Virals(15)

Getting snarky again. How bad could a debutante ball be? And frankly, you need help on the girlfriend front. Point of fact, you have none.

I knew Kit blamed himself for my lack of gal pals, but it wasn't his fault. I just hadn't clicked with any of the resident Mean Girls.

Full disclosure: my isolation was a teensy bit my fault. Sure, the girls at Bolton Prep were terrible, horrible, despicable fembots. Yes, they teased me relentlessly. But I found most of them shallow and vapid, and never showed the slightest interest in their superficial world. So the disdain had been mutual. Plus, I'm smart, care about schoolwork, and wreck every curve on which I am graded. That hadn't won me any popularity contests.

It didn't help that I was the youngest in my grade. I'd just turned fourteen. Skipping ahead had seemed awesome when I was twelve. I never considered what the impact would be once I reached high school. Now I was feeling the downside. I wouldn't score a driver's license until the very end of my junior year.

I knew the formula. To get girlfriends I had to fake interest in the silly things the fluffbrains found important. Boys. Shopping. Reality shows starring rich dimwits devoid of talent.

On second thought, being friendless gave me ample opportunity to read.

So I ranked low on the social totem pole? So what?

On third thought, cotillion offered monthly events leading up to the November ball. Hanging with the debs might score me some friends with double X chromosomes.

But then Whitney would win. I couldn't allow that. Could I?

I leaned back on my pillows, worries elbowing for center stage in my mind. Coop. Whisper. Kit. Whitney.

Thoughts about Whitney were always painful. They led to thoughts about Mom.

My mother, Colleen Brennan, grew up in a tiny New England town called Westborough. She and Kit met at a sailing camp on Cape Cod. They were both sixteen. Maybe he noticed Mom because her last name was the same as his mother's family. Maybe not. Brennan is common enough. It may have been because Mom was gorgeous. That works for most guys.

Kit and Colleen must have determined they were not related, because they hooked up. Big time. I came along nine months later.

I don't know why Mom kept my existence secret from Kit. She never saw him again. Probably didn't consider him prize parenting material. Who knows? She may have been right.

For a while Mom and I lived with her parents, but they passed away when I was a toddler. All I remember is gray hair and cookies, and the smell of cigarettes. Both had lungs like Swiss cheese but still smoked. Don't get me started.

Raising a kid solo must have been tough on Mom. She never finished high school, I suppose because of me. She waited tables, worked at a Walmart, a movie theater briefly, but then that closed. Meanwhile, I was taking advanced classes because my teachers thought I was a genius. Mom never let on that it bothered her.

Lost in memories, I missed the first half of my ringtone. Startled, I dug through the bedding, finally found the phone. Clicked on.

Too late. The call had rolled to voicemail.

I checked the screen: Missed call--Jason Taylor.

My heart pumped faster.

Other than my island pals, Jason was the closest thing to a friend I had at Bolton Prep. We shared two classes, which likely explained the call. Always fleeing at the bell, Jason usually forgot details of homework assignments.

I was surprised Jason was thinking about school at eight thirty on a Saturday night. He was an Alister. Why wasn't he at some party way too cool for me?

With his blond hair and blue eyes, Jason could have been cast as a Norse God. The Mighty Thor. He was also a lacrosse star, a starting attacker. Not bad for a sophomore.

In other words, Jason was out of my league. No biggie. He wasn't really my type. Don't know why. Just no spark.

Jason was a genuinely nice guy, though. In class, he listened when I spoke. And not the spiteful, mocking attention of the other popular kids. He seemed to actually value my input.

My cell phone beeped an incoming text.

Tory. Party @ Charleston Harbor Marina. Chance boat. Interested? J

Jason again. Whoa.

I re-read the words. Yep, still there. The message was real.

I'd just been invited to a party. A popular person party. Unexpected, to say the least. Astounding.

I flew to my Mac, searched the location. Patriot's Point, Mount Pleasant. Damn, damn, damn! I had no way to get there.

Kit would drive me if I asked, but getting dropped off by my father wasn't an acceptable option. Plus, the trip would take forty-five minutes by car. No good.

Could I get Ben to run me over there in the boat?

And what, leave him standing on the dock?

Cold. Out of the question.

I was so busy crunching the numbers on transport that it took a second for the rest of the message to sink in.

I read the text again. Chance boat? What, like gambling? One of those casino ferries that drives out to international waters so yuppies can play craps?

Then it hit me. Of course!

Chance Claybourne's boat. The party must be on his father's yacht, docked at the marina.

So, this wasn't just a party, it was the party.

And I couldn't get there. Crushing.

And, honestly, a huge relief.

It took me thirty minutes to compose my reply. I read the final copy out loud. "Sorry, can't make it tonight. Don't have too much fun, smiley face, exclamation point."

After final consideration, I hit send. Ten seconds later, I really, really regretted the smiley face. Ten more seconds, and I hated the whole damn message.