I rubbed my eyes. “I’m done for today. I can’t take the excitement.”
“Oh, come on, you love it,” Sloane said. “Why else would you keep hanging out with that drama king Digby if you didn’t?”
“I’m not coming to the party, Sloane. You can’t make me. I’m exhausted. My father will be here any minute to take me to dinner . . .” I said. “Plus I have nothing to wear.”
“Is that the problem?” Sloane said. And then to my alarm, she unzipped her pants and started peeling them off.
“My God, have you gone full crazy? Get upstairs. Cooper will be back any minute.” I stepped aside and waved her upstairs.
“This is your makeover moment,” she said, and then took off running up my stairs.
“Ugh . . . I hate you so much,” I said.
• • •
By the time I got to my room, Sloane had already taken off her boots and leather pants and was wearing my coat as a dressing gown.
I didn’t even have the words. “Sloane. What?”
“Put these on,” she said. “Just try them on, okay?”
I picked up her pants. They were made of the softest leather I’d ever touched. “What are you up to?”
• • •
After about half an hour and five fights with Sloane, we stepped back from the mirror and checked the results.
“I must still be traumatized from the fire, because I really like this outfit. Especially your boots,” Sloane said. Having given me her clothes, she’d picked out a hoodie and leggings outfit for herself from my closet. She looked upsettingly good in my clothes. “You look great, by the way.”
“Yeah, if I suck in my stomach all night and don’t sit or eat or drink,” I said. “Or breathe.”
“But look at you. You could bounce quarters off your butt in those pants,” she said. “How do you feel?”
“Um . . . terrified? Everything’s tight and jacked up about two inches higher.” I wasn’t joking. The reflection in the mirror was a me/not me chimera who creeped me out. “I can’t do this. It’s too weird.” I unsnapped the fly, but I couldn’t get the waistband past my hips.
“Stop. You’ll ruin them,” she said. “You need me to pull them off from the bottom.”
I lay down on the bed but instead of helping me with the pants, she slid a high-heeled boot onto my foot.
“These are the zillion-dollar ones you wore that other time, right?” I said. “God, they are . . .” And then I stood up and saw my reflection. “Wow.”
“I don’t want to hear how you couldn’t possibly and it’s too expensive and blah blah blah,” Sloane said. “You’re dumping Austin tonight. He’ll try to break you down.” She zipped up the boot. “You need to win.”
“And these boots will help me win?” I said.
The pants were so tight, they made me stand ramrod straight and tall, and in these boots, tall was tall.
“Don’t you think they will?” Sloane said.
“Dammit,” I said. Because of course she was right. “Although, I don’t even know for sure if Austin and I are breaking up tonight.”
Sloane showed me a picture of Austin on her phone. He was surrounded by tons of people—mostly girls—behind a table full of drinks in red cups.
“I turned off my phone for my nap,” I said. Sure enough, there were a thousand notifications when I turned it back on. “He’s pre-gaming at Lexi Ford’s.” I kept swiping. There really were so many pictures. “It’s almost like he wants me to look.”
Which is what I did for a while, until finally Sloane said, “Okay, enough. Don’t start obsessing over his page now . . . it’s so unhealthy.”
“You told me to look at this crap,” I said. “Besides, aren’t you being hypocritical? You used to have your little blond mafia follow Henry around town.”
“Like I said, I recognize this,” Sloane said.
“What happened with that, anyway?” I said. “And don’t look at me like you don’t know what I’m talking about and I’m the one being crazy. You and your friends were a tight little coven. Everywhere that Sloane-y went. And now . . .”
“What?” Sloane said.
“Well, I mean, you’re here. With me . . .” I said.
“Whatever . . .” Sloane said.
“Fine. But there are a million rumors already, and if people see us turn up at the party together . . .” I said.
“I just needed a break from them,” she said. “Besides, so what if I cause a little conversation?”
I took that non-answer at face value and just went about redoing my makeup.
“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you . . . So, I was at an event over Christmas. I saw my mother with her friends. She calls them friends, anyway. But all they do is stress each other out. They sit there comparing the most meaningless things in their lives,” Sloane said. “And I got to thinking that my friends stress me out.”
“Well, what the hell are you doing here? You and I stress each other out. People are just stressful, that’s all,” I said.
“I don’t think you’re stressful. You annoy me,” Sloane said. “But that’s a real feeling, at least. I don’t know what I feel when I’m with my friends. I just know I’m exhausted after I hang out with them.”
“You have this weird way of insulting people even when you’re saying something nice,” I said. “Or is it just me?”
“What was insulting about that?” Sloane said.
“You just said I annoyed you,” I said.
“But I also said it was a real feeling. Which is a good thing,” she said.
“Okay, are you seriously going to make me explain the concept of a complisult to you?” I said.
“Ha-ha,” Sloane said. “Anyway. Can I wear these clothes to the party tonight? I’ve always wanted to try dressing like you. It’ll be great to finally be able to eat without having to worry about getting sauce on myself.”
“Again. Complisult,” I said.
From downstairs, I heard my father yell, “Zoe? I’m here. How did the test go? And why is the front door open?” He started climbing the stairs to my room. “I made a reservation . . .”
“I told you. I’m supposed to be going to dinner with my father tonight,” I said. I did not feel like doing that. My eyes wandered over to my window. “Unless we . . .”
“I’m not climbing out the window,” Sloane said.
“Well, then, I can’t go to the party,” I said. “This is already my rain check and there’s no way he’ll let me reschedule him a second time.”
“Just let me do the talking,” she said.
Dad did his usual no-knock-door-blows-open entrances, saw Sloane in my room, and said, “Who’s this? You’re not canceling on me, Zoe.”
Sloane put out her hand and said, “Sloane Bloom. Nice to meet you.” As my father shook her hand, she said, “I know you have dinner plans, but I was hoping to steal Zoe. My father’s having a campaign event tonight.”
“Campaign event?” Dad said.
“Daddy’s running for the United States Congress and he wanted Zoe and me there for the edgy youth vote . . . you know how it is,” Sloane said.
“Oh, well, of course, of course,” Dad said.
“I would’ve comped you, but Zoe didn’t tell me you were in town,” Sloane said. “It’s a thousand dollars a plate and it’s sold out.”
“No, of course I wouldn’t presume . . .” Dad said.
“You don’t mind if she takes a rain check?” Sloane said.
Of course he didn’t mind. I’d never seen my father submit to someone else’s will and I didn’t really believe we’d gotten away with it until we were driving off.
“Sloane. Really?” She had me sitting in the car with my legs sticking straight out in front of me.
“You can’t bend your knees in that,” she said. “Leath
er’s a one-way ticket. Once it sags, it’s over.”
“Ugh.” Digby was right. The stuff rich people own owns them right back.
TWENTY-SIX
Which brings me back to where I started my story. Specifically, riding in Sloane Bloom’s fancy SUV to the party of the year wearing her impossibly nice clothes. As recently as nine days ago, this all would have added up to a triumphant teen dream of a night for me. But Digby is back in town and nine days with him is an eternity. Now I’m on my way to blowing up my life and, as is typical on Planet Digby, it is the only move that makes sense.
• • •
When we get to the party, Sloane’s driver jumps out and runs around the car to open the door for us. A few kids from school immediately run up and photograph themselves against the limo. One guy pushes it too far, though, when he opens the door and tries to climb in. The driver yells at him and pulls off down the road to park.
“They do this every single day. How many limo selfies do they need?” Sloane says. “Good luck with Austin. I’m going to look for Henry.”
“Maybe I’ll come find you later.”
I feel the disgusted/impressed combo that I’ve now come to expect from my encounters with the River Heights rich when I behold the façade of Kyle Mesmer’s lake house. A smaller stone structure wedded to a glass extension that’s so much larger and taller than the original structure, it looks like it’s eating the old house whole. A full-on circular drive with a huge mini swimming pool fountain at the top of it.
And it’s by that mini swimming pool fountain that I find Allie and Charlotte. When I approach them, it becomes clear they are annoyed that I’ve been AWOL all day.
“Hey,” I say.
Charlotte pantomimes shock. She turns around and looks over her shoulder like, Who is she talking to? “So is this, like, a drive-by, or are you going to actually hang out with us now?”
“I’m sorry, you guys, it’s been so crazy,” I say. “And, honestly, I didn’t even know I was coming until an hour ago.”
“Austin said you told him you were coming,” Charlotte said.
“Well . . . actually, Austin and I . . .” I had no clue how to finish that sentence.
Allie jumps up and hugs me. “Oh, my God, Zoe . . . are you two breaking up?”
“I think I should talk to him before I say . . .”
I see them trade meaningful glances that they pretend to hide but actually want me to see.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing. Allie is being annoying.” Charlotte is talking through gritted teeth. The look she and Allie share confirms what I started to feel at lunch yesterday: Their relationship has an entire dimension that not only doesn’t include me but that involves discussing me and making up policies about what to conceal from me.
“But seriously . . . what are those boots?” Allie says. “Let me see how high the heel is.”
“Well . . . it’s high.” I lift my foot to show her. She and Charlotte gasp when they see the telltale red sole.
Allie grabs me and turns me around. “And are you kidding with those pants?” she says.
“What?” I say.
“My chills are multiplyin’,” Allie says.
“Sloane lent them to me,” I say. “And the boots.”
Allie pulls me to sit with them and offers me her Solo cup of something toxic-smelling. “Tell.”
“Wait, is she here?” Charlotte says. “I didn’t think she was coming.”
“I mean, Henry is out as QB and she’s like . . .” Allie made a YIKES face. “The prom queen is dead and you inherited her closet. Can we have your rejects?”
“Anyway, have you guys seen Austin?” I say.
“In the house. Come on,” Allie says.
As I follow her and Charlotte, I start thinking the party might not live up to all the rager hype that had preceded it. I can’t say what it is exactly. Maybe Kyle’s right. Maybe people do need to have had the stress of taking the SATs to really let loose. Turnout isn’t the problem. And yet . . . something seems off. I can’t put my finger on it, but I watch a boy do a three-point toss with a beer can into a bin and think that maybe proper waste disposal means there isn’t enough chaos for it to be a rager.
Then again, it’s also a possibility that hanging out with Digby has given me a heightened appetite for chaos.
Allie, Charlotte, and I take the wraparound porch to the back of the house. From outside, I look into the living room window and see that things aren’t going much better inside. A whole line of girls on the couch are surfing their phones. Tellingly, they aren’t taking party selfies.
“I know, right . . . lame party,” Allie says. “Like, literally no one is having fun. Lexi’s pregamer was better, actually.”
“I’m not worried.” Kyle Mesmer is bouncing around to convey the energy he knows his party doesn’t have. “The seniors haven’t gotten here yet.”
“Sorry, Kyle. Just saying,” Allie says.
“No, no, I’m really not freaking out. It’ll pick up. I’m not worried,” Kyle says. “Every party’s like this until that moment. You know . . . the moment. This happened at my last party. It was dead but then Angela Davison was standing too close to the heater and her hair caught fire. Everyone went nuts and after that, nothing was the same.” He takes a gulp of his drink and breaks out into a whistling, barking cough.
Allie takes a cautious sip from his cup and her right eye closes involuntarily in pain. “What is that?”
“Justin made it,” Kyle says. “I think he’s calling it Murder Suicide.”
I take his cup and sniff. “God. It’s making my eyes water,” I say.
Allie takes the cup. “But it’s not supposed to go in your eyes.” She takes a huge drink as someone farther down from us leans over the porch railing and splashes some people below.
“Aha . . . watch someone get puked on. That’s number three.” I tense at the sound of Bill’s voice. She comes up from behind and hands me a card on which number three literally says: “Someone gets puked on by someone else.”
“What is this?” I say.
Kyle catches on and gets excited. “Awesome. A party dare scavenger hunt.”
I read out numbers thirteen and sixteen. “‘Make someone falsely believe their crush is into them’? ‘Ruin someone’s hair in a way only a hairdresser could fix’?”
Bill rolls her eyes at my outrage. “Gol-ly gee, Zoe, relax. It’s just a joke.”
“Your sense of humor is pretty toxic,” I say.
“Uh-huh, honey,” Bill said.
Charlotte says, “You’re just pissed because you’ll probably be number five tonight.”
We all look down and read “Find a power couple breaking up.”
“You and Austin are breaking up?” Bill says.
“She hasn’t even told him yet,” Allie says.
“Allie,” I say.
“Oh, I’m so drunk, you guys, I didn’t know what I was saying,” Allie says.
“I better get her to a bathroom before her own breath makes her puke again,” Charlotte says. They leave.
Kyle looks at the time on his phone and says, “Oops. Excuse me, ladies. Something I’ve got to do.” He raises his cup, says, “To the moment.” He chugs his drink before leaving me alone with Bill.
“Zoe, I’m sorry,” Bill says. “Are you bummed?”
I don’t feel like having a conversation with her about this. Thankfully, a loud commotion summons everybody to the front yard. We all stream to the sound of sirens and unintelligible yelling. I catch a glimpse of Austin and his friends running alongside the house from the backyard.
At this point, the lights suddenly die. There are gasps, some nervous laughs, and some people start to howl. I push my way to the front of the porch, where I see the source of the commotion: a pair of policemen carrying a porta
ble searchlight. Their guns are drawn and they’re yelling. One of them shouts, “In the house. In the house. Lock the doors. Right now, right now.”
Instead of complying, the crowd raises their phones to film.
Kyle shouts, “What can we do for you, officers?”
The cop’s searchlight beam sweeps the tree line at the property’s edge. On the third or so arc the light makes, we catch a glimpse of something unnaturally orange.
“Whoa. Go back,” First Cop says.
The beam tracks back and finds two dudes in orange clothes a hundred yards from us. They freeze and in the second they are motionless, we collectively realize that they are, in fact, dressed in orange prison jumpsuits.
“Freeze,” First Cop says.
But they don’t freeze. The last thing we see before Second Cop drops the searchlight is the two escaped convicts charging right for us. The crowd in the yard screams and scatters. There’s panic on the porch when the stream of people running into the house is cut off by someone inside slamming the door shut.
My eyes adjust to the dark and I see the figure in the orange jumpsuit running at me. Before I know what I’m doing, I pick up an abandoned bottle of beer and throw it. The bottle shatters on his head. Agonized swearing follows.
Kyle shouts above the general chaos. “Hey, people, it’s a joke. Stop throwing crap, it’s a joke.”
The lights come back on. Kyle and the cops see to the guy I’d hit. His head is bleeding from his cut forehead.
“Ohhh . . . that’s Paul Mason,” Bill says.
“Who is?” I say.
“The convict you hit with the bottle,” Bill says. “He was a senior here last year.”
People trace back the bottle’s trajectory to me. A weird hush follows. Suddenly, from within the middle of the ring of concerned friends, Paul Mason jumps to his feet and screeches, “Goddamn! That was awesome.”
Cheering breaks out. Chanting starts up and ripples out until the entire place is shouting, “Mason! Mason! Mason!”
Bill says to me, “Turns out, you can’t cause brain damage when there’s no brain . . .” and then joins in on the Mason Mason Mason chant.
Trouble Makes a Comeback Page 21