“That’s okay, Gabs,” Skylar said, tapping the desk next to her, indicating that Gabby should sit down. “We just started.”
“Skylar was just telling us about her awesome idea,” Tim said. “This year’s Spring Fling—Smoke and Mirrors.” He shook his head. “It’ll be great for visuals,” he added as an aside to Skylar.
“Wait, what?” Gabby’s eyebrows shot up. “Smoke and Mirrors was my idea.” She turned to Skylar, confused. “Why didn’t you guys . . . ?” She trailed off, rubbing her temple with one hand. She looked to Skylar, still holding the shirt she’d retrieved from her gym locker. “I thought . . .”
The others were talking over her now, and although Skylar felt a little guilty, she tried to bury the emotion. This little lie wouldn’t hurt Gabby that much, but it would help Skylar get the kind of attention and respect she needed to make people forget about the party, and to win over Pierce. Really, what was the harm?
Gabby barreled over to Skylar. “Smoke and Mirrors was my idea,” Gabby said quietly, trying to be subtle while the rest of the group was debating how to get fog machines.
Skylar spoke calmly. “The whole point was that we both blurted it out at the same time—don’t you remember?” She smiled at Gabby like she was a child. Like Lucy used to smile at her.
“But I thought of it,” Gabby said, insistent, louder now. The others fell silent, listening. It was rare for Gabby to lose her cool.
Skylar kept the same condescending smile on her face. “Oh god, Gabs. I didn’t realize you were that drunk,” she said with a laugh. “Don’t you remember? How we were waiting for the bathroom to steam up for our nature facials and we both said ‘Smoke and Mirrors’ at the exact same time? It was a total great-minds-think-alike moment!”
Her voice stayed level as she spoke, lending the lie—she hoped—credibility. She knew how this stuff worked. Gabby would only embarrass herself if she continued to claim it was her own idea.
Gabby must have realized the same thing. She stared at Skylar for one more second. “Totally,” she said haltingly, mechanically. “I remember now. I love the idea. I can’t wait to start planning.”
People started buzzing again.
Mara asked, “So, Skylar, do you think I should go to the Party Shop and see if I can get a fog machine?” Skylar could feel Gabby actually flinch next to her.
“Sure,” Skylar said with a toothy smile. “And I was thinking, for tickets? Why don’t we sell these ‘invisible tattoos’—I saw them at Spencer Gifts at the mall. You put yours on your hand on the night of the dance, and then whoever’s at the door flashes a black light on your hand, and the fake tattoo becomes visible, and that’s your ticket in!”
“Whoa, that would be so cool,” Tim said. The other girls squealed their approval as well. “Why don’t you be in charge of ticket sales, Sky?”
Another girl, this one wearing her hair in low pigtails, jumped in. “I’ll help, Skylar. Just tell me what to do. People are going to be so excited about this.”
As the meeting continued everyone directed their questions about decor and details to both Gabby and Skylar. Hey, she was the new cochair, right? Plus, she reasoned, the tattoo idea legitimately was hers. And this turn of events might be exactly the teeny little advantage she needed—and really, she was barely evening out the playing field, as Meg had put it.
Despite her bewilderment, Gabby was still as adorable and perfect as ever, fielding questions and delegating tasks.
No. Looking at Gabby, Skylar definitely didn’t feel that bad.
? ? ?
At home that evening, perched in front of her mirror, trying to squeeze a tiny zit on her forehead before it grew into a monster, Skylar finally got a text from Meg. Sorry was out of touch. Family stuff. Let’s catch up tomorrow. xo.
She wondered what kind of family stuff had kept Meg out of touch for days. She pictured Meg’s birdlike features, Ty’s expressive eyes and mouth, and Ali’s 1950s pinup body. They must have, like, perfect genes or something.
As she leaned in closer, trying to catch a glimpse of even one stray hair below her eyebrows, she knocked her eyeshadow onto the tile floor. It landed with a clatter, breaking the fine cake of powder into a silvery dust. Skylar sighed. What a waste.
Grabbing a tissue, she bent down, scooped it up, and threw it away. There was nothing in her little trash can but a leftover glob of the oatmeal–olive oil scrub.
Weird . . . Ty had dyed her hair in here just the other day when she and Meg and Ali were getting ready for the party. Skylar hadn’t taken out the trash, not during her weekend of immobile moping. But there was no evidence of Ty’s transformation . . . no used hair dye, no applicators. No wet towels, no errant dye stains on the sink or tub. She’d certainly never dyed her own hair so . . . neatly.