You Should See Me in a Crown(52)
“Miss this? Lighty, there’s FaceTime, Campbell Confidential DMs, snail mail. Just because you’re going to Pennington and I’ll be at THE Ohio State University doesn’t mean—”
“No,” I shake my head sadly. “I mean when prom is over. You’ll go back to your people, and I’ll go back to mine. Like before.”
When the waitress drops off our meals, Jordan pushes my plate closer to me since I don’t immediately reach for it.
“It doesn’t have to go back to that. I told you that freshman year! I’m still sorry about being an asshole that day in the hallway. You don’t even know— I never stopped being sorry for that day.” He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have stood by while those idiots said that stuff. I don’t even have a good excuse. But I wanted to talk afterward, and you never responded to my letter, so I figured that meant you—”
“Wait.” I freeze as I bring a fry to my mouth. “What letter?”
“The letter, Lighty. My apology letter. I didn’t know how to just come out and say sorry to your face because I was convinced you would tell me to never speak to you again—which I would have totally understood. You didn’t have a phone yet, so I couldn’t even text you, and I felt weird about calling your house, so I gave the letter to Gabi, and—”
“I didn’t get a letter.” Even though the reasons are different than last night, my heart is beating too fast and my mind is all over the place. There was no letter. Gabi would’ve told me … She wouldn’t lie like that.
“Lighty, I definitely gave her one. I never would’ve just—”
My brain is working so fast to process what’s going on, I can’t even listen to him. But my thoughts are interrupted by giggles from somewhere behind us, and a group of underclassmen girls by the window keep cutting glances in our direction and then looking away. I recognize two of them from the Prom Projectioners. They couldn’t have heard our conversation—both me and Jordan are too far away for that—but they keep glancing over at us anyway.
“Ugh, I’m not in the mood for this. I always forget that being with you makes me famous by association.” I bring my hand up to my head to check my own temperature. I have to be in some kind of fever dream right now.
“Oh yeah,” Jordan says quickly. “Those girls probably think we’re on a date right now because of some stupid thing on Confidential.” He reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. He holds it up so that Face ID unlocks it before he swipes up. “We’ve apparently even got a hashtag.”
There’s a couple of pictures of Jordan and me sitting next to each other by the firepit last night posted from an account with a weird, random handle and a default avi, and if you didn’t know any better, they might look like something else is going on. My head leaning against his side, his hand squeezing my shoulder, the two of us looking at each other and smiling. I know it was totally innocent, and he knows it was totally innocent, but the hashtag doesn’t seem to know that.
“#ReplacementEmme?” I whisper-shout. “Are they kidding me?”
“Creepy, right?” He shakes his head, like this is more of a minor inconvenience to him than anything else. Meanwhile, I feel like the walls are closing in around us. “It feels like a bad reality show.”
A reality show is an understatement. This feels like 1984.
And that’s when it clicks. There’s only one person nosy and sneaky and strategic enough for something like this. Only one person who has apparently been manipulating my relationship with Jordan since the very beginning.
“Let’s go.” Jordan doesn’t hesitate to toss a crisp twenty onto the table to cover us both. I scoot across the seat and out of the booth, faster than I thought possible an hour ago.
“There’s somewhere we need to be right now.”
The walk to the Marinos’ front door has always been super long—their house sits so far back from the sidewalk, it looks like it should have a moat or something—but today it feels even longer. Jordan stays in the car as I make my way to the door.
The houses in The Oaks are all different, custom floor plans designed for people who wanted homes so new no one had so much as sneezed inside them before they moved in. I used to be amazed when I came over to Gabi’s for a sleepover, awed by the sheer size and luxury of it all. And I guess sometimes I still am—jarred by the difference between her world and my own.
I’ve barely taken my finger off the doorbell when Mrs. Marino appears in their high-ceilinged foyer, apron around her waist and shiny dark brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She’s dressed in a casual outfit, but one that still reeks of old money: pearls around her neck (which, honestly, who bakes wearing pearls?) and a crisp white button-down blouse tucked into jeans that fit so well you know they must be tailored.
Looking at Mrs. Marino is like putting Gabi’s school picture in one of those Facetune apps that make you look older and collect your data—they look so similar.
“Liz.” She steps aside to motion me in. “Gabrielle didn’t tell me you’d be by today. But when does she ever tell me things?” She laughs, but it’s hollow. She adds distractedly, “I should call my daughter down.”
When she calls her name, Gabi comes bounding down the stairs.