“Of course not,” Christy says. She tucks a corkscrew of her blond bob behind her ear, spins the combo on her locker, and pops it open as Rachel sails around the corner. “Wait, what? Who’s not here today?”
I grab my geology book and turn around. “I’m here, I’m here. And, yes, I may have been the slightest bit inebriated Saturday night.”
“Not you.” Christy rolls her eyes. “We all knew you’d be here today. You wouldn’t miss school if the building was on fire.”
“So who were you talking about?” I’m confused. Also, possibly, still a little hungover.
“Stacey,” says Rachel. “No way she’s showing up today.”
“Maybe she’s just running late.” Lindsey slips a sparkly barrette into her straight black hair to hold it out of her face, then checks her lip gloss in her locker mirror. She’s the only varsity defender I know who bothers with lip color or hair accessories.
“‘Running late’?” Christy scoffs. “Did you see that picture? I don’t think she was drunk, I think she was dead.”
At the mention of a picture of Stacey, my eyes go wide. Rachel sees the stricken look on my face and holds up both hands. “I deleted it, I promise. This is a different pic.”
“Wait, there are more?” Christy asks. “I need to see them. Now.”
“Ugh. I don’t.” Lindsey sighs and closes her locker.
Rachel shakes her head. “There was one of Stacey with our precious Kate here. I took it early in the evening. Upstairs. In the kitchen.”
“It has been officially redacted.” I grab my purse and look pointedly at Rachel. “I better not be in any others.”
“I swear. You’re not.”
“Don’t worry.” Christy drapes her arm around my shoulders. “You left before the party got moved to the basement.”
“The basement?”
Rachel turns the phone toward me. “I can’t believe you haven’t seen this yet.”
Greg Watts’s Instagram feed. A shot of Deacon with a girl slung over one of his shoulders. I remember my dad hauling me around like this when I was a kid, playing in the backyard. Oh, look! I found a sack of potatoes. Mmmm! These’ll be good eatin’ . . . I’d giggle and squeal as he tromped around, his arm wrapped firmly behind my knees, the blood rushing to my face.
The girl in this picture is Stacey, and she is clearly not giggling. She’s only wearing a bra and her tiny black skirt, and she doesn’t even look conscious. Her mouth lolls open, eyes closed, arms hang limp. She’s bent at the waist, tossed over Deacon’s shoulder, his chin resting on her butt, his arm clamped across her upper thighs.
Dooney is in the picture, too, squatting down behind Deacon, holding Stacey’s hair out of her face, making a goofy look meant to mimic hers: tongue stuck out, eyes rolled back in his head. And over it all, Deacon’s bright grin, a smile on the verge of a laugh: inviting, warm, funny—just like him, usually—but somehow that smile doesn’t seem to match this picture.
“Where’s her top?” I ask.
“Still in the corner of Dooney’s rec room, I’m guessing,” says Rachel.
“Along with her dignity,” agrees Lindsey.
Rachel grabs my shoulder and turns me to face her. “Speaking of tops, is that new?”
“Oh yeah. It was a birthday present.”
Grandma Clark sent it to me last month along with a card that had a unicorn on it. It’s just a cotton blouse from the Gap—probably the clearance rack at the outlet near her condo. She doesn’t always get it right, but this one fits perfectly, and the deep emerald green brings out the slightest hint of red in my hair.
“You saved it since your birthday?” Lindsey is incredulous. “But it’s so cute.”
“Totally,” agrees Rachel. “Really shows off your rack. But not in a slutty sort of way.”
Dooney and Deacon have their faces buried in separate phones now, thumbs tapping like mad. Above us, Ben catches my eye as he starts down the stairs. He flips his chin up once in my direction and winks. I smile back.
Lindsey catches the whole thing. “Oh, I get it,” she says. “You just needed someone to wear it for.”
Rachel looks over her shoulder and sees Ben at his locker. “Right? Hey, Kate, Ben talking to anybody lately?”
“Stop it, you guys.”
Christy catches on and her eyes narrow. “Heard about your little walk in the park yesterday. Or was it a nap?”
“We are just friends.”
The warning bell rings: two minutes before first period starts. Actually, I should say the “tone sounds.” Over winter break, Principal Hargrove replaced the aging standard metal bells and clappers at Coral Sands High with a new system that plays a bizarre electronic beep to signal the beginning and end of each class period. Rachel says it’s a perfect concert B-flat. She can tune her flute to it at the beginning of band. Regardless, it’s been three months and it still makes me jump every time.
“I will never get used to that,” I groan.
“Me neither,” says Lindsey.