Afterparty(20)

“So you would know,” I debate asking him and then I just ask him. “When you cut out of school, when do they call home?”

“They phoned home on you?”

“Not my best evening ever.”

He walks over to the ice machine and scoops up ice chips with a paper cup. He says, “At least this won’t leak.”

I realize my collar is soaked in front, sticking to my chin and dripping down the navy blue sweater that’s such plasticky synthetic, it’s virtually waterproof.

He says, “Did you sign out?”

“Sib signed me out.”

“If you sign yourself out, they don’t care.”

This makes no sense whatsoever, but is nevertheless very good to know.

He tilts his head. “So. Are you planning to stop attending? Are you and your evil twin planning to become full-time horse thieves?”

“Do you take a special interest in my life of crime?”

“Ballerina by day, felon by night. Sometimes I wonder if we’re on the same misguided path.”

“Still not a ballerina. And what path would that be?”

“Trying to get out of here.”

“I’m not!”

“Then you might want to rethink your life of crime.”

And then his hands are in my hair, pulling out a hairpin. He says, “Your bun is coming down.” He works his fingers from the nape of my neck up to the sides of my face, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to kiss me. He runs his fingers down my forearm from the elbow to the wrist, until his hands cover my hands.

He says, “Are you going to be okay?”

I nod. I bend my face toward him, my mouth toward his mouth.

He gets up and he walks out of the cafeteria, saluting me from the door.

I am in a state of did-that-just-happen, and what the hell, and I want him, and what was that? In a state of acute longing, sandbagged by something that has to be what temptation feels like, except that the object of temptation has left the building. And even if I were to succumb to that temptation, which I totally would, there’s no point because he’s not here to be tempted by.

Megan: Some guy did what?

Me: I know. I don’t want to see him again until I stop blushing. Which could take years. No idea what to make of it.

Megan: Do you want me to ask Joe?

Joe is the boyfriend Megan only ever gets to see at mixers presided over by hypervigilant nuns. There is some chance that Joe is somewhat less perfect than he seems to be, given the extremely small amount of time they’ve actually spent in the same room.

Me: NO!!!!!!

Megan: You wanted him to right?

Me: Still do.

Megan: This is the guy you do the notes for?

Me: Same guy.

Megan: Why doesn’t he take his own notes? He’s not stupid right?

Me: Not.

Megan: You could always ask him.

Me: NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Megan: Isn’t Siobhan supposed to be the world’s expert on men? Ask her.

Me: NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Megan: You might need to breathe into a paper bag.

Me: I’m going to pretend it never happened. Maybe I should just wear the bag over my head.

Me: Even Siobhan’s starting to think our chance for normal human life around here is nil.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


WHAT WE DON’T KNOW IS that Latimer mean girls have simmering feuds that boil over with infighting and constantly shifting alliances, meaning there’s always a popular suddenly left out, shunned, or tortured. And that this has an upside. For us.

It’s kind of terrible for everyone else.

Siobhan says, “What’s with these skanks? People are crying in the bathroom. It’s embarrassing to pee.”

The first popular reject we get is Kimmy.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” she says. “If I have to sit with that god?awful pack of bitches and watch them drip venom off their big, ugly god?awful canine incisors, I won’t be able to keep down this god?awful mystery meat.”

She says this loud enough for the godawful bitches two tables over to hear.

“You should be a poet, Kimmy,” Siobhan says.

Kimmy, too distraught over being shunned to notice much else, doesn’t even care if Siobhan is being sarcastic.

Mel Burke, passing our table, gapes. “Seriously, Kimmy?”

Kimmy locks eyes with Siobhan. “I don’t see how anyone can stand transferring into this god?awful place,” she says. “Were you someplace better? Has to have been. Were you at Spence?”

Siobhan says, “Eastside Episcopal. You can’t imagine how much better.”

This would be the crap school Siobhan hated.

“And Roedean,” Siobhan says. This would be the boarding school Siobhan says was a penitentiary. “In England. That wasn’t half bad. Except they play field hockey like a pack of crazed hyenas.”

Kimmy says, “I’m getting frozen yogurt. You want something?”

She walks past Chelsea, Mel, and Lia, who says, “Hey, Kim,” and is instantly shut down by a look from Mel so cold it could freeze Hell on impact.

I lean across the table toward Siobhan. I hiss, “Be nice. She’s going to cry.”

“She deserves to cry,” Siobhan says. “Where was she when we got here—making out with Chelsea?”