“We aren’t dating,” she protests.
Felix whistles. “A god. A god I tell you, if he can get that girl without having to date her.”
Maya’s pushing through the crowd to Jeff’s side. “Oh, Carly …,” she simpers into the phone, “No, she’s really not that pretty. Honest.”
“Is she looking at the same girl as me?” Felix asks the room.
Eliza snorts. “I bet she sleeps with anyone.”
“Shut the hell up!” I bellow. The group stands with their mouths open, fingers frozen above cell phones. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I never cheated on Carly.”
There are tears in the corners of Brighton’s eyes, but she’s blinking them away. Her voice is soft. “Jonah? I don’t understand.”
“There isn’t sex ed in Cross Pointe? What’s to understand?” Eliza’s scorn makes me want to muzzle her.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Brighton protests.
When the murmurs and doubts continue, her voice goes higher. “The idea is ridiculous. I’ve barely even spoken to him before tonight. I was babysitting his little sister.”
I turn to face her, blocking her view of the crowd and its of her. She looks like a caged animal, her eyes flickering around the room. Her posture screams panic. I keep my voice quiet and try to calm her: “Don’t worry about it. I’ll explain later.”
“No. Why would they even think that? What have you been telling people? Is this why you were so desperate to get me to come to the party?” She pushes past me. “Jonah’s not dating me. Or anyone in Cross Pointe. No one in CPHS even knows who he is.”
24
Brighton
11:11 P.M.
13 HOURS, 49 MINUTES LEFT
Jonah gapes. Someone in the crowd makes a taunting ohhhh sound. And I can’t stand to be in this crush of judgmental strangers for even another second.
“Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me.” I have to ask every person individually before they move aside and let me pass. Someone steps on my bandaged toes, and I mash my hands into fists to keep from crying out.
“Bright. Wait!”
I’m done listening to Jonah. I say, “Excuse me,” to the last girl standing between me and the front door. I know I’m demonstrating just how very “flight” I am, but I also know it’s justified.
Jonah catches up with me about seven steps into the lawn. He puts a hand on my wrist and pulls me to a stop. “Will you just wait five seconds so I can explain?”
My eyes go from his frustrated face to the open front door where a crowd waits for more drama. They’re pushing one another to have front-row viewing and actually manage to knock a kid off the steps and into the bushes.
Jonah turns and yells “Back off!” and flips his middle finger before pulling me a few steps farther across the lawn and out of sight.
He looks at me and sighs. I refuse to let myself feel sympathy. Feel anything but anger.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the breakup?” I demand. “Why exactly did you bring me to this party? To embarrass me?”
“Yeah, because you didn’t embarrass me? Thanks for calling me a loser in front of all of my friends.”
“At least I told the truth! You don’t get to play story time with my reputation.”
“It was a misunderstanding. I’ll explain.”
“Like they’ll listen! They’ve already decided I’m a horrible person! Is everyone in Hamilton so rude? Do they always assume the worst and attack before they know the facts? How can you possibly be friends with people like that?”
“Spoken like a true, judgmental Cross Pointe snob,” he retorts.
I flinch, taking a step backward and holding up a hand so he doesn’t come any closer. “I’m judgmental? They even attacked my name!”
“Um, guys? Sorry to interrupt.”
I hadn’t heard them approaching, but there’s a guy and a girl standing a step behind Jonah. It was the girl who’d spoken, and she doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Hi, I’m Maya. This is Jeff. I need to borrow Jonah for a minute.”
“Take him for as long as you’d like. I’m done with him.”
“Brighton, just—” He holds his hands up in a helpless shrug.
“Go. Your friends want to talk to you—I don’t. I’ll call Amelia for a ride.”
“Bright, please …”
I huff as he gets my name wrong—again.
“Good-bye, Jonah.” I turn my back to him and don’t exhale until their voices are shut behind the slamming of the front door. Then I bend over, hands braced against my knees, and try to breathe. I can’t. I can’t believe. He just—
I won’t let myself cry. He’s not worth crying over. I thought I was making progress. I thought we were almost friends. I thought he was cute.