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“Kyle, this is Jane,” Bitsy said. “Be nice.”
“Oh, poo. I’m always nice.” He looped his arm through mine and led me toward the kitchen. “Jane. Jane. Can I offer you a quencher, Jane?”
“Uh, sure,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet, cupcake. What’ll you have?”
I looked at the blue- and gold-tiled countertops, which were lined with bottles. Dewar’s. Grey Goose. Bacardi. I remembered a drink I’d heard mentioned in a movie. “Maybe a mojito?”
“Aren’t we sophisticated,” Kyle said.
Bitsy choke-laughed. But she said, “Make it two. Better yet, four. I think we could all benefit from a mojito, right, girls?”
She lounged against the counter, as comfortable in her body as I was uncomfortable in mine. I modeled my position after hers. Chill, I told myself. You are here with the Bitches. You are golden.
Kyle handed me my drink. It tasted like mint.
From where I stood I could see the already crowded living room, and out of everyone there—the jocks and the cheerleaders, the honor council kids, the partiers—there wasn’t a single person I knew well enough to say hello to. So when Keisha said, “All right, Jane. Time to mingle,” I about crapped my pants.
“I’ll just hang out here,” I said. “But, you know, thanks.”
“We need to see you in action,” Keisha said.
Panicked, I turned to Mary Bryan.
“You can do it,” she said. She smiled anxiously. “It’ll be fun.”
Bitsy raised her glass. “Go on, luv. Strut your stuff.”
Elizabeth Greene, head cheerleader: … and so he called me up out of the blue and was like, “I could really use someone to cuddle with right now.” Isn’t that too cute?
Amy Skyler, Elizabeth’s best friend: No.
Elizabeth: I think he wants to get back together.
Amy: Elizabeth, he was horny. Which, in case you’ve forgotten, is why he dumped you for Paisley in the first place.
Elizabeth: She totally stole him on purpose. Slut.
Amy: Skank.
Elizabeth: Lying piece of trash.
Me, edging closer: Paisley Karr? The girl who trains Seeing-Eye dogs?
Elizabeth: Who the fuck are you?
Stuart Hill, star quarterback: Dude! I am all about faith. I mean, those Christian girls are hot.
John Rogers, linebacker: Yeah, man. You said it.
Me:
Stuart: I’m like, “You want to pray, sweet thing? Sure, baby, get down on those knees.”
John, cackling: Forgive me, O Lord, for I have si
Me:
Stuart: Dude!
Raven Holtzclaw-Fontaine, super-good artist: I’m dying to capture one of them in oil. Those claws. Those yellow eyes. Oh my god, those tails.
Katie Clark, wa
Raven: “Doomed to Die,” I could call it. Or, I know, I know. “Fish out of Water.”
Katie, giggling: “Fish” out of water? Not “cat” out of water?
Raven: It’s a statement, Katie, not a one-to-one correspondence.
Me: Are you, um, talking about the feral cats?
Katie: Excuse me?
Me: Because even though they’re creepy, I kind of feel bad for them. Don’t you? I mean, they just want to go about their lives, but they can’t, because everybody hates them and throws rocks at them and—
Raven, coldly: Well, that’s their own fault. Did anyone force them to make their little love nests on our fucking campus? No.
Me: Oh. That’s true, I guess, only—
Katie: Excuse me, but I don’t think we asked for your opinion. So if you don’t mind … ?
By ten, I was ready to throw myself over a cliff. Here I was supposed to be strutting my stuff, and my stuff was utterly pathetic. Hell, had the Bitches wanted to show how unfit I was for the whole popularity game, they couldn’t have picked a better way.
I even made a fool of myself in front of Nate Solomon, a senior I’d had a secret crush on since before the school year started. Nate lived next door to Phil, and all summer long I’d gotten to admire him from Phil’s backyard. Polishing the hood of his pickup. Buffing the fenders with his T-shirt, which he’d have conveniently taken off. His arms were such boy arms, strong and muscular. Sometimes I got so mesmerized that I lost track of Phil altogether.
“Janie,” Phil would say. “Janie. Anyone there?”
“Ooo, sorry,” I’d say, “I just got distracted.” I’d flash Phil my most charming smile. “What was that again?”
So when I spotted Nate shuffling through CDs by Kyle’s stereo, my heart whomped so hard I thought I would be sick. This is your chance, I coached myself. This is your only, only chance. I swallowed and made myself step forward.
“Um, hi,” I said.
His eyes flicked over me. He grunted.
“So … picking out some music?” I blushed the second I said it, because duh, what else did I think he was doing? Strumming a banjo? But it didn’t matter, because his attention had already slid elsewhere.
“Ryan!” he called, holding one CD aloft. “Ice bonus, man!”
He brushed past me on the way to the CD player and didn’t notice as he knocked my shoulder, because I was absolutely invisible.
Humiliated, I slunk to the kitchen. The tile counters and the top of the island were cluttered with plastic cups and half-full wineglasses, but there were no actual people in the room. It was a party-free zone, at least for the moment. I bit my lip, then crossed to the far side of the island. I slid down behind it, bringing my knees to my chest as my butt reached the floor. I was eye level with the cabinets under the sink. A lone blue M&M rested on the floor by a piece of fluff.
I exhaled. All that was left of my mojito were small ovals of ice, and I sucked a piece into my mouth. I let it drift about my tongue, then leaned slightly forward and let it slip out. I swirled my glass until I couldn’t distinguish it from the others.
In the living room, someone shrieked and said, “Turn that thing off! I look terrible!”
“Ah, shut up. You know you love it,” a guy said. Stuart Hill, who was apparently making the rounds with his video camera again. I’d seen him with it earlier in the night.
The tension in my chest started to loosen—the party people were there, and I was here—and I had the thought that I could stay hidden behind the island forever. It was clean. It was dry. It was actually quite comfortable. I raised my glass and slurped in another ice oval, then choked as I heard feet pad across the tiled kitchen floor.
“—in common at all,” a girl was saying. “I’m just so tired of it.”
I swallowed the ice and drew my knees up as far as I could.
There was the hiss of an opened pop top. A second girl said, “Tell me about it. All I think about is what a good girlfriend I would be, if only I got the chance.”
I breathed as quietly as I could. The first girl was Sukie Karing, I was pretty sure. And the second girl was Pammy Varlotta, another junior. I could tell by the way she pronounced her Ts, as if her tongue was too big for her mouth.
“I mean, seriously,” Pammy went on. “How sad is that?”
A third girl laughed. Even before she spoke, I knew who it was.
“Dead sad,” Bitsy said. “If you want a boy, Pammy, you’ve got to go out and get yourself one. None of this lurking about feeling sorry for yourself.”
Shit, shit, shit. Sweat beaded the nape of my neck.
“Easy for you to say,” Sukie said. “You’ve got boys drooling over you every time you turn around.”