“Hi,” I said, plastering on a smile. “How’s it going?”
Paisley and I had different philosophies on Hollow Pines’s lower social caste. She preferred the “let them eat cake” approach and hardly deigned to talk to the girls that tended to try to get our attention in hopes of scoring a spot on the Oilerettes—or at least at our lunch table—while I leaned toward a gentler touch. After all, wasn’t I living proof that any of these girls could be a shopping spree and a Weight Watchers membership away from the ladder’s top rung?
I studied her for a moment. Dark clothes. Dark hair. Thin. Skin that had clearly never been touched by the sun—less Gwyneth Paltrow, more Walking Dead. I pegged her either for drama or band, with an outside shot of a glee club member. Either way, she wasn’t exactly going to be up for any class superlatives.
The girl’s bangs fell over her eyes and stuck to her lashes. “I … was hoping I could find you here. Sorry. I just wanted to thank you—”
My forehead wrinkled, not following. “Thank me for what?” Had I donated to her bake sale or charity drive in the last few weeks without remembering? It was possible.
“The other night.” She twisted a silver ring on her middle finger. “I know you … didn’t exactly catch me at my finest and, um, I’m sorry for that. It’s embarrassing. But I wanted you to know that I’m grateful.”
I looked around to see if there was anyone else to whom she could possibly be talking. “I think you must be confusing me with someone else,” I said, when I was clearly the only person within earshot.
She hesitated. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Is it, like, weird that I’m here or something?” For a girl I didn’t even know, she sure did apologize a lot. Then, she clapped her hand to her forehead. “Stupid me. Marcy. You like being called Marcy now, I guess, right? It was late. I wasn’t sure if that was a joke … or something.”
“Marcy?” So this wasn’t the typical Oilerette cling-on. This girl was straight-up delusional. “Look, you’ve got the wrong girl. I don’t know a Marcy. My name’s Cassidy.” I held out my hand, if only because my Southern manners were so deeply ingrained that I couldn’t help myself. “Cassidy Hyde.”
The girl unlaced her fingers and hesitantly took my hand. Her skin was ice-cold. “I know,” she said, looking between my eyes and our palms pressed together. “I’m Lena … we met two nights ago … I—I know you remember.”
Without meaning to, I snatched my hand away. She startled as if I’d burned her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said more abruptly now.
“Is it because I’m a sophomore here?” she asked, beginning to take a step forward. She froze when she noticed me tense. “Because it’s not like I’m wanting to sit at your lunch table or anything. I’m not trying to embarrass you. I just wanted to thank you. Properly. Sometimes I think I make people uncomfortable and—”
“Look,” I said, moving my gym bag to the other shoulder. The parking lot was emptying out now. Exhausted, all the other Oilerettes had made it into their cars without the usual gossip and joking around. My own stomach rumbled, reminding me it was dinnertime. “I don’t know you and, trust me, that has nothing to do with your age. It was nice meeting you, Lena, but I—I need to go.”
“Wait.” Her dark eyes held me in place. “Please, take my number.” Before I could stop her she took a notebook from her bag, tore a corner off the top, and was scribbling on it. She shoved it in my hand. I pursed my lips and tried to decide what to do with it. The sound I made was noncommittal. A brush-off.
I backpedaled and then with a final glance at the girl with the dark bangs, deep-set eyes, and too much jewelry, I turned and headed for my car. I was several paces away and had just clicked the button on my keys so that the headlights flickered twice, when Lena called from behind me, “I think we should both stay away from Dearborn.” Icy tendrils branched from my ankles up through my spine at the mention of Dearborn. “Be safe, Marcy.”
Blood thudded against my ears. I didn’t acknowledge her, didn’t stop. I quickened my steps the rest of the gray distance between me and my car and, once inside, ripped the scrap of paper in two and let its remains flutter into my cup holder. And then I fled. Without looking back.
EIGHT
Marcy
The sound of a thudding bass floated down the street and shook the windows of the Beta Psi house. Construction paper blacked out the windows, but the painted white sheet still draped from the second story, announcing tonight’s throwback rave.
A lucky break.