Undead Girl Gang(54)
I pull my phone back out, closing out all my tabs to save on battery life and also to look busy.
“I just wanted to say hi,” she says. She rocks back and forth, her ankles slightly bowed.
“Oh. Hi?”
A new text from Xander pops up on my screen, and I forget about Aniyah altogether.
XANDER: Real-people friends? Is that a thing?
ME: It’s the step between acquaintances and besties. Obviously.
XANDER: You know, I think we already had a word for that. It’s FRIENDS.
ME: Anyone can be “friends.” Real-people friends are people you can cry in front of or call in the middle of the night.
XANDER: Gotcha. Real-people friends. I look forward to your middle-of-the-night calls.
Oh, fuck. Is this flirting? Am I swooning?
“So, you and Xander Greenway, huh?” Aniyah’s voice cuts through my private moment of textual flirting. Blood rushes to my cheeks, even though she’s the one who should be embarrassed for being such an unabashed snoop.
I flip my phone upside down so that she can’t continue her spying.
“I’m not going to answer any questions about my personal life for the Fairmont . . .” I empty every drawer in my brain, but the information just isn’t there. “What’s your ‘newspaper’ called?”
I struggle to make air quotes. I don’t want to drop my phone.
She frowns so hard that her glasses slip down her nose. “It’s the Fairmont Informant.”
“That is the worst name I’ve ever heard. Why didn’t they call it the Fairmont Snitch or the Fairmont Narc? It’s like they want people to avoid you.”
“People don’t avoid me because of the name of the newspaper,” she says, folding her arms over her chest and narrowing her eyes at me. “I’m fat and black in the middle of the whitest place on earth. And what makes you think that I even want people to talk to me?”
It’s kind of cool to talk to someone who gets how absolutely tragically white this town is. And someone else who self-identifies as fat who isn’t using fat as code for ugly or ew-I-ate-a-big-meal. Even Riley has only ever called me curvy, no matter how many times I correct her. But I have spells and texting to get back to, so I turn on some of the scary that everyone’s always talking about.
“You are nonstop interviewing people,” I say, keeping my voice and my face expressionless. “You pry into conversations, take notes on gossip you hear in bathrooms, and then you print it, praying that this will be the story that people actually read even though no one ever does.”
“Yeah,” she says slowly. “I don’t write the newspaper for anyone in Cross Creek. There are hella journalism scholarships that no one wants because journalism is a dying industry, and they are going to be my way out of this town. Any other questions?”
“Why did you want to say hi to me? Are you writing an article about people hanging out with people above their social class?”
“No. I saw you and Xander out at the farmers’ market yesterday—”
“Aw, and you didn’t get a chance to say hi? Sorry we missed you. ’Kay, thanks, bye.”
Her nostrils flare as she takes a steadying breath. She adjusts her glasses and tips her chin up regally.
“Look, you’ve lived in Cross Creek for only a couple of years. You moved here in middle school?” She doesn’t wait for me to agree with her. She pushes ahead, waving her hands like the flow of conversation is motion-activated. “I know you were friends with Riley, and I’m really sorry that she killed herself—”
I get to my feet, sticking my phone safely in my pocket as I start to walk away from her. “Nope. We’re done here.”
“Mila, please!” Her fingers scramble for a hold on the sleeve of my coat, but it slides out of her grasp. “The Greenways are weird, okay? They always have been. Like, I don’t think there is such a thing as a normal mortician. You’re lucky that Riley’s gone so that you don’t have to get in any deeper with them—”
I don’t know where the rage comes from, but I swing out without thinking about it. My forearm is braced against Aniyah’s collarbone, pinning her to the wall of the cafeteria. Her eyes bug at me, surprised but not scared. Which sucks. I’ve never pinned anyone to a wall before. It should elicit a bigger response.
“Aniyah,” I breathe. “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. You have no reason to believe me when I threaten you, so I’m gonna need you to listen to me very, very closely. I am a fucking witch, and if I hear you talking shit about my dead best friend or her family again, I will curse you into the ground.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, that’s not what Wicca is.”
I shove her away and straighten my jacket. “It is the way I do it.”
* * *
After sneaking out while Izzy washes tonight’s dinner dishes, I park even farther away from Yarrow House than normal. I doubt that Caleb has any idea what my car looks like—mostly because my car looks like a thousand other cars in Cross Creek, and the sun has already set—but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. I’ve filled my backpack with supplies for tonight’s horror show. Walkie-talkies bargained off my sisters complete with fresh batteries, the last herbs we need for the truth spell stolen from neighborhood bushes and my spice cabinet, pepper spray in case shit goes south, Gatorades for everyone to toast with in case shit goes our way.