as Summer throws open the door. Marcus follows her, and I trail in behind them. There are people milling around in the hallway. A couple sit on the spiral mahogany spiral staircase. I can feel the bass reverberating through me like an adrenaline rush.
Marcus drifts away to talk to some guys I recognize from the soccer team, and Summer grabs my wrist and drags me up the stairs, weaving in and out of people gracefully as I stumble in her wake.
“We’ll toss our stuff on Tiff’s bed,” she tells me. “Then we’ll find the girls.”
“Okay,” I call back over the noise of the party.
Tiffany’s room is enormous. Probably three times the size of mine.
“Hang on two secs,” Summer tells me. “I’ll just hang my jacket in the closet.”
She slides back a mirrored door that I thought was part of the wall, to reveal a walk-in closet lined with shelves of shoes and bags and sequined trinket boxes—and rails and rails and rails of clothes.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Summer laughs when she sees my expression—which is partly amazed, a little envious, and also kind of horrified at how someone could spend so much on clothes. “That’s Tiff for you. Now come on, Madison, let’s party!”
Again, she grabs my wrist with a surprisingly strong grip for such a slim girl, and hauls me out of there. As we get to the top of the stairs, I see a group of people coming in, and all of a sudden fear takes hold of me, blocking out the adrenaline and even the bass pumping through me. I start to panic at the thought of being at a house party with all the popular kids. Oh, and not forgetting that Tiffany’s trying to set me up with Bryce. Yeah, that’s pretty darn scary too.
“Hold on,” I say frantically to Summer. “I need to run to the bathroom.”
“Oh, okay. Use the one in Tiffany’s room,” she instructs me. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen, okay?”
I nod, even though I have no idea where the kitchen is. But I turn and walk as calmly as possible back to Tiffany’s room. I go into the en suite bathroom and lock the door.
The music isn’t so loud now, more of a muffled background noise. The entire bathroom is white. White sink, white bath, white toilet, white towels. It’s kind of soothing, actually. I sit on the edge of the bath and lean over, my elbows resting on my knees and my forehead resting on my palms.
My hands feel clammy, and they tremble against my head. My knees quake a little too, and my breathing is shallow, but I’m not hyperventilating—well, not yet, anyway.
My iPod is tucked in my pajamas in my bag, on the other side of the bathroom door. But I can’t summon the will to stand up and go get it.
I couldn’t tell Summer because I knew she wouldn’t understand, but the fact is, I’m scared.
Normal people my age probably take parties for granted. They always know a bunch of people there. Sure, I know a few here, but so what? I’ve known them for a week. And I’m so used to keeping myself out of it that I don’t know how to get in.
I don’t want to drink at this party; I was telling Mom the truth. But I’m pretty sure everyone else will be drinking, and I don’t know how drunk people act, or even how to behave around drunk people. What if this all completely sucks, and I’m just scared and lonely and shy and silent all night? I can see myself calling my mom to come pick me up, like a total loser.
I put my hands over my ears and squeeze my eyes tight shut, like that will block out all my thoughts. It’s all too loud. Too much. I can’t do this. I can’t. I don’t belong here, with these people. I’m too different. Too weird.
I heave myself up from the bathtub and lean over the sink instead, looking into the big bright mirror.
And it’s only when I see my reflection that I remember I don’t have to be scared and shy and lonely and silent all night, because that’s not me anymore. That was the old Madison. The new Madison is confident; she can handle herself at a party—even if she does end up calling her mom for a ride home.
I stand up a little straighter and push my bangs out of my eyes. I lean closer to the mirror to check my makeup. Then I stand up again and smile at myself, a big, bright, confident grin. If I can pretend I can do this long enough, maybe I’ll trick myself into believing it.
I can totally do this.
I look at everything from the other angle: I’m at a party hosted by one of the most popular girls in the school—after only a week I’m in with the popular crowd, so even if I don’t know everybody yet, I guess you could say I know the “right” people. And one of my new friends is trying to set me up with a hot guy because she thinks he likes me.
When I look at everything that way, the grin on my face doesn’t feel as forced and the fearful anticipation is replaced by excitement. I steel myself with a few deep breaths, and head out of the bathroom before I can think about it anymore.
I walk with my head held high, exuding confidence like I’m not faking every bit of it. I even make it all the way to the bottom of the spiral staircase without tripping. I smile at people I don’t even know as I try to find the kitchen.
I don’t know how long I was up in that bathroom, but jeez, there are tons of people here now. The entrance is crammed and there are people spilling into all the rooms. I wonder if Tiffany invited them all, or if they just turned up, but either way—“small get-together,” my butt.
Eventually, after weaving my way to the end of the hallway and then through the dining room, I reach the kitchen. It has granite counters and everything is silver and chrome, from the refrigerator to the waffle iron. Just like everything else in the house, it is—surprise, surprise—very luxurious. People are hanging around and cracking open bottles or beer cans, and there’s a keg in the corner with a stack of plastic cups next to it—red ones, same as at the beach party. I reach the big chrome refrigerator and pull a door open to grab one of the silver Diet Coke cans.
Leaning against the kitchen counter, I take a sip of my drink, and assess my situation. I should find Tiffany, or Summer … Even Kyle or Adam, or Ricky. At least Bryce. Then I’d have someone to talk to, and hopefully they’d introduce me to some other people so I can make it through this party without looking like a complete outsider.
The one flaw in that plan is the simple fact that I have no idea where any of them are.
Only one thing to do, then, isn’t there? Look for them, idiot.
I push myself off the counter and start making my way through the rooms, keeping my eyes peeled for a friendly face I can put a name to. It’s harder than I anticipated, though
, trying to weave past the writhing bodies dancing to the pounding music. I shove my way through a couple of gossiping, tipsy girls, and burst free into the hallway.
“Ricky!” I cry in relief, when I spot him standing by the spiral staircase. He looks over, startled, and then smiles when he sees me waving a hand to him. “Hey,” he says. “Why are you looking so happy to see me all of a sudden?”
“Don’t I always look happy to see you?”
He laughs and shrugs. “I knew you’d fall for my charm eventually.”
“Sure. I’m practically swooning all over you.”
“Honey, you can swoon over me any time you want,” he says in a low, slow, suggestive voice, waggling his eyebrows. I don’t know how he manages to joke around and keep such a straight face. I burst out laughing (being careful not to snort), but feel my cheeks have grown slightly flushed.
“Not drinking?”
I shake my head.
Ricky arches an eyebrow, but smiles. “I’m sure Tiff won’t complain—one less person likely to upchuck.”
And that’s when someone smacks my butt, hard.
Chapter 13
I stand there for a moment, unable to react.
Then, when it registers that, yes, someone did actually smack my butt, my mouth falls open and I whirl around. I don’t know what I’m going to say, but I’m sure as heck going to say something to them, and it’s not going to be anything nice.
But whatever sharp retort I was about to blurt dies on my tongue before I say it, and I freeze.
Tiffany cracks up, giggling hysterically, and relief floods through me, deflating my chest and making me laugh too.
“You should’ve seen your face!” she giggles. She dabs a finger at the corner of her eye, wiping away any smudges of mascara or eyeliner. “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry, but that was funny.”
I don’t say anything at first, because we’re both still laughing.
Then she jumps in, asking, “Where’ve you been all night? I haven’t seen you! Don’t you know you’re supposed to greet the host?”
“I tried to find you, I swear.”