Famous in a Small Town(46)
Brit stood, saying “Nuh-uh, nope, no way,” like she was voicing my inner monologue. For one brief moment I thought maybe she knew what had happened between us, despite the fact that I hadn’t told anyone. “Not gonna fly.”
She approached the car and opened August’s door. “Back seat, buddy. I called shotgun for all time.”
August didn’t put up a fight, just got out and glanced at me as he moved to the back seat. I was still standing on the front steps of Brit’s house. I wanted a whole lot more space between August and me than a back seat could provide.
But I couldn’t explain that—why he absolutely couldn’t come with us—without explaining the whole thing. So I just got in the car.
“What are you doing here?” I said as we made our way toward the interstate, and Brit began to queue up road-trip music.
He shrugged, his expression neutral. “Felt like coming along.”
“Why?”
“Why not? It’s not every day you get to meet Megan Pleasant’s brother.”
I didn’t reply.
* * *
Brit asked Dash to stop at a gas station outside town, “so we can change for the party.”
I hadn’t brought anything special to wear, but apparently that was what was in Brit’s duffel.
She emerged from the bathroom stall wearing a short skirt and a sparkly top that was little more than a scrap of sequined fabric that tied around the neck and across the back.
“Where did you get that?”
“My mom,” Brit said. “It was her ‘going out’ top back in the day.”
I raised my eyebrows. “And she gave it to you? To wear?”
A shrug. “She didn’t say not to wear it.” Her face was already made up—“Flora did it,” she told me, when I commented. “She should’ve done yours too.”
“I didn’t know we were being fancy,” I replied, though fancy wasn’t quite the right word.
“You could do something with your shirt.” She stepped behind me, grabbed the hem of my T-shirt in the back and bunched up the fabric, twisting it up and under in the back so an expanse of stomach was now revealed.
August and Dash said nothing when we walked out.
We made it into town as the sun was setting, and followed the directions to the address Brit had found. People were standing in front of the house as we approached, cars lining the street on both sides.
“We can’t all go in,” Brit said as Dash passed the place and turned the corner, looking for a place to park.
“Why not?” Dash said.
“It’s gonna be way easier for two girls to talk their way into this kind of thing than two guys.”
August frowned. “I think we should go too.”
“Trust me”—Brit popped her door open as Dash slowed to a stop at the next corner—“we’ll be in and out.”
We got inside without anyone stopping us.
It was all pounding bass, a crush of people, each group talking louder than the next to be heard. I scanned the room as we edged through the crowd to get into the living room.
I’d seen pictures of Connor Pleasant from back in the day—a skinny, gawky kid posing next to Megan in front of a banner for the America’s Next Country Star live shows. It was hard to find anything recent; his Instagram was private.
“You’ll probably recognize him better,” I said to Brit. “How’d you get him to add you, anyway?”
Brit was looking around too, but it didn’t seem like she was listening. She grabbed my shoulder all of a sudden, leaned in to speak in my ear.
“Don’t be mad.”
“Sorry?”
“Connor isn’t here.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I lied. He’s not here. I’m sorry.”
“What—why—”
Brit looked right at me, eyes lined dark all around, lashes thick with mascara. Her going-out top caught the overhead light and winked at me. “Because I needed you here for this.”
“For what?”
Brit’s eyes left me, scanning the room.
“Brit.”
Her focus landed on a cluster of guys in the corner.
I reached for her wrist. “Brit, I swear—”
She moved away before I could grab hold of her, cutting quickly across the room.
* * *
By the time I caught up, she was already in conversation with one of the guys. The others looked my way as I joined the group.
“This is Jenny,” Brit said, gesturing to me. “We’re gonna be roommates.”
“Freshmen?”
Brit nodded, and the guys laughed. “Starting early, huh?” and “Cool cool cool” and “How’d you get in here?”
“We can be super persuasive.” Brit’s eyes were glassy like she was level-three drunk. Her gaze kept darting toward a lean, blond guy holding a can of beer. I had never met him, but I knew for certain—it was Tanner Barnes.
Brit started chatting with him, meanwhile, one of his friends kept trying to engage me in conversation.
His fourth or fifth try: “So … what are you gonna major in?”
“Um … education, probably.” I wanted to grab Brit’s sleeve, but there were no sleeves to tug on. I settled for wrapping a hand around her wrist, leaning in close to speak: “Hey, I think we should go.”