“Pardon?” I ask.
“You like Daphne. I can tell from the way you look at her.”
“I do not.”
“You do. I heard the way you two talked the other night. It’s obvious you’re jonesing for her.”
“I am not,” I say, not even sure what she means.
“You are. Heaven only knows why. But I’m feeling generous, so I’m going to offer you a little advice.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Listen, I don’t know what exactly happened Friday night, and I am not too keen on trying to remember, but I’m pretty sure I owe you for helping me home, and I don’t like being in anyone’s debt. So I am going to do you a little favor by offering a little womanly advice. You want Daphne to like you, yes?”
I clear my throat. “Perhaps.”
“Then ask her to help you with your performance for the Light-up Olympus Festival. Maybe suggest a duet? All that one-on-one time, working together—it’ll work like a charm.”
I consider her idea for a moment. It sounds exactly like something Dax would suggest.
“What if she doesn’t say yes?”
“She will,” Lexie says. “Trust me. I’ve seen the way she looks back at you.”
I’m not so sure about this assertion of hers but I nod and thank her for her advice. “One more thing,” I say as she and her lackeys start to head to their desks. “If you really want to be square with me, then you need to do me one more favor.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “What’s that?”
“Stop shunning Daphne.”
“That’s a big request. I’m not sure you have the bargaining power for it.”
“Suit yourself,” I say. “But you should see it more as me doing you another favor. If Daphne’s dad is in charge of writing the play and there are still several parts to be doled out, don’t you think you should be a little nicer to the one student who might be able to pull some influence on your behalf? I think you’d make an excellent queen of the underworld, don’t you?”
Her nostrils flare almost imperceptibly, and I know she sees my point, whether she wants to or not.
“Besides, if you owe anyone anything after Friday night, it’s her.”
Lexie uncrosses her arms. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
chapter thirty-four
DAPHNE
I can’t find Tobin in the cafeteria, so I carry my lunch tray out to the courtyard. I sit under a statue of some Greek poet or whatever. I pull out the stack of homework I’m supposed to finish in order to catch up on the three weeks of classes I missed at the beginning of the year. Between that, rehearsing for the play, my current course load, and now Tobin’s “investigation,” I am starting to feel a bit underwater.
I try a couple of math problems and then give up. Instead, I pull out a notebook, and decide to make my own dossier of things I know about Haden Lord.
Name: Haden Lord.
Age: 16? 17?
Hair: Dark brown, almost black
Eyes: Jade green (but sometimes look like they have bright amber rings around the pupils?)
Occupation: Part-time pirate
I tap my pen on the paper, realizing what I know about Haden isn’t very much at all. I take a bite of my chicken salad sandwich, trying to think of something else to add to my list.
“Hello, Daphne,” Lexie says as she sits down right in front of me.
“Um, hi,” I say. I look around, trying to figure out what she’s up to. None of her Sopranos is around, so I’m not sure if this is an ambush waiting to happen.
Lexie tucks her legs under her and opens a prepacked salad, like she’s planning on staying for a while. She stabs a cucumber with a plastic fork. Eats it. And then looks at me. “Do you want to know why I hate you?” she asks.
I almost choke on a bite of chicken.
“Not particularly,” I say when I’ve recovered. “But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”
Lexie shakes a little tub of dressing, opens it, and dips the tips of her fork tines into the dressing before taking a bite of salad. She chews it neatly and then repeats the tiny bit o’ dressing, lot o’ bit of lettuce process before she decides to enlighten me.
“I hate you because you’re a natural,” she says.
“A natural what?”
I expect the next words that come out of her mouth to be something like a natural-born loser but instead she eats another cucumber and says, “A natural at everything I want to be.” She scoots an olive off her salad with her fork. “You’re a natural blond, naturally fit—hello, all the mayonnaise on that sandwich—and most of all, you’re a natural singer. I, on the other hand, have to go to a stylist every six weeks to keep my hair color fabulous, do an hour of Pilates every morning to look this rocking, and I’ve had six different vocal coaches since I was five years old. Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m talented, but I’ve had to work to get this voice. You just have it.”