“You know, I went out for social VP last year,” Gabby offered gently. “And I was so sure I was going to get it. I was already planning things I would do and whatever. I even made this Facebook group for people to tell me their ideas for dances and stuff. It was mortifying. There was this group of older girls—”
Skylar cut her off. “Just stop.” It was so condescending for Gabby to compare the Dot-Crotch humiliation to a minor social dilemma that obviously hadn’t affected Gabby’s popularity in any way.
She thought of Lucy’s comforting arms when she’d run offstage that night—holding her, petting her, telling her that it would be okay and that everyone would forget about it sooner or later. But of course she thought that way. If Lucy’s pants had ripped, if Gabby’s underwear had been polka-dotted, it would be a whole different story. If you were unremarkable, it was the disasters that made you stand out. And even as Lucy told her not to worry about what people were calling her—because the nickname stuck, of course—she still encouraged Skylar to go on a diet, telling her about how her muffin top rolled over her jeans.
“But maybe if you just—” Gabby started to say. Here it came, the “friendly advice” with a clear message: If you were more like me, these things wouldn’t happen to you.
“I said, stop.” Skylar tried to push past Gabby. She couldn’t take this anymore. She didn’t care how loud she was, didn’t care that everyone was probably staring at them. She didn’t care that she was acting like her own mother—belligerent and irrational. Gabby reached out to stop her, catching Skylar’s arm and throwing her off balance.
It all happened in slow motion. Skylar felt herself leaning sideways, losing her footing, realizing that there was no standing back up. As time dragged, she found herself wondering what her face looked like as she fell. Surprised? Scared? Angry? She landed half-draped over a log, her dress hitched up and her entire backside on display.
Her underwear was showing through her tights, she could tell. The air was cold against her butt. She was certain she heard mean laughter from behind her. She stood quickly and turned on her heel, yelling, “Show’s over, assholes!”
“Skylar, stop, no one is—” Gabby tried to hush her.
Then Skylar heard someone shout out, “What happened to the polka dots?”
And then another jeered, “Is that a thong? Can we call you Thong-Crotch now?”
It was over. Her night was over. The party was over. The progress she’d been making—over.
“You did that deliberately,” Skylar hissed at Gabby as she got up, scraping her hands on the rough bark of the fallen tree. She didn’t know if it was true, but it might as well have been.
“It was an accident! I didn’t want you to fall!” Gabby protested.
But Skylar, her eyes blurred again with tears, didn’t listen. She didn’t stop running until she was out of the woods.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Everyone else had already forgotten about “the ghost,” but Em stood at the edge of the clearing, looking into the forest, still on high alert. The screams, as short-lived as they’d been, had frozen her blood. She didn’t see anything unusual. But she sensed that something was wrong.
She wished she could just forget about it—rejoin the party, have a good time, gossip with Gabby or maybe fend off a football player or two.
But no. The new Em was fixated on ghosts. Always looking for them. Thinking about them constantly. Obsessed.
She heard the music die behind her and then loud laughter. As she turned around to see what the big joke was, she heard Skylar screaming, “Show’s over, assholes!” and tearing away from the party.
Damn it! They hadn’t finished talking. Em had to get through to Skylar, had to let her know what was at stake. She tried to follow Skylar’s path toward the darkness of the woods that would lead to the party’s exit—maybe they could find a quiet place to talk. . . .
But in the time it had taken her to push her way through the party, across the clearing, she’d lost Skylar. She didn’t know where she’d gone—it was just gnarled, bony trees and blackness as Em peered down the path to the Behemoth, where most of the kids had parked.
She turned and started trudging back over the muddy leaves toward the center of the party.
On the opposite side of the bonfire, she saw a glint of blond hair shimmering against the shadows. Em would know it anywhere, that shade of brassy blond. She squinted. The flames flashed before her eyes like curtains being rapidly opened and closed; she wished she could reach out and still them, just for a moment.
Then, as though she had wished it, the flames parted precisely and perfectly, framing for one moment the heart-shaped outline of a smiling face whose eyes appeared sunken in the quickly shifting light. There was no mistaking the face. It was Ali—laughing, maniacal Ali—the Fury who had stalked her. The Fury who had placed bloody handprints all over her door.