She was less excited about coming face-to-face with Claire.
Mac hadn’t seen Claire all week. She’d been avoiding her at school, going down different hallways if she knew their paths would cross, opting for the library during lunch. She’d even considered ditching orchestra, but strangely, Claire hadn’t been there at all. Normally it would have been a big deal, but practice was optional this week, since the orchestra was just learning a series of new pieces and not really rehearsing for anything in particular. Mac wondered if Claire was avoiding her, too.
And she’d been avoiding Blake, as well—every time she saw him in the halls, she ducked into a classroom so they wouldn’t have to see each other. As for that gummy-worm cupcake, she’d let Sierra eat it, never telling her where it had come from. She’d watched numbly as Sierra licked the icing off her finger, declining even the tiniest bite. And that card Blake had given her? Mac had thrown it in the glove compartment of her car, along with expired insurance cards and a bunch of outdated road maps. She hoped she’d come upon it years later when she was cool and successful and Blake really, really didn’t matter.
She dropped the dress back to the bed, rolling her eyes. It probably didn’t even fit. Maybe she should just stay home—she really wasn’t up for this. But then she remembered the talk she and the other girls had had at Ava’s yesterday. They were off the hook for Granger’s murder. It looked like they weren’t suspects in Nolan’s case anymore, either. It was like she’d been given a whole new life, right? She might as well make the most of it.
And as for that talk about the list, the idea that someone else had overheard who they’d wanted dead and was acting on it? Well, that was crazy.
Okay, she decided—she was going. But she definitely wasn’t wearing that peony dress. She walked over to the closet, pushed aside some hangers, and selected a dark teal bouclé-knit shift dress she’d bought in New York when they’d toured Juilliard last year. Her mother had objected—it was kind of short—but maybe that was a good thing. She picked out a pair of boots and a lot of beaded necklaces. Much better.
A few minutes later, she dabbed her lips with a bit of gloss, popped an orange Tic Tac in her mouth, and headed for the door. “Bye!” she called over her shoulder to her parents, who were sitting in the study, listening to a Wagner opera with their eyes closed.
Thirty minutes later, Mac handed her keys over to the valet outside a tiny Brazilian restaurant called Michaela in downtown Seattle. She took a deep breath and stepped inside. A bossa nova remix thumped through the speakers, and Edison bulbs in metal cages hung everywhere, shedding a flattering amber light on the scene. Bartenders were mixing up virgin mojitos behind the bar, and platters full of fried plantains and chicken-cheese coxinha were making the rounds. A long table outside the space held name stickers for all of the attendees. There, folded in half, was Mac’s name. A thrill went through her as she picked it up. She’d done it—she was going to Juilliard. Her skin tingled with excitement and pride.
“Well, well, well. You came after all.”
Mac blinked in the dim light and saw Claire’s sneering, pixie-like face looming just inches away. She’d already pasted her sticker on her left boob: Hello, My Name Is Claire Coldwell.
Mac swallowed hard, shoving her glasses up her nose. “Uh, I have to . . .” she fumbled, just wanting to get away.
Claire stood in the arch, not letting her pass. She was six inches shorter than Mac, her teeny body always something Mac envied, but she suddenly seemed taller. “Blake dumped me, you know,” she hissed. “All because of you.”
Mac stared at her chunky heels, thinking about what Blake had told her the other day. So it was true. Whatever. Blake breaking up with Claire meant nothing.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mac said. And then: “Excuse me.” Because, really, what else did she have to say? They weren’t friends anymore. They weren’t anything.
She elbowed past her ex-friend and stepped up to a group of kids—any kids—just for something to do. They were several nervous, twitchy boys in jackets and ties, and one girl in stiletto ankle booties and a black lace dress that Mac instantly adored.
“Hi, I’m Mackenzie.” She held out her hand to a skinny, effeminate boy with delicate-looking hands and long eyelashes.
The boy gestured to his name badge. “Hello, my name is Lucien,” he said ironically. “I play the flute.”
“Great to meet you!” Mac smiled.
The others went around the circle saying their names and instruments. Then they started talking about New York City. “Has anyone ever been there?” a girl named Rhiannon asked with wonder in her voice.