If I'm Being Honest(60)

When the song ends we run off stage, clutching our wigs and sweating in our sequins despite the chilly night air. Grant collapses onto our blankets, flinging his four-inch heels off in time to catch Hannah, who crashes into him, laughing. Paige and Charlie pile on, and I drop down beside them. I’m winded, but more from exhilaration than exertion. Like I’ve just placed first in a race and could run for miles more.

Abby passes me a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. I take three and pass the bag to Brendan, who checks the ingredients before pouring out a couple. I give up on watching the film, finding the audience way more entertaining. Groups dance in the aisles, a Janet races by and throws us a handful of glow sticks, the performers on stage perfectly mirror every action in the film. And it’s wonderful, weird magic. Paige and Hannah were right.

I notice Brendan shivering in the middle of the film. He’s pulled his knees into his chest, his chin chattering.

“Do you have a jacket?” I ask. Even in the dark I can make out the goose bumps on his back—his very exposed back. I try not to look too long.

“I’m fine,” he replies, flashing me a confident look. “I don’t want to ruin my costume.”

I roll my eyes. “There’s another blanket in the car. I’ll get it.” Before he can protest, I weave my way through chairs and picnic baskets to the parking lot. I pass a mausoleum and catch a glimpse of red against the gray stone. I turn, nearly tripping on a discarded water gun.

It’s Hannah. Hannah and Grant. Her red wig shines in the dull light as she pulls Grant against her. He brings his lips down to hers, his eyes filled with open wonder and something so yearning I have to look away.

I hurry my steps, not wanting to disrupt them, and grin the whole way to the car.





Twenty-Eight



I GOT THREE HOURS OF SLEEP LAST night, maybe. I should have made progress on my Taming of the Shrew term paper, but after walking through my door at two in the morning, my face flushed and heart racing, I could only lie in bed and stare at the ceiling as I relived the night.

I’ve been reliving it all day since.

We’re outside today at our usual table for lunch, but the marine layer hasn’t quite burned off yet, and the sky is still a dull gray. Brad had a mock trial meeting to lead during lunch, so it’s just Elle, Morgan, and me. I have my notebook out on the table, and I’m trying to outline my English paper, but the question of Brendan keeps me distracted.

I’ve worked the problem over every waking moment, with zero progress. His invitation definitely felt like a date—

“Cameron?” Elle’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Are you listening?”

I look up. Elle’s eyes are hard, her lips pursed in annoyance the way they were in Paige’s driveway. “Sorry, um, just really behind on this.” I tap my notebook, knowing full well Elle’s noticed I haven’t written a word since lunch started. Even so, I try to muster a studious, somewhat stressed expression.

Elle grabs my notebook out from under my pen. “‘Katherine, the Villain Reeducated’?” She reads aloud my current title, her voice heavy with derision. “You’re not submitting this,” she declares.

Scowling, she flips through my outline. I’m not sure if she’s truly offended by the topic or if she’s taking out her anger that my head was elsewhere after I spent the night with Paige and my new friends. Probably both.

“Katherine’s the victim, not the villain,” she concludes, then rips the pages out of my notebook.

I gape up at her. Elle’s always been decisive to the point of demanding, but she’s never treated me this way. This isn’t about the paper. It’s about what she said last night. “Elle, come on,” I get out before I notice the change in her expression.

Her eyes fixed on the page now open in the notebook, her features have gone rigid with anger. For a moment I’m blank, uncertain, wondering what outline she could possibly be reading, what essay idea I’ve had to fill her with fury—

And then I remember what notebook she’s reading. What page.

I stand sharply and make out my amends list. I grasp for it, but Elle keeps it out of reach as she reads.

“What is this?” she asks, her voice unnaturally soft. “Paige Rosenfeld, for calling her pathetic—fix things with Brendan. Brendan Rosenfeld, for giving him the nickname that allegedly ruined his life . . .” I watch her eyes skip farther down, knowing what’s coming and unable to stop it. “Leila,” she reads, her hand shaking, “for being cruel about her relationship with Jason—tell her the truth about what her boyfriend did behind her back.” Her eyes return to mine, furious again. “You told Leila about me?”

“No, Elle, listen,” I hurry to say. “It’s not what you think. It was after you’d ended things with him. I told Leila that he cheated. Not that you were involved.”

Elle huffs a laugh. “Just because you didn’t use my name doesn’t mean you weren’t gossiping about my private life. And for what? This stupid list?”

I flinch from the bite in her words. Morgan recoils behind me, averting her gaze. “It wasn’t gossip,” I protest. “I was trying to help Leila—to make things right.” I want to continue, to explain how this isn’t about her. How I’m trying to correct my own wrongs. But Elle sets the notebook down, unnervingly calm, and my explanations catch in my throat.