“I am, and I’m not.”
“The point,” Mi insisted. “You don’t give him the satisfaction. You go with us—Tish is going with Scott, but he’s cool—and you wear something amazing, let Tish do your makeup because she’s got the skills. And you act like: Who, what, him? You know, you’re so over that. You make a statement.”
Simone felt the SBZ pulling her. “I don’t think I can face it. Tish is the actress, not me.”
“You played Rizzo in Grease for the spring musical. Tish was awesome as Sandy, but you were an equally awesome Rizzo.”
“Because I’ve had dance lessons and can sing a little.”
“You sing great—and you did great. Be Rizzo at Allie’s party, you know, all confident and sexy and up yours.”
“I don’t know, Mi.” But she could, sort of, imagine it. And how Trent, seeing her all confident and sexy and up yours, would want her again.
Then Tish rushed in, dropped down, gripped Simone’s hand. “You’re not going to freak.”
“Why would I … Oh no. Please!”
“The slut’s putting on fresh lip gloss, and the creep’s hanging outside the ladies’ like a good dog.”
“Crap.” Mi curled her fingers around Simone’s arm. “Maybe they’re going to one of the other movies.”
“No, they’re coming here, because that’s what my life is.”
Mi tightened her grip. “Don’t even think about leaving. He’d see you and you’d look and feel like a loser. You’re not a loser. This is your dress rehearsal for Allie’s party.”
“She’s going?” Tish’s dimples flashed and flickered. “You talked her into it?”
“We’re working on it. Just sit.” Mi angled herself just enough. “You’re right, they’re coming in. Just stay,” she hissed as Simone’s arm trembled under her hand. “You don’t even notice them. We’re right here.”
“Right here, now and forever,” Tish echoed, giving Simone’s hand a squeeze. “We’re a … a wall of disdain. Got it?”
They walked by, the blonde with the tumble of curls and snugly cropped jeans, and the golden boy—tall, so handsome, quarterback of the championship Wildcats.
Trent gave Simone the slow smile that had once melted her heart, and deliberately ran a hand down Tiffany’s back, letting it slide to her butt and linger there.
Tiffany turned her head as Trent whispered in her ear and looked over her shoulder. Smirked with her perfect, freshly glossed lips.
Brokenhearted, her life a Trent-less void, Simone still had too much of her grandmother in her to take that kind of insult.
She smirked right back and shot up her middle finger.
Mi let out a snorting giggle. “Way to go, Rizzo.”
Though Simone’s broken heart thudded, she made herself watch as Trent and Tiffany sat three rows ahead, and immediately began to make out.
“All men want sex,” Tish said wisely. “I mean, why wouldn’t they? But when that’s all they want, they’re not worth it.”
“We’re better than she is.” Mi passed Tish her Junior Mints and Coke. “Because that’s all she’s got.”
“You’re right.” Maybe her eyes stung a little, but there was a burning in side her heart, and the burn felt like healing. She handed Tish her popcorn. “I’m going to Allie’s party.”
Tish let out a laugh—deliberately mocking and loud. Enough to make Tiffany jerk. Tish shot Simone a grin. “We’ll rule that party.”
Simone clamped her popcorn between her thighs so she could link hands with her friends. “I love you guys.”
By the time the previews ended Simone had stopped watching the silhouettes three rows down. Mostly. She’d expected to brood through the movie—actually planned on it—but found herself caught up. Ewan McGregor was dreamy, and she liked how strong and brave Scarlett Johansson came across.
But fifteen minutes in, she realized she should’ve gone to the bathroom with Tish—though that would’ve been a disaster with lip-gloss Tiffany in there—or she should’ve taken it a lot easier on the Fanta.
Twenty minutes in, she gave up. “I’ve gotta pee,” she whispered.
“Come on!” Mi whispered back.
“I’ll be fast.”
“You want me to go with you?”
She shook her head at Tish, gave her what was left of the popcorn and Fanta to hold.
She shuffled by, strode quickly up the aisle. After making the turn to the right, she hurried to the ladies’, shoved the door open.
Empty, no waiting. Relieved, she grabbed a stall, and contemplated as she emptied her bladder.
She’d handled the situation. Maybe CiCi had been right. Maybe she was close to realizing Trent was an asshole.
But he was so, so cute, and he had that smile, and—
“Doesn’t matter,” she muttered. “Assholes can be cute.”
Still, she thought about it as she washed her hands, as she studied herself in the mirror over the sink.
She didn’t have Tiffany’s long blond curls or bold blue eyes or killer bod. She was, as far as she could tell, just average.
Average brown hair her mother wouldn’t let her have highlighted. Just wait until she hit eighteen and could do whatever she wanted with her own hair. She wished she hadn’t worn it in a ponytail tonight, because it suddenly made her feel juvenile. Maybe she’d cut it. Spike and punk it up. Maybe.
Her mouth was too wide, even if Tish said it was sexy, like Julia Roberts.
Brown eyes, but not deep and dramatic like Mi’s. Just brown, like her stupid hair. Of course Tish, being Tish, said they were amber.
But that was just a fancy word for brown.
That didn’t matter, either. Maybe she was average, but she wasn’t fake. Like Tiffany, whose hair was brown, too, under the bleach.
“I’m not a fake,” she said to the mirror. “And Trent Woolworth’s an asshole. Tiffany Bryce is a slut-bitch. They can both go to hell.”
With a decisive nod, she held her head high and walked out of the bathroom.
She thought the loud pops—firecrackers?—and the screams were from the movie. Cursing herself for stalling and missing an important scene, she quickened her pace.
As she neared the theater door, it burst open. The man, eyes wild, took one stumbling step before he fell forward.
Blood—was that blood? His hands clawed at the green carpet—the carpet where red spread—then stilled.
Flashes, she saw flashes through the door that was wedged open a few inches by the man’s legs. Blasts and blasts, screams. And people, shadows and silhouettes, falling, running, falling.
And the figure, dark in the dark, walking methodically up the rows.
She watched, frozen, as that figure turned and shot a woman in the back who was running.
She couldn’t breathe. If she’d been capable of drawing a breath, it would’ve expelled in a scream.
Part of her brain rejected what she’d seen. It couldn’t be real. It had to be like the movie. Just pretend. But instinct kicked in, had her running back to the bathroom, crouching behind the door.
Her hands didn’t want to work, fumbled on her purse, fumbled on her phone.
Her father had insisted on nine-one-one as her first memory code on the phone.
Her vision wavered, and her breath came now, came in ragged pants.
“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”
“He’s killing them. He’s killing them. Help! My friends. Oh God, oh God. He’s shooting people.”
*
Reed Quartermaine hated working weekends. He wasn’t crazy about working in the mall, either, but he wanted to go back to college in the fall. And college included this little detail they called tuition. Add in books, housing, food, and you had to work weekends at the mall.
His parents covered most of the freight, but they couldn’t manage it all. Not with his sister heading off in another year, and his brother already three years in at American University in D.C.