Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(85)
“Sorry,” I say.
“I get it,” she says, rolling on her side, turning to prop her head on her elbow. “My parents are divorced, too. I have to take turns picking sides. Or at least…I used to. I quit caring about offending one of them, and honestly, now that I don’t make it a big deal, they don’t seem to use me as a weapon against one another.”
I nod in agreement, but stand quickly from the bed, moving to my closet, changing the subject. Divorce doesn’t seem to be a topic being discussed by my parents, and I don’t want to draw comparisons with Willow. I’d give anything for my mom to tell me she’s talking to a lawyer.
“So, how formal is this thing?” I ask, flipping through the things in my closet. I don’t have a lot of in-between clothing. Dances at Bryce were always extremely formal.
“Just wear leggings and a cute sweater or a dress or something like that. It’s cold as hell outside, and it’s going to snow all night,” she says, moving next to me and flipping through a few things on hangers. She pulls out a long gray sweater and tosses it on my bed. “That works. Wear your Uggs, and I’ll help you put your hair up. You’ll be cute.”
I sigh heavily as I sit down next to the sweater, pulling it onto my lap. “You know, I’m totally okay not going,” I say, but Willow cuts me off.
“Stop it. Jess doesn’t really dance a lot, and I like going. You’re coming to dance with Elise and me. It’ll be fun,” she says, tossing my boots from the box on my closet floor.
“Fine,” I huff, but I smile when she turns, softening my tone. I’m actually happy she wants me there. I just wish Owen was up for coming, too. He hasn’t been himself lately…or maybe he has. Maybe that’s what has me feeling this way; I’m worried that the Owen I had was brief, and he’s gone back to dark.
I decide to wear my outfit to school for the day, opting to ride with Willow instead of driving myself. I question that decision every time she slides the wheels several inches into the intersection with each stop. We don’t have early-morning practices any longer now that the football season is coming to an end. Our state competition is next weekend, so we spend every band class practicing the music, no longer worrying about marching and formations. Thank God, because it’s so cold outside. I don’t march, and only end up standing on the sidelines watching my breath create fog circles in front of me.
Willow helps me twist and pin my hair up over my head before the end of class, and I manage not to ruin it during my independent study. I let my hands play a few classical pieces today. I wanted to see how it felt.
It felt…like nothing. But it didn’t hurt, either. It didn’t make me angry. And it didn’t make me think of my dad. But then I let myself play my music, and I feel that all over my body.
That’s the difference.
With five minutes left before class ending, I do something that I’ve never done before—I excuse myself to the bathroom, to touch up makeup, to make sure I look good. I want Owen to notice me.
This is apparently where Kiera and her friends go during second period. The smell of stale smoke is in the air, and I know they flushed something the second they heard me walk in. The scent is sweet, yet pungent—probably marijuana. I smile at Kiera, acknowledging that she and I share something in common. I guess we’re acquaintances in some sick, twisted way. She smiles back, but never talks to me directly.
She’s sitting on the edge of one of the sinks, her legs propped up on the next one over. There’s a run in her black tights, and she’s dabbing nail polish on the end, trying to stop it from growing.
I’m even more awkward touching up makeup in front of her, and her friends. I can feel them watching me even though they’re pretending I’m invisible. It’s like being in a room with ghosts.
“You going to the dance?” one of her friends asks her.
“Fuck no! Sasha’s having a party; I’ll be there,” she says, her eyes flitting to my reflection in the mirror quickly before moving back to the run on her leg. I watch as her friend moves closer to her and whispers something in her ear, something that leaves them both laughing and covering their mouths.
Her friend comes toward me after a few minutes, and I work to pack up my things calmly, pretending I’ve finished whatever I was doing. I’m mentally forcing myself to slow down, not to look nervous. The girl smiles at me in the mirror—then pulls her purse straps from her shoulder, dropping her heavy bag on the edge of the sink. She pulls out a bottle of pills and pours two small white ones in her hand, reaching her other hand down to cup water from the sink and swallowing the water and pills down quickly.
She leaves her gaze on me, her smile never changing, never growing or shrinking. It’s just there—like a dare. Her eyes are just the same—taunting, bait. She’s waiting for me to flinch, to be offended or question what she’s doing. But I don’t. A lot of the girls at Bryce did drugs in the bathroom, usually expensive designer ones. What she’s just done isn’t shocking to me. What’s making me uncomfortable is the amount of lips in this room that have kissed my boyfriend.
I smile back at her reflection, amused internally over how hard she’s working to intimidate me, her gaze staying on me, her brow lowering. I pull my things together slowly, and then I take the extra step of pulling a towel from the holder and wiping the few drops I’ve left behind on the sink. Nobody breathes a word when I leave. But the second the door closes, the room behind me erupts with laughter.