“He’s kidding.” Brighton’s fake laugh is far from believable. She looks at me pleadingly.
I hold her gaze for a long moment before turning to Evy. “Hello, have you met your sister? I’m kidding.” I can afford to be generous now that I’ve gotten my way.
Evy looks disappointed, but only for a moment. “This is perfect! You need to get out of the house and get rumpled a bit. Live a little, baby sis.” She flounces over to me. “And, you? You would be an excellent person to rumple her.”
“Evy, enough!” There’s zero authority in her voice, more plea than order. She looks like she might curl into her embarrassment and disappear.
And Evy doesn’t even pause. “Is that blood on your pants? Ew. Well, you’d need to change anyway. I wonder if there’s anything in your closet that’s even a little sexy—you should probably just borrow something from me.”
I allow myself to imagine that for a minute: Bright in short black shorts and a red top that shows off her chest. Or maybe something low cut. Her legs in heels …
Except. Her foot. The one that caused the blood spatter on her pants. No heels tonight. And the way Evy’s dragging her up those stone steps has to hurt. Does she not notice her sister’s limping?
“Evy. Evy. Evy!” Brighton’s repeating it with each painful footstep, but her sister’s too busy blathering.
“Stop!” I call.
What am I going to do with her at the party? After the three seconds where I get nailed-that credit, what am I going to do when she opens her mouth? Or when they open theirs? Brighton shouldn’t go near a Hamilton party, where they’d gladly devour a Cross Pointer—especially a girl they think has shamed one of their own. No, this idea is stupid. I can’t do that to her.
“I changed my mind.”
“What?” Evy and Brighton’s voices blend into a chorus of confusion and indignation.
“Forget the party. You don’t want to go.”
“Didn’t I just say I would?’ She honestly sounds confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I scramble for an angle, a way to convince her it’s a bad idea. “It’s in Hamilton—you don’t want to go there.”
She’s standing halfway up the walk, one arm tight in Evy’s grasp, the other hugging her torso. Her bandaged, bare foot is picked up and resting against her other calf. It’s a pose that makes her look vulnerable and graceful, but her voice is anger and iron: “I already told you, I’m not a snob, so stop treating me like one. Who cares if it’s in Hamilton?”
“What if we go to …” even as I try to remember his name, I can’t believe I’m saying this, “that other guy’s party? The one that’s here.”
“No. We see those people every day—you don’t even like them.” She pauses to flash me an amused smile. “Besides, I want to meet Carly.”
She’s walking up the path, going through the front door, and I’m still standing there wondering how I let this get so out of control. How my screw you to Cross Pointe, Hamilton, and Carly has turned into a giant I’m screwed.
20
Brighton
9:54 P.M.
15 HOURS, 6 MINUTES LEFT
My foot hurts and I’m tired. I glare at the cute shoes lining the bottom of my closet; there’s no way I’ll be able to wear anything but flip-flops. I direct the same frown at my bed—like my comforter and pillow are somehow betraying me by being simultaneously inviting and not an option.
Maybe this is a good thing, Jonah did invite me after all—even if he tried to weasel out of it immediately after. He even agreed to come to the library on Sunday. If he meant it, if he shows—then I’ve done it. A 100 percent.
Somehow securing the plaque is no longer enough; I need him to like me too. Or, at least, not hate me.
Evy shows up in my bedroom as I’m yanking my shirt over my head.
“What are you doing?” I squeak and cross my arms over my bra. “Ever hear of knocking?”
“I’m helping you. Don’t you dare put on something like Gramma Anna would wear.”
I grab a sweatshirt and zip it up over my bare stomach. “I don’t need help getting dressed.” I’m curious what she’d choose—curious but also terrified. I’d probably end up looking ridiculous in an outfit that’s fabulous on her but I can’t pull off at all.
“Yeah, well, I also want some details. His bedroom? And don’t tell me he was kidding. You know you can’t lie to me.”
“It’s not what you think. It wasn’t anything romantic.” Evy’s eyebrows shoot up and I hurry to recover. “Not that it was unromantic, it just wasn’t, you know … It was nothing bedroom related.”
“Fine,” Evy huffs. “Don’t tell me. But I knew the second you walked in the door something was up and I knew the second he walked in our door what it was. I don’t get what the problem is. Is he not preppy-boy-boring enough for you?”