A chorus of giggles erupts near the bar. A group of girls from Woodley loiter at one end, flirting with the bartender and downing champagne whenever they think no one is watching. Katherine Calder—shit poet, student body president, and reigning gossip queen—notices us, and the whispering starts.
“Let me guess. Those are your friends.” Cruz gives them the once-over. Even in a borrowed Cinderella dress and her sling, she still looks intimidating.
“That would be a no.”
Cruz scrunches up her nose and rubs her forehead. “Remind me why we came to this party again?”
“Facing my demons seemed like a good idea.”
She tips her chin toward the bar. “Then you’re in luck. The demons are coming over here.”
Katherine leads the charge, fluttering her fingertips at me. “Frankie. I can’t believe you’re here. We’ve all been worried about you.” Caroline, Hope, and Avery chatter away next to her, ignoring Cruz, who looks like she wishes she could strangle them.
“It’s sooo good to see you.” Katherine smiles, her professionally whitened teeth blinding me.
The old Frankie would be polite. But she’s long gone. “Wish I could say the same, Katherine.”
Caroline, Hope, and Avery stop talking. Cruz looks at me, and breaks into a slow smile.
Katherine’s cheeks flush and she crosses her arms. “If that’s a joke, it’s not funny.”
I put one hand on my hip and tilt my head. “Then I’m lucky it wasn’t a joke.”
Cruz covers her mouth and laughs.
Katherine presses her lips together in a tight line. “If this is about the poem…” She lowers her voice. “Someone had to step up and pay a tribute to Noah. You obviously weren’t going to do it.”
Cruz gathers up her dress, but I hold up my hand, sending her a silent message: I’ve got this. I take a step closer to Katherine. “Noah couldn’t stand you, Katherine. He was tired of catching you in the locker room hooking up with his teammates.”
Caroline and Hope gasp, and Avery’s eyes widen.
The color drains from Katherine’s face, but I’m not finished. “And if you’re planning to major in creative writing next year, you might want to rethink it. Because your poem sucked.”
“You classless bitch,” she hisses. “I bet you fit right in at Monroe.”
Cruz stops smiling and turns on Katherine. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I—I didn’t mean you…” Katherine stammers.
Caroline, Hope, and Avery back away so fast they almost trip over one another. So much for loyalty.
I shoulder my way in front of Cruz and face Katherine. “If your definition of classy is being an epic bitch and hooking up with random guys in the boys’ locker room, I’ll pass.” Katherine’s chin trembles, and I wave at her. “See you around. It was fun catching up.”
As we walk away, Cruz flashes me a conspiratorial smile. “Careful. If you keep scaring stuck-up rich girls, people will think you’re from the Downs.”
“Would that be so bad?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
My cell vibrates and I slip it out of my clutch. “Sorry. I have to take this.”
It’s 10:21—thirty-nine minutes until my debut as a car thief. The call shows up as an unknown number. Deacon.
“Hello?”
“Are you at the country club?” he asks. The sound of his voice makes my skin crawl.
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you back at eleven. Be ready. This isn’t a practice run.” He hangs up without waiting for a response. He doesn’t need one. We both know he has me backed into a corner.
For now.
“Frankie?”
I turn around slowly, dreading the conversation ahead of me.
Mom looks gorgeous in a black strapless Valentino gown. Her hair is arranged in an artfully messy bun that makes her appear even younger.
“Hi, Mom.”
Cruz inches behind her and mouths the word Mom? She points to the nearest empty table and tiptoes toward it.
“It’s so wonderful to see you, sweetheart.” She takes a slow and careful inventory of my ensemble. The red “mall prom dress,” as she called it the first time she saw it, is an affront to my mother’s impeccable taste and completely inappropriate for the occasion. “You look…” She searches for the right word: tacky, vulgar, unsophisticated, tasteless. Which one will she choose?
Mom traps me in a hug. Not the kind that accompanies her air kisses, but an actual, wrinkle-your-dress hug. “You look beautiful.”
When Mom releases me, I’m speechless. My mother doesn’t offer compliments. She provides constructive criticism. She doesn’t like this dress or the color red. And she doesn’t hug.
“How many glasses of champagne have you had, Mom?”
She fidgets with her diamond necklace. “I suppose I deserved that.”
Who kidnapped my mother?
“No, seriously? How many?”
“One.” She sighs and opens her YSL clutch. “I brought you something. I wanted to give it to you in person.” She hands me a folded sheet of heavy card stock.
I unfold it and immediately recognize the Stanford University seal. I hold the letter out to her without reading it. “I’m not interested.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “Don’t be so quick to judge.”
Okay, I’m curious.
I open it and scan the type. “What is this?” Because it can’t be what it looks like.