I say. “What’s it like to stab your best friend in the back?”
“What are you talking about?” she scoffs, but I can see the guilt flicker in her eyes. She’s not that smooth.
“I know about you and Owen,” I tell her. Tessa’s eyes go wide, and I take a step closer. “Did you really think you could keep it a secret?”
She backs up, flustered. “I don’t know what you mean,” she lies. “Are you drunk?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” I retort. “What do you think Megan’s going to say when she finds out? Her boyfriend and her best friend. Talk about a knife in the back.”
Finally Tessa drops the innocent act, her jaw tensing with anger. “She won’t believe you.”
“Pictures don’t lie,” I point out.
Realization dawns on her face. “You snooped on my phone.”
I smirk at her. “You should be more careful with your indiscretions,” I say, and pull my phone from my pocket. “What was the point of pictures anyway? Were you going to post them to your Facebook and let Megan find out that way? Maybe I should save you the time and just forward them to her right now....” My thumb hovers over the keypad.
Tessa dives for my phone, but I snatch it back out of reach. Does she seriously think she can wrestle it from me? She really is a low-class bitch.
Now her anger gives way to panic. “Please, don’t tell her,” she begs. “It was so stupid of me, I know, but he said he was going to dump her anyway, and it was just a few times, and…” Her voice wavers. “Please, you can’t tell her—”
“Chill out,” I snap, just so she’ll stop this sniveling display of desperation. The secondhand embarrassment is killing me. “You look so pathetic right now.”
“I know you don’t like me, Chelsea,” she says, wiping away a stray tear from under one eye. “But please, don’t do this. Megan’s my best friend.”
“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you stuck your tongue down her boyfriend’s throat.”
Tessa flinches. “You can’t tell her,” she says again. “You can’t.”
“Okay,” I say.
“‘Okay’?” she echoes. Cautious optimism creeps into her voice. “So you won’t say anything?”
“As long as you do something for me.”
* * *
By the time I return to the living room, Kristen’s over in the corner, wrapped around Warren. I don’t have to look around to know there’s more than one girl in this room staring in envy. Warren’s a senior, star of the basketball team, tall with broad shoulders and just enough stubble to make him look older and more mature than he is. And Kristen is—well, Kristen. Blonde, blue-eyed, curvy in all the right places and skinny in all the others, so pretty it hurts. Standing next to her is always a blow to the self-esteem.
I’ll never know exactly why Kristen made me her project, but she did. All through middle school I’d been intimidated by her from a safe distance, until eighth grade, when the seating assignment for biology designated us as lab partners. Not only did Kristen acknowledge my existence, but somehow over the course of the year, she started inviting me over to her house and to the mall, passing me notes between classes, saving me a spot at her lunch table, and before I knew it we were friends. Not just friends, but best friends.
Being Kristen’s best friend has its benefits—everyone knowing your name, invites to just about every social gathering (or at least all the ones worth attending), and a built-in social circle. The same social circle that includes Brendon Ryan, who could easily be my soul mate. That is, if I could get him to notice me.
I turn my head and there he is, refilling his cup of beer at the table with Natalie Thomas glued to his side. Ugh, I can’t stand Natalie. She used to be Kristen’s best friend, before I came along; she’d never say it to my face, but I know she secretly resents me for that. She’s such a hanger-on, one with a notorious habit of flirting with all the guys within a five-mile radius—regardless of whether they have girlfriends or not.
Tonight she’s donned this bright neon-green glittery dress that would cause irreversible retinal damage to look at directly, and it comes down only to the very tops of her thighs. So, so trashy. She makes me want to vom.
Brendon Ryan is too good for her. Brendon Ryan is classy. He wears preppy polo shirts and button-downs with sweaters over them and styles his dark blond hair perfectly so it looks messy, but in a purposeful way. He’s student council president and always raises his hand in class before speaking, and instead of chewing gum he prefers mints, which he carries around in this tiny tin case. I’ve been in love with him ever since the first week of freshman year when he turned around in the seat in front of me in homeroom and offered me one, flashing that dazzling smile of his. Everything about Brendon oozes effortless cool. Unlike all the try-hard jocks Kristen and I tend to associate with.
If Natalie thinks she has her sights set on Brendon, she has another think coming.
I march right up there and position myself between the two of them. It’s a tight squeeze, but one I manage to pull off by pretending I am in dire need of more pretzels.
“Hi!” I say to Brendon.
“Hi,” he says, smiling. “How’d that phone call go?”
“I managed to pull it off. Thanks to you.”
Natalie leans over to me as I pop a handful of pretzels into my mouth. “You’re really pigging out there, aren’t you?” she comments. “Try and leave some for the rest of us.”
“I see someone left the gates open,” I mutter under my breath. I study her botched blond dye job, as tacky as the rest of her look, and add, “Wow, Natalie, I didn’t know brassy roots were in this season. Is trailer-trash chic back in style?”
Natalie scowls at me in return. “I’m surprised you have an opinion,” she says. “Aren’t you supposed to just be Kristen’s little mouthpiece? Enjoy it while you can—she’ll throw you away like she does everyone else soon enough.”
“Hmm, shouldn’t you be stocking up on more hooker heels?” I shoot back. I let my eyes travel down to the ones she has on and smirk. “Leopard print? Keeping it classy, I see.”
She glares and makes an annoyed sound in the back of her throat, but it does the trick—she spins around and stalks off, wobbling. Whether that’s due to her drunkenness or the height of her stupid heels, I can’t be sure.
Brendon looks at me, miffed. “That was kind of rude.”
“Me or her?” I ask.
“Both, actually.”
“She started it,” I reply. “Besides, maybe I’d be nicer to her if she dressed a little better.” It would also help if she stayed away from Brendon and didn’t get her slutty germs all over him. Natalie is the kind of girl who can give you an STD from eye contact alone.
“I think she dresses just fine.”
Warren’s
