Terror shot through Claire, making her cold to the tips of her fingers. She'd been so careful—what had she forgotten? Amy looked up, an interested expression glowing in her eyes.
"Nope—why?" Claire kept her voice as calm as she could, but there was a tiny tremor in it that she couldn't quite hide. Thoughts whisked through her as quickly as clouds tearing across a stormy sky. How bad was it going to be? Could she fix it? But the one thought that wouldn't go away was the idea— the knowledge—that Emily was standing at the edge of a lifeor-death cliff, and Claire was the one who'd led her there.
The guilt was grinding. Crushing. Claire's lungs burned in her chest.
"Well, this was under your bed." Emily emerged from underneath the bedskirt, a tube of concealer in one hand and a tuft of shadowy-gray wolf hair in the other.
Immediately, Claire remembered the night she'd transformed in her room—backed herself up to the bed, terrified by the boxed-in feeling. She'd probably been shedding like crazy, and though she thought she'd cleaned up any evidence she might have left, she hadn't bothered to vacuum under the bed.
"Oh, yeah. That's from Lisbeth and Mark's dog, probably. Didn't I tell you? They got a chow. They named it Karma, which I think is freaking ridiculous, but he's really cute. She brought him over one day. When mom was out, obviously."
The lies dripped from her lips without any effort—as easily as snow fluttering down from the sky. Of course, the moment the words had left her mouth, she realized the error she'd made. Lisbeth was at the house. If Emily asked about the stupid, non-existent dog that Claire had just created, she'd be in even hotter water than she already was. She held her breath. Prayed that Emily would buy it and then drop it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Amy staring at her. Actually, it was more like Amy was trying to bore holes through Claire's head so that she could see what Claire was hiding inside it. Shit.
Emily dropped the tuft of wolf fur, wrinkling her nose. "Ew. I hate chows. They're so mean!"
Claire searched for a new subject. Fast. Something safe, something nonsuspicious, something like . . .
"So, did you get Randy a boutonniere?" It was lame, but it worked.
"What? No way. That's just for prom." Emily looked scandalized. "You didn't get one for Matthew, did you?" Claire shook her head. "No. I think he got me a corsage, though."
"Of course! He's supposed to. It's, like, an unwritten rule. The guys do corsages for Autumn Ball and prom, but boutonniere's are only for prom." Emily was off and running, filling Claire in on all the crucial-but-totally-not-obvious rules of the dances.
Claire wasn't listening. She didn't care—she was too relieved to care. All that mattered was that Emily had completely forgotten about the "dog" that had been in Claire's room.
Still, the back of Claire's neck was still tingling unpleasantly. What just happened—it had been ugly, but it was a good reminder that she was going to have to be on her toes even more than usual tonight. There could be no mistakes.
Amy was chatting with Emily about the traditional predance restaurants, and she turned to Claire with a conspiratorial smile on her face.
"I'm glad I'm not the only one who doesn't know what I'm doing," she said. "We're both so lucky to have Emily." It was an innocent enough comment. Friendly, even. But it made Claire shiver.
Lisbeth knocked and elbowed her way in through the door, carrying a tray laden with sodas, a bowl of pretzels, and a lone tea mug.
"Fortifications," she announced. She turned to Claire and gave her a devilish little grin as Emily dove for a Diet Coke. "Get your butt in front of that vanity, missy. It's time to do your hair."
Amy stood up. "If you guys don't mind, I'm ready to get dressed. Is there somewhere . . ." Claire could smell the powdery scent of shyness, coming from Amy.
"Sure. Guest room—two doors down on the right," Lisbeth said.
"Thanks." Amy looked relieved and grabbed her dress. "You coming with?" she asked Emily, who was finished with her hair and makeup, too.
Emily looked back and forth between Claire and Amy, hesitating. "Um . . . yeah, I guess." She turned to Claire. "Come down when your hair's done?"
"Yep."
Emily and Amy headed down the hall, and Claire felt her shoulders slump with the sudden lack of tension.
"Is everything going okay?" Lisbeth asked, her voice quiet as a sigh. She began pulling the hot rollers out of Claire's hair and dropping them onto the top of the vanity.
Claire shrugged. "I don't really know." It was true enough. And also vague enough that it might keep Lisbeth from asking any more questions. Claire's palms were starting to sweat from the effort of keeping everyone happily—and safely—ignorant.
Lisbeth put a row of the pins in her mouth and started piling Claire's curls on top of her head. Claire winced as Lisbeth scraped a hairpin against her scalp. "Ow. Do you have to pin those things into my actual skull?"