“Shut the front door—what? Libby, are you serious? I was only joking! How have you never kissed a boy?”
“Greene House . . . the opportunity never presented itself,” she says, mumbling.
“Well, we’re going to have to rectify that immediately. I’ll organize a game of Truth or Dare this weekend. You can practice on . . . damn. None of our guy friends are that appealing. I mean, Oliver’s super cute, but I think he and Georgie are hooking up now. So that just leaves David and Tarquin.”
She starts laughing. “Pass. But thanks, Lotte. It’ll happen someday. Just waiting for the right guy, I guess.”
“Prince Charming is around the corner. I know it.” I look at her sidelong. “You look really nice today.” She’s wearing a pair of fitted jeans, a soft cream-colored jumper, and buttery black flats. It’s a much more low-key outfit than I’d wear, but it looks both comfortable and stylish. Thank God for weekends, when we don’t have to wear the uniform.
“Thank you. I’ve been working my way through back issues of Elle and saw a similar outfit. I spent twenty minutes trying to mimic it.”
This practically breaks my heart. I change the subject.
“So, my birthday’s in a fortnight,” I say. “On a Saturday this time—finally.”
“Come on, who are you talking to?” she says, poking me with her elbow. “Like I’d forget your birthday! Should I make plans for everybody? A Justin Bieber theme?” she teases, humming “Baby.”
I shoot her a look. “That song was like a billion years ago.”
She laughs. “I’m just messing with you. We all know your musical taste is way better than mine. Even if you secretly still like Justin Bieber.”
“Ignoring you now. I can’t remember the last time we spent my birthday together.” Libby’s birthday is in the spring, which means sometimes it falls over break. Last year, we both went back to Wisteria to celebrate with our family, and Libby brought a few friends home from Greene House with her. Since my birthday is in November, however, I’ve been stuck the last three years celebrating it at school. For my sixteenth birthday, I got a cupcake and candle from my lacrosse teammates in the dining hall. Lame.
“Flossie’s offered to throw me something. It’s going to be epic.” Her parents have a country home near campus: a two-story farmhouse with huge polo fields that are perfect for an outdoor party.
“That should be fun!”
“I’m beyond excited.” We enter the dining hall. It’s early in the lunch hour so it hasn’t started to fill up yet. “India says she goes all out for parties. Plus, it makes me feel like I’m finally a part of the group.”
“Part of the group? Why wouldn’t you be? You’re besties with India. You’re dating Edward. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
I snort. “Not with this crowd.”
Libby looks apprehensive.
“I’m not taking anything for granted—but I think Flossie throwing me a party is kind of a big deal. It’s like she accepts me for real.”
“Friend politics are so weird,” says Libby, nodding. I think back to my mother’s comment about how things have always been harder for Libby socially. I didn’t realize she was missing her friends from Greene House so much. Poor Libby. She’s trying so hard.
“Tell me about it,” I say.
We sit down at the table and say our hellos.
“Is that a new jumper?” Flossie asks Libby. “It looks gorge on you.”
Libby looks pleased. “It is! Thank you!”
“Although you always look amazing in the uniform, too.”
She flushes. “That’s so kind. Thank you, Flossie. I like your hair like that.” Flossie has arranged her long brown hair into braids and wrapped it around the crown of her head.
“Thanks.”
“Should we leave you two alone?” Tarquin says. Flossie shoots him a dirty look.
“You do look very nice, Libby,” says India. “Speaking of clothes, have you all decided what you’re wearing to Charlotte’s party in a couple weeks?”
“It’s a fancy-dress party,” I say, turning back toward Libby. “I think I forgot to mention that.”
“That’s a great idea!” Libby says, nodding. “My friend Savannah loved throwing those. I have the perfect costume at home—I’ll call Mum and ask her to send it.”
“What’s your costume?” Alice asks.
“Ginger Spice,” Libby says, grinning. “From the Spice Girls.”
“What? I can’t picture that at all,” says Flossie.
“That’s why it’s fun!” I say. Although, in truth, I can’t picture it, either.
“It’s a throwback,” says India, nodding. “I like it.”
“What are you all going to wear?” Libby asks.
“I plan on going as a moon goddess,” says India, as if that explains everything.
“I’m going as a clown,” Tarquin says as he sits down.
Libby and I both look up in alarm. “No!” we say in unison.
“Jesus,” says Flossie. “What’s that all about?”
“We hate clowns,” I say.
“Ever since that awful movie It,” says Libby.
“Our babysitter let us watch it once when we were little and . . .” I shudder at the memory. “You can’t go as a clown.”
“Please,” says Libby, looking at him.
“Okay, okay, jeez. No clowns,” says Tarquin, rolling his eyes. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
Libby and I exchange relieved looks.
“Oh, by the way, David,” Libby says. “It took some time, but I found that article on the history of Robben Island I was talking about. I thought it might help with your history paper. If you still want it, I can email it to you later tonight.”
“You’re the best!”
At the other end of the table, Georgie and Oliver are murmuring to each other and laughing softly, clearly in their own little world.
“What are you wearing, Oliver?” I ask. He looks at me, startled. I notice that he seems to be growing his hair out—it must be Georgie’s influence.
“Sorry to distract you away from the missus,” I say.
Georgie giggles as Oliver smiles.
Finally, Edward shows up. His hair is wet and his fair cheeks are flushed red. “Hey, everybody. Rugby practice went long.” He and David slap high fives. “Hiya,” he says, planting a quick kiss on my lips. He smells like soap.
We haven’t seen each other in four days—not since Libby and Edward had dinner together. I’ve been so irritated at Libby that I’ve barely thought about Edward—and she’s right. He’s the one I should be frustrated with.
“Hi, stranger. How was it?” I ask.
“It was fine.” He pops a bit of bread roll in his mouth, holding up a taped finger and making an exaggerated frowny face. “Digby went hard on me again. He couldn’t care less about the ball. He prefers trying to tackle me.”
“Oh my God, that looks bad,” Libby says. “Have you gone to the infirmary?”
“Nah. Nothing a little spit won’t fix.”
“It could be broken. You should probably go so they can at least look at it. They may need to set it.”
“He said he’s fine, Libs,” I say.