get one. That’s my plan.”
“I have a date tonight.”
She stops to look at me, eyebrows raised.
“With my soul mate … Netflix.”
She grimaces. “I’ve failed as an inappropriate role model.”
My phone rings. Curious. Usually only Mom or Dad calls out of the blue.
It’s Annie again. I decline it again. Not going to think about that, not on a Friday night.
“Who was that?”
“Nobody. Wrong number.”
“If it’s an unknown number, maybe it’s a new guy from school calling. How can you know without answering?”
“I’m psychic.”
HJ finishes her eyes and grabs a different eyeliner pencil. This is my favorite part. She hates her freckles—or, quote, her “blotchy face”—except she has a bare patch under her left cheekbone the size of a dime. She draws fake freckles on it to blend it in. It’s both wonderful and tragic.
My phone burps.
“You’ve got to change that ringtone.”
“That’s what Holly would say if she knew I assigned it to her.” I tap the screen to read her text.
Busy?
“You’re popular tonight,” HJ says. “Is it a boy?”
“I don’t know any boys.”
I text back:
Kinda.
Burp:
Important?
With Hurricane Joan.
Almost done. What’s up?
Burp:
Movie Roulette. You in?
“Please, Mel. It’s disgusting.”
I switch it to vibrate and then text:
Not sure I feel like being
a third wheel tonight.
We want you to come. Bring someone if you want. Or we can find you someone! ;)
Ha! Don’t you dare. I’ll go if it’s
just us three. We’ll need a ride.
Got it covered. :)
I sigh.
I’m not bringing bail money.
See you in twenty.
“There,” I say to HJ. “Happy? I’m going out with friends. Friday Night Binge with my One True Love is postponed.”
“Just friends, huh? It’s a start.” She stands tall and faces me, head cocked to the left, chin up—she knows her good angles. “Verdict?”
I smile. “Amazing. The world is not prepared.”
“Damn right, it’s not. I’m going to reel in a good one tonight, you’ll see.”
I gesture vaguely. “Especially if you go out in just the bra and panties.”
She puts her hands on her hips and winks. “Plan B.”
As we head out of the bathroom, my phone vibrates again. A text from Annie this time.
You home? I’m out front.
Huh? I open the door and peek out. A gleaming white car, something fancy, is parked facing the wrong way at the curb. I see silhouettes of people behind tinted windows.
The car’s front passenger door opens. Annie appears.
Her sense of style has grown up some but still includes buttoned collared shirts and the French braid she’s always worn.
She says, “You didn’t call me back.”
Does she think her disappointed tone means something to me? Or does she not even know she does it?
My heart’s pounding anyway. Not from her tone, but from her being here at all. It can’t be good. She walks to the trunk as it slowly opens with a hiss.
I step out onto the porch. “What do you want?”
Annie picks up a cardboard box the size of a microwave, and then she closes the trunk gracefully with one hand. She walks along the sidewalk and up to meet me without cutting across the grass. She doesn’t look remotely sick. She looks done up—beautiful, even. But supposedly so was Lucifer.
“I have something to give you before we leave town.”
“To Connecticut?”
I’m not sure why I feel the need to tell her I know this. I’ve never liked how competitive she is, or how competitive I sometimes became when around her.
“Paris.” She smiles.
She doesn’t sound sarcastic. It seems like one of her self-important pronouncements.
“Why’d you tell Zumi and Connor you were going to your uncle’s?”
“We are, until we find our own place. He lives in Paris now.”
“Your own place? You’re not coming back?”
Annie holds out the box. “Here.”
I cross my arms. “What’s in it?”
“Mostly Zumi’s stuff. Some of Connor’s.”
A loud hum from the car makes me jump. The driver’s window lowers two inches.
“Annie,” her mom says impatiently.
The window slides closed again. The skin down my neck and back tightens.
Annie rattles the box. “Are you going to take this?”
“Why don’t you give it to them?”
She sighs and sets it down on the porch.
I get it. Annie lied about being sick to keep Zumi and Connor away, so they wouldn’t see her family packing. It strikes me that Annie and I have both lied to them about being sick in order to hide something.
I say, “You’re not going to
