Her gaze is back on me, withering and sharp, and I can’t help wondering where my friend went. Tori couldn’t pick out lip gloss without getting my opinion first. At that moment, I realize how much I had enjoyed being in control of our friendship—how gratified it felt knowing my best friend couldn’t win over my boyfriend. And yes, I knew she had wanted him. Like so many other girls, she had stared longingly after him. But winning Zac was something I alone had the power to do. Secretly, that had pleased me. Petty, but there it is. I swallow my suddenly constricted throat, not liking this insight into myself.
“You don’t go to our school anymore.” Tori flips her hair over her shoulder.
“This isn’t school. It’s a party.”
“You’re not one of us anymore.” For a moment, I hear the hurt in her voice. The accusation. As though getting identified as a carrier was somehow a betrayal of her. Like I failed her. I see it in her eyes, too. For a moment they glimmer wetly like she might cry. Then she blinks and the hint of tears vanishes.
Gradually, I become aware of the lack of conversation around us. It’s just the pump of music from the speakers. I glance at the faces of my old friends. There’s no comfort, no reassurance in their eyes. Carlton stares down into his cup as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
Zac looks pissed. He shakes his head at Tori. “I told you not to do this tonight.”
And that’s when I fully understand that they have been together . . . discussing this. Discussing me. At length. Tori knew I would be here tonight. Zac told her he was bringing me and she had objected. My best friend, who couldn’t even bring herself to call me, didn’t want me here. She didn’t want me around at all. And Zac had never mentioned any of this to me. Not even when I asked him about Tori.
“I told you not to bring her,” Tori returns, tapping her head. “Not smart. Try using your brain.” Her gaze scours him and there’s no missing her meaning. She thinks he’s using another part of his anatomy.
A slow hiss escapes me. “How can you treat me like this?”
She crosses her arms. “I’m only glad that we found out. Before you hurt one of us.”
I tremble from the shock of her words. She actually thinks I’m dangerous?
“Leave Zac alone. I know you think you would never harm him, but all carriers think that at first. And then they snap. It’s always family and friends that get hurt. It’s just a matter of time. . . .”
Before you snap. She didn’t finish the sentence, but the words were there as if she had uttered them aloud.
I’m tempted to throw my drink in her face, but instead I tighten my fingers around the cup. That would only prove her point. That I’m some volatile person about to go off the deep end. Instead, I laugh. It’s a brittle sound and Zac looks at me uneasily. “Since when did you become any expert on . . . anything, Tori?”
It’s mean, but I’m feeling mean. And angry.
Her eyes narrow to bright little slits and I start to suspect that she is going to throw her drink on me.
“Come on.” Zac pulls me after him. At first, I think we’re leaving, but he steers us up the stairs, his strides determined, his steps resounding thuds on the limestone.
I glance quickly behind me. Tori’s face is flushed, splotchy like it gets when she works out.
“Where are we going?” I ask when we clear the top.
“Carlton’s room. We can have some privacy there.”
A relieved breath rushes out of me. We can finally talk about everything and figure stuff out. We need to come up with a plan if we’re going to make this work. I catch myself. Something pinches sharply in the center of my chest. I’ve never thought in terms of if before when it came to us.
Obviously, we’ve hit a hurdle. We no longer attend the same school. Our friends aren’t our friends anymore. That will make being together a struggle—but not impossible. Not as long as it’s what we want. And Zac must want us to work out. He’s here. I’m here. We’re together now. He came back after the shock of learning that I’m a carrier.
I step inside Carlton’s room. It’s full of rich browns. A mahogany dresser and bed. A desk with a built-in case behind it that overflows with rugby and diving trophies. On the paneled wall hangs a photograph of our entire senior class at our fall retreat. I’m on Zac’s shoulders, waving for the camera. That day seems very long ago.
I turn around to face him, to explain to him how much it means to me that he’s standing beside me when none of our friends are. But he’s there. In front of me, sliding his cool palms along my cheeks, delving his fingers into my hair, pressing his mouth over mine and drowning out any chance for words.
For now, this is enough.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
* * *
Seventy percent of all violent crimes are committed by offenders known to the victim. This figure jumps dramatically—to 90 percent when the perpetrator is female, with the most common target being significant others and family members. . . .
—Lecture from Dr. Wainwright to the National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime at Quantico