Undecided(87)

“Go ahead,” I say. “Marcela and I will clean up.”

“I cooked!” Marcela protests.

Now I snort. Marcela can’t cook a piece of toast. She just wore the apron and stood next to Kellan for a few hours.

We all stand, the boys slumping on the couch to digest and blow things up, Marcela and I rinsing plates and loading the dishwasher. Celestia pulls out her phone and starts texting, and Nate wanders around, taking in the decorations.

“What’s this?” he asks.

I turn to see what he’s referring to and freeze. He’s lifted the Christmas tree drawing to reveal the list of crossed off names underneath.

“It’s a…list,” Kellan says.

Crosbie pauses the game. “Kellan was trying to—” He breaks off coughing when Kellan elbows him in the ribs. My heart is pounding as I wipe my hands on a towel and hurry into the living room.

“Trying to track down an old friend,” I finish. “To say hi.”

Nate frowns at the list. “Why don’t you know your friends’ names?”

“It’s been a really long time.”

Celestia gets up to join Nate, frowning at the easel. “Smells Like French Fries?”

Kellan looks at me frantically. “I have a poor memory.”

“Backpacker One – Freckles?”

“Er, yeah, she was sweet.”

“Wasn’t there dessert?” I ask desperately. “Didn’t we buy cheesecake?”

“We certainly did!” Kellan says, jumping to his feet. “Who’s ready for dessert?”

“We just ate,” Crosbie says. “Let’s wait a bit.”

But Kellan’s rushing into the kitchen. “Chrisgiving waits for no one.”

Nate looks confused. “Who?”

“It’s chocolate cheesecake,” I try. “You’re going to love it.”

Celestia winces. “Ooh, is it dairy? I don’t eat dairy.”

Marcela pauses in setting the table to stick a finger down her throat and mock gag.

“Have some more wine,” I say. “Or beer. Or tap water. Let’s all just go back to the table immediately.”

Celestia shrugs and turns to sit down, Crosbie following. I’m halfway there when Nate says, “Red Corset?”

All of a sudden I’m doing my best statue impression, one leg in the air, arms mid-swing. I swear the whole room can hear the alarm bells clanging, the arrows that appear mid-air to point at me, shrieking “Guilty, guilty, guilty!” at the top of their gleeful lungs.

“She was an actress,” Kellan lies smoothly, walking over to fold the Christmas tree drawing back down over that dreadful list and putting an end to the inquiry. “It was one of those historical plays where the women wore corsets.”

“Hmm.” Nate takes his seat and accepts a piece of cheesecake. I stare at mine like it’s a lump of dirt and wonder how the hell I’m going to choke it down. “Didn’t you have a red corset, Nora?”

Now I’m sure they can hear the alarm bells, because the room goes deathly silent for ten full seconds. Crosbie looks at me in surprise and I open my mouth to say something, anything, when Kellan beats me to it.

“Nora?” He laughs. “In a corset? I can’t picture it.”

“Have you ever even been on stage?” Marcela asks, nudging me when it becomes clear that I’m too stupid to play along. “Ever dreamed of being an actress?”

“No,” I manage. “Never.”

“Wrong girl,” Marcela says firmly. “You’re imagining things.”

Nate shrugs. “Huh. Okay.”

I pick at my cake but my lack of appetite is unremarkable, since everyone is eating very slowly, still too full from having inhaled their dinner.

Celestia resumes her texting and after a minute Nate puts down his fork and pulls out his phone, and I wonder what message she’s sending. Get me out of here? Do you think they have any Perrier?

But that’s not it at all.

“Aha!” Nate crows happily. “Here it is.” He shows his phone to Crosbie, who glances at the screen politely, then freezes mid-bite. I have no idea what he’s seeing, but all the blood drains from his face and he’s suddenly gripping his fork so hard his knuckles turn white.

“What is it?” Kellan asks.

I reach for his hand, but Crosbie moves it away. “Are you okay?” I try. But he won’t look at me. He won’t look at anybody.

“I knew you had a red corset,” Nate says, oblivious. “Marcela texted me this after the May Madness party. Remember when you went there to get drunk after learning how bad your grades were? Then you said the party was no good so you left to go streaking down Main Street?”

I can barely breathe. “What are you doing?”

“She told me what was happening and I didn’t believe her, so she texted me some proof,” he continues, turning his phone so I can see the damage. And it’s bad. It’s so bad.

It’s a picture of our clothes crumpled on the sidewalk, the corset gleaming red on top, a beacon of my guilt. It’s like sliding the final block into a very precarious tower, and just for a second it stands there, announcing its presence, before it all comes crashing down.