“I didn’t think she’d invite me, honestly.”
“Why did she? Because of your friend Angie?”
“I guess.”
“What’s the deal with you and Angie?”
“We’re best friends,” I say, avoiding Emily’s gaze.
“And Angie is Margot’s girlfriend?”
“Yeah,” I say brusquely.
“You are not a fan of that.”
I give up on the weird stuffed shells and focus on the fries. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
“You’re not a fan of Margot either. Do you have to ask?”
“I’m guessing your reasons for not being a fan of Margot are a little different from mine.”
I keep eating french fries, even though they taste like sand. “So have you come up with any ideas for who’s writing those letters to Ryan?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer immediately. She pushes her rice around on her plate and studies me coolly. “Well,” she says finally, “he’s not Ryan’s boyfriend.”
“She has a boyfriend?”
“Yeah. Noah Becker. He’s over there—you see that guy on the other side of the room in the blue sweatshirt, pushing his chair back?”
I twist in my seat and spot Noah right away, because Margot and Ryan are approaching his table with their trays. He’s a sandy-haired boy, cute enough in an average way. “You don’t think he wrote the letters?” I ask.
“No,” Emily says. “He couldn’t have. He’s not the type. Noah’s the opposite of someone who would do that. He’s just this straightforward guy. Not stupid or anything, but there’s nothing romantic about him. Whoever’s writing those letters knows poetry.”
“So she’s cheating on her boyfriend with some mystery poetry guy.”
“Yeah.”
“Who do you think she’s cheating with?”
“Somebody she has to keep a secret, obviously. Why, who do you think it is?”
I shrug.
Emily eyes me skeptically and takes a bite of her stir-fry. After she swallows, she says, “I have to say I wonder why she doesn’t just break up with Noah. It’s not like he’s the hottest guy in school. I don’t think she really even likes him that much.”
I start in on my apple pie. The crust is a little soggy, but the apples are good.
“Although he is a senior, and his parents are pretty rich,” Emily continues. “I think they’re in banking or something. Maybe that’s why she’s dating him.”
I think about the tone of the letters, the precision of the handwriting, the way he thinks about Ryan when he drives to and from school. “Don’t you think the poetry guy is older?” I ask.
Emily’s fork pauses in midair. There’s a suggestion of a knowing smile on her mouth. “How much older?” she says.
“A lot,” I say.
She puts her fork down. “Yeah. What boy our age is going to write letters like that?”
“No boy,” I say. “A teacher.”
Emily stares at me, and I see the idea catch fire in her, burning its way into the gleam in her dark eyes. She glances across the Commons at Ryan, and then back at me. “That’s why she’s with Noah. For cover.”
—
It’s pitch-black by the time I get back to West Bed High, even though it’s only seven o’clock. I’m supposed to go straight home after the arts program dinner, but instead I continue walking past my house. The lights are on, and I see the flickering of the TV through the living room window. I take the trail into Ellicott Park.
The trees are bare now, and the sky is clear tonight, making it pretty easy to find my way to the hollow. I skid down one side and climb up the other, and then I take out my phone to turn on its flashlight. A twig cracks beneath my feet as I head for the fallen log. I kneel on the cold ground and bend over, shining the light into the dark.
I pull out the bag and open it. There are nine letters—one new—but the note with the scalloped edge is gone.
ANGIE’S WEARING A BLACK VELVET MINIDRESS OVER sheer black stockings and purple fake Doc Martens. She contorts her face as she leans toward the mirror over her dresser to layer on mascara. When she steps back she gives herself a critical look and fluffs her hair, causing her dangling sleigh bell earrings to jingle.
“How do I look?” she asks, pursing her lips at her reflection.
She looks like Courtney gave her a makeover, and I can’t decide if it works or not. “You look amazing,” I tell her.
She suddenly seems hesitant, and the Angie I know slips out from behind this girl’s makeup. “I hope she likes it,” she says.
“If she doesn’t, she’s an asshole.”
Angie gives me a reproachful look in the mirror. “Thanks, I guess,” she says.
The plan is for me to stay over at Angie’s tonight after Margot’s party. Angie’s parents totally believe the story we made up: that we’re going to a midnight screening of The Wizard of Oz with the other theater kids. It involves props and singing along, and it sounds absolutely awful, which makes it the perfect lie because Angie’s parents would never go. We’ll be back late, after they’ve already gone to bed, but they trust her.
The drive to Marblehead takes a little over an hour. Angie turns on Google Maps and follows the directions while I scan through the radio stations. It’s all holiday music all the time. By the time we get to Marblehead, we’ve heard Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas” three times. We pass a sign for Devereux Beach, briefly illuminated in the headlights, and continue past the empty parking lot onto a road flanked on both sides by the ocean. The Atlantic seems to simmer, barely visible but immense in its rippling blackness.
“It’s supposed to snow tomorrow,” Angie says as we turn onto Margot’s street. “Good thing her party’s tonight.”
“Lucky us,” I say. It comes out sounding more sarcastic than I intended.
“Well, I’m glad, even if you aren’t.”
“Sorry.”
The street is lined with big houses. Some of them are dark, probably because they’re summer vacation homes, but some have wide windows that reveal Christmas trees glittering with light. When Google tells us that our destination is on the right, I see a curving driveway leading slightly upward to a house that’s blazing: Christmas lights are wrapped around the big front porch, and all the interior lights seem to be on. The gravel driveway circles around a fountain, and I count four cars. Angie parks at the end of the driveway and turns off the engine, but doesn’t make a move to get out.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I’m nervous,” she admits.
“Why?”
She inhales, then breathes out. “Because . . .” She shakes her head. “I just don’t know her friends, you know? What if they don’t like me?”
“Why wouldn’t they like you?”
“Well, I’m not one of them.”
I stare at the house. I see people behind the giant windows—Margot’s friends. I don’t see Margot. Wind buffets Angie’s car hard enough to make it rock slightly. Angie shifts in place, the velvet of her dress whispering against the seat. She unbuckles her seat belt.
“I’m not one of them either,” I say. “At least we’ll be together.”
She looks at me. Her eyes reflect the light from the house in glimmering pinpoints. She reaches for my hand and laces her fingers with mine.
—
The house is huge. The front entryway opens into an expansive living room done entirely in shades of white. Steps lead down from the living room into an even bigger kitchen and family room, with floor-to-ceiling glass doors onto a wide back deck overlooking a private beach. During the day the view must be spectacular, but at night, the only thing to see is the heaving black of the Atlantic beneath the matte black of the cloudy sky. Every time someone comes in one of those doors, the roar of the ocean crescendos
like a lion’s, only to be abruptly silenced by the double-paned glass.
At first, I trail Angie around the house, but it doesn’t take long for Margot to separate her from me. There are only eight people at the party—not counting me—and they all seem to know one another. They absorb Angie with more enthusiasm than I expected, but they barely even glance at me. Once Angie looks in my direction while she’s laughing at something someone else said, and the expression on my face must have startled her because she stops mid-laugh and gives me a concerned look. She starts to get up to come to me, but Margot’s holding her hand and pulls her down onto the white couch beside her, and I can’t see her anymore.
I find the drinks in the kitchen. There are a lot of them. The vodka is already open, so I pour some into a red plastic cup and add some cranberry juice and ice. I open the door to the deck and step outside. The wind scrapes over my face with breathtaking force. It smells like the coming snowstorm mingled with the briny scent of the ocean. I push through the wind to the railing and gaze down at the water. In the light from the house I see a strip of beach down below. The water is closer than I thought; dark waves crash onto the edge of the sand, leaving a white froth behind like soap suds. It’s freezing out here, but I’m only outside for a minute before the doors open again and two people stumble onto the deck, laughing and cursing.
“I can’t get this lighter to work!” the guy complains.
“Let me try,” the girl says.
They don’t notice me. I met them barely an hour ago, but I don’t remember their names. They’re shivering, and neither of them has a coat on.
“It’s fucking cold,” the guy mutters.
“I’ll keep you warm,” the girl says, giggling.
I head back to the door, and as I brush past them, the girl shrieks, “Oh my God, someone’s out here!”
“It’s that chick Margot’s girlfriend brought,” the boy says. “What are you, spying on us?”
I don’t respond, going back inside and slamming the door behind myself. The kitchen is blessedly warm after the frigid deck. Ryan is standing by the drinks, making something complicated with a shaker. She asks, “How is it out there?”
“Freezing.” I take a gulp of my vodka and cranberry and head out of the kitchen.
I don’t see Angie and Margot in the living room anymore. Somebody has started playing hip-hop over the house speakers, and the bass has been turned up so high it makes the floors shake. Two girls are beginning to dance drunkenly. They’ve taken off their heels, and their legs are bare beneath their glittery holiday dresses. Two boys sit on the couch where Margot and Angie were sitting, watching the dancing girls. They don’t notice me as I walk right past them and up the stairs.
On the second floor, a long hallway lined with doorways splits the house. Half of them are closed, and I wonder if Margot and Angie are behind one of them. I imagine Margot’s hand pushing up the hem of Angie’s velvet dress, her fingers on Angie’s thigh. I pause outside the first door, my heart pounding, but I can’t hear anything over the music. I keep going, past a marble bathroom, past a room containing twin bunk beds. The door at the end of the hall is cracked, so I push it all the way open and enter a sprawling bedroom. It’s empty. In an alcove on one side is a sitting area with a pink velvet love seat surrounded by windows. A king-size bed with a white tufted headboard sits on a dais across from the love seat. The bed is covered in a fluffy white down duvet and more pillows in more shades of pink than anybody ever needs. I go to the sitting area and peer out the window. In the distance a signal light blinks on and off, marking the edge of the land.
“You’re not supposed to be up here.”
I turn around, startled, to see Ryan standing in the doorway. She’s holding a cocktail glass—a real one, the kind they put martinis in—and is wearing a silver minidress with a complicated neckline and no shoes. Her blond hair is pulled over her right shoulder, clasped with something that looks like diamonds. She takes a healthy sip of her cocktail.
“This is Margot’s parents’ room,” she explains. “Off-limits.”
I sit down on the love seat with my drink. The cushions are too soft, and I sink deeply into them.
“Margot’s mom wanted to make it look like Vegas,” Ryan says. “Did you see the bathroom?” She goes through the doorway on the left side of the bed and flips on the light. I glimpse pink marble and gold fixtures beneath a crystal chandelier. “It’s so trashy,” she says, almost in wonder. She leaves the bathroom and perches on the padded white bench at the foot of the white bed, facing me. “What are you doing up here?” she asks.
“Nothing.” I take a sip of my drink.
Ryan is halfway finished with her cocktail. The lamplight glitters on the diamond studs in her ears. She crosses her bare legs, bobbing her foot up and down. Her toenails are painted hot pink. She gives me a knowing look. “You have a thing for your friend, don’t you?”
I stiffen. “What?”
She leans back, elbows sinking into the soft duvet of the bed, the cocktail in her right hand perilously close to spilling. She gives me a hooded smile. “You heard me. Margot told me you’re obsessed.”
“That’s bullshit.” I take another drink. The cranberry juice is super tart, but it doesn’t quite disguise the bite of the vodka.
“Don’t be such a closet case,” she says flatly. “I’m Margot’s best friend. I know how this works.” She sits up, finishes her cocktail in one gulp, and then leans forward, the empty glass dangling in one hand. “I bet you’ve had a crush on her for a long time. Isn’t that why you became friends in the first place? And she’s super nice to you, because that’s who she is. Oh my God, Margot just goes on and on about how nice she is.”
The sarcasm in Ryan’s voice cuts more than what she’s saying about me. “She is nice,” I say.
Ryan laughs. “See? I don’t know why you bother trying to hide it. Obviously you’re totally whipped on her.”
“I am not.”
Ryan shakes her head. “Oh my God, what’s the point? She clearly isn’t into you. She’s into Margot.” She pauses, looks sour. “And Margot is definitely into her.”
I take another drink. There isn’t enough vodka for this.
“That’s why she had this party. She doesn’t really have permission, but it was so easy to get ‘permission’ from Margot’s mom.” Ryan makes air quotes with one hand, and then places the cocktail glass on the fur rug at her feet. She gets up and walks back toward the bathroom, but stops in front of another door. She pulls it open, revealing a walk-in closet. “Margot’s mom is really kind of pathetic,” Ryan says. “Last time I was here, she was drunk half the time, and the other half she was high. I bet she keeps some good stuff here.” She steps up on a footstool in the closet so that she can reach the upper shelves. A shoebox tumbles down, spilling a pair of gold heels onto the floor, followed by a few scarves, floating in brilliant orange and fuchsia streaks through the air.
“Shit,” Ryan exclaims. “Oh my God.” She sounds genuinely surprised.
I watch her step down from the footstool, holding a black box. She sets it on the bed carefully, and the weight of the box causes it to sink into the fluffy duvet. She opens the box. I can’t see it from where I’m sitting, so I climb out of the overly soft love seat and approach the bed.
The box contains a small golden gun. It doesn’t look real.
“You should put that back,” I say.
Ryan’s eyebrows rise mockingly. “Oh! Finally, some words. For a while I thought you didn’t speak English.”
I stare at her, speechless.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m so sorry, was that racist?”
I head for the door. My legs are trembling.
“Oh, don’t leave!” Ryan cries. “I was just starting to like you. Not like a lesbian, though.”
Halfway between the door and the giant white bed, I turn bac
k. “What is your problem?” I demand.
Ryan runs her fingers through the long tail of her hair. “I don’t have a problem. You do, and you don’t even know it.”
“Know what?”
“The whole reason Margot’s having this party is so she can screw Angie. Can you believe they haven’t done it yet?”
The business-like tone of Ryan’s words stuns me. As if Angie were an item on Margot’s to-do list.
“It’s not because Margot hasn’t tried,” Ryan says. “Your friend is kind of a prude, you know.”
“Shut up,” I choke out.
“I just thought you’d like to know your friend brought you here as her chaperone,” Ryan says, pretending innocence. “She wouldn’t come alone.”
My fingers tighten over the plastic cup. I can feel it crack.
“You’re neglecting your duty, though,” Ryan continues. “Pretty sure Margot’s getting some right now. Third door on the left down the hall. You wanna go watch?”
I hurl the red plastic cup at her. Ryan ducks out of the way, her mouth open in shock, and the liquid cascades out, splattering cranberry red across the white duvet, the white bench, the white rug, a brilliant explosion of color.
It’s disappointingly unsatisfying. I’m shaking. I want to feel something crunch under my hand.
“Shit!” Ryan shrieks. “Margot’s mom’s going to kill you!”
My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I turn on my heel to leave.
Behind me Ryan bursts into high, sharp laughter.
—
I don’t know how many drinks I’ve had. I can’t taste the vodka anymore, but Ryan is standing in front of me, wavering in my vision as if she were morphing in and out of reality. She’s pointing her finger at me, leaning against the counter as she makes another of her fancy cocktails. She knocks over a jar of olives, and slick green spheres roll like eyeballs off the counter and onto the floor, olive juice dribbling in a thin greenish waterfall over the edge. She utters a shriek of surprise and grabs some paper towels, then squats down, her dress riding up over her thighs as she pats at the liquid. I can see down her dress from this angle. She’s wearing a pink satin bra. A long silver chain with a pearlescent stone dangling on the end falls out of her cleavage, swinging like a pendulum.