Olivia Twisted (Entangled Teen) (6 page)

Liv’s eyes are still on me. “Can’t. I have to work.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Maybe. Well?” She directs the question to me.

“Well, what?”

“Tyson’s pretty messed up.”

I shrug and take a bite of my apple, curious to see where she’s going with this. Sam gives some lame excuse about getting water and leaves.

Liv sits down on the edge of a chair. “So you beat him up?” Her voice is low, her tone accusatory, and she seems upset…at me? I take another bite and don’t say anything.

She twists her necklace around her finger and her eyes drop to my collar.

“He looks really bad. Why did you do that?”

“Liv.” Her eyes lift to meet mine. “You were drugged. He gave you that drink. He admitted it.”

“He actually told you he put something in it?”

“No, he denied that, obviously. But he admitted to giving you the drink.”

Her forehead wrinkles as she considers this, fiddling with a sugar packet on the table. “But what if he didn’t put the drug in it?”

I stare at her for a moment. How the hell did she end up at that conclusion? “Are you serious?”

“I ran into him in the hall. He said someone else gave him the drink to give to me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He might not have been lying. The person who slipped something in my drink could’ve been someone else.”

“Okay, so, who do you think it was?” I’m sure my voice sounds patronizing, but I don’t care. How could she believe
Tyson
, of all people? And I thought she was smart.

She looks away, her face flushed. “I don’t know.”

I can’t help it. I laugh. “You sure are naive for a foster kid.”

She jumps to her feet, her face screwed up in fury. “My personal life’s my own business, not yours. And I can take care of myself.”

I can’t help laughing as she walks away. Take care of herself? Sure, and maybe she should call Tyson to see if he wants to go hang out later, just as friends. Give me a break.

Liv stops abruptly and turns back to face me, her jaw sticking out slightly in defiance of my laughter. I tilt my head to watch her as she moves slowly, deliberately back to me. Her sudden switch from an open Pandora’s box to this quiet, contained anger is fascinating. She rests one hand on the table next to me and leans in close—an intimidating move a girl’s never made on me before. I’m stupidly nervous and intrigued at the same time.

Liv’s ponytail falls forward enough for me to catch the soft, clean scent of her shampoo. There’s nothing else soft about her right now, though. She pierces me with her eyes, like she can see into me. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Z,” she says slowly, quietly. “Or what happened that night. But you don’t intimidate me like you think you do.”

She pushes away and walks out of the cafeteria, leaving me staring after her in undeniable awe. I would never have expected
that
from her.

“What’d she have to say?” Sam asks, startling me as she sits down. “And why are you staring at the door with your mouth open?”

I clamp my jaw shut and turn to her. “She doesn’t think Tyson drugged her. She’s only mad at me for beating him up. And I’m not sure, but it sounds like she thinks
I
might have done it.”

Saying it out loud, it sounds even more ridiculous. How could she believe that? I notice the faster pace of my heartbeat, normally only triggered by meetings with Bill.
Shit, do I actually care about this?

Sam’s mouth drops open. “What the hell? You?”

I laugh out loud but cringe inside. If she thinks I’m just some bully beating up people, or that I’m capable of drugging her, she’ll never trust me. Or Sam. And we may as well drop the whole idea of twisting Olivia Westfield.

Chapter Six

“‘Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief, and he’s ours—ours for his life!’”

—Charles Dickens,
Oliver Twist

LIV

“Here, this will give you an energy boost before we start shopping.” Sam offers me one of the Styrofoam cups and hands some bills to the woman at Nature’s Table. She lost a bet on who could find the freakiest person outside the mall—I spotted a huge guy in a muscle shirt walking his cat on a leash. So she bought me the smoothie.

“Thanks.” The food court is crowded, but we soon find a small table and sit down. At first, we chitchat about school, homework, stuff like that. She’s so easy to talk to, and funny. She’s got me cracking up with her impression of Tyson drooling over me. The women next to us throw us dirty looks for being so loud, but I don’t care. I’ve had friends before, of course, but none who make me laugh as much as Sam.

The one thing we don’t dwell on is the night at the club. She does tell me that there’s no way Z would’ve drugged me. “He wouldn’t pull a jerk move like that. I live with the guy, remember? I should know.”

I don’t want to talk about Z. I’m still pissed at his attitude toward me yesterday. The conversation with Sam turns to computer programming, and when she asks if I’ve ever done any hacking, I realize the perfect opportunity to ask, “Sam, what exactly do you do at that company of yours?”

She tilts her head, a tiny smile on her lips. “What exactly do you
think
I do?”

I fiddle with the straw in my drink, trying to figure out how to phrase it just right. “Well, obviously you make a lot of money to afford that kind of car. If I had to guess…maybe someone pays you to hack into their security systems?”

She considers that for a moment. “Hmm…well, I’d say that’s pretty accurate.”

I exhale lightly. “So did you get any response from your boss? I mean, do they need an extra hacker?”

Her grin widens. “Oh, I believe they’re interested, yes.”

“Awesome. How do I contact them?”

“They’ll contact you.” She laughs. “Liv, stop worrying so much. They’ll get a hold of you when they’re ready.”

I laugh with her, but I hope it’s not one of those “we’ll call you” things where they never do. I take a sip of my smoothie, my thoughts slipping to Z. I can’t seem to stop thinking of him, even when I try. He bothers me at the same time that he thrills me—his dark hazel eyes that light up when he smiles, the way his cocky attitude dissolved when I told him off. I’ve played the moment in my head a thousand times. Confronting someone the way I did isn’t like me at all; I don’t know what got into me. The goose bumps tickle my arms as I picture his eyes widening in surprise and, most especially, the smirk melting from his lips. I have to admit, I felt pretty kick-ass at that moment.

I still don’t trust him, though I don’t know if it’s because of what happened the other night or something else I can’t quite put my finger on. He’s such an enigma; how could I ever be friends with him?

“Hello?” Sam snaps her fingers in front of my face, startling me.

“Sorry, what?”

She shakes her head. “Okay, again, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

She’s already tried a couple versions of the same question, always disappointed in my answer. “I told you, the time I took money from my foster mother’s wallet.”

She snorts. “Yeah, twenty bucks to buy new shoes. Big freakin’ deal. I’ll bet it was because your shoes had holes in them or something.”

I take another sip and watch a tired-looking woman shuttle her kids through the crowds. I don’t tell Sam that yes, that’s exactly why. Carla wouldn’t buy me new shoes, new clothes, or even old ones. Whatever money she got to take care of me, she spent on her five bratty kids. Everything I had when living with the Grays I borrowed or bought with money I took out of Carla’s wallet. It was a version of stealing, I guess, but I didn’t have much of a choice.

I change the subject. “So what are you looking for today?”

She waves her hand in a vague gesture. “Oh, you know, whatever’s good. Sometimes I find things, sometimes I don’t. But I love to shop, so it doesn’t matter. I can help you find tops that won’t make you look like you’re wearing kids’ clothes anymore.”

Well, that’s direct enough. We throw our cups in the trash before taking the escalator to the second floor. The line of apparel shops caters to various extremes of women—heavy, thin; rich, poor; old, young.

“That’s the loser store,” Sam says, grabbing my arm when I make a right toward Penney’s. “You don’t want to be caught buying stuff in there.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, like this is my area of expertise. Bernadette loved Penney’s. “So where do we go?”

“Here,” she says, pulling me toward a store where red satin lingerie and feathers are draped over bone-white mannequins. I jerk to a halt and Sam laughs.

“Just kidding! Over here.”

She leads me to a trendy store called M. Young women in crisp pin-striped suits nod to her without acknowledging me. Of course, her confidence shouts out
I belong here
, while mine whispers,
Haven’t got a clue
. I watch in amazement as she quickly sorts through jeans, shirts, and skirts and heads toward the back of the store with a small armful.

“You need to start with these,” she says, pushing me into a large dressing room and latching the door behind us. She flips through the clothes and hands me a multicolored chiffon top and dark-blue jeans.

I face the wall and quickly remove my shorts and tee. I pull the new clothes on and turn to check myself out in the mirror.
W-o-w, wow!
The jeans are too tight for my taste, but the airy top floats over me in a flattering way. The reflection is of someone who knows about fashion. Someone who might be thought of as cool.

Someone who is
so
not me.

“That’s awesome!” Sam says.

“It’s a little see-through, isn’t it?” I cover my top half with an arm and she laughs.

“It’s supposed to be. You can wear a black bra or cami under it. Speaking of that, who bought you such a grandma bra?” She lifts the shirt to get a better look, but I push her hands away, my face burning. “Seriously, you should donate that thing to a retirement home.”

“Cut it out. What other shirts do you have?” I ask.

“Try this one.” She hands me a black nothing of a top and a black-and-white flare skirt, and I slip them on. The style is alien on me, like I’m headed out for a night in New York. Way too chic and definitely too clingy. It makes me think of the outfits some of the girls wore at the club the other night. That’s reason enough for me to pull the tiny shirt back over my head and toss it on the bench.

“I like the first one better.” I finger the light, airy material and find the price. Seventy-five dollars! “Oh. Never mind.” I drop the tag and move to the next shirt, a plain black tee.

“Wait, what’s wrong with this one?” Sam says, going back to the chiffon. She glances at the tag. “I thought you said Denise gave you money to buy some new clothes.”

“Yeah, but not that much.” Denise gave me fifty dollars, which I was grateful for. But in this store, it might buy me a pair of socks.

“What about tips from Slice of Happy?”

I snort. “Please. I couldn’t afford the sleeve with the money I earn.”

She holds the shirt out. “You know, this looked really good on you. Try it on again.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“I know, but I want to see it again.”

I slip the shirt on. Sam walks around me and tugs at the bottom, pulls at the sleeves.

“I think you should get it.”

“I just said I can’t buy it.”

She puts an arm around me and leans close to my ear. “I didn’t say you should
buy
it.”

“What? No way, Sam.”

“Come on. Denise didn’t give you enough money for one thing, let alone a wardrobe. What does she expect, that you’re going to wear those shirts that are too small forever?”

It was only one shirt that didn’t fit, but Sam makes it sound like my entire closet. Still, my clothes are pretty worn out. “Maybe she’ll give me more if I ask for it.”

“Uh huh. You know what she’ll say? ‘Olivia, you should go to Walmart. It’s good enough for me, so it should be good enough for your sorry ass. They introduced a new line of granny polyester to go with your Playtex bra.’”

Okay, that’s funny. And probably true. I laugh in spite of myself.

“Hang on, I know what’ll help. Stay right there.” She disappears, returning with a couple of black lacy camis, so tiny they may as well be bras. “Try these and see if one fits.”

She turns her back while I remove my bra and slip my arms through the holes of the cami. The clingy, lacy fabric is much more grown-up than anything I’ve ever owned. I pull the chiffon top over my head and look in the mirror, turning slightly to see the effect from the side. I swear I’m like one of those
What Not to Wear
victims, transformed from drab to…
damn
.

“Wow!” Sam says, whistling sexy-like.

“I can’t wear this to school.” Or anywhere else, for that matter.

She laughs. “It’s not really meant for school. Promise me you’ll get a new bra, though. Really. And toss that one in the garbage on the way out.” She picks my old bra up with an empty hanger and flings it around in an exaggerated way.

I twist again to view myself. The clothes do fit nicely.

“Where’s your T-shirt?” Sam whispers. “Put it on over this, and my sweater over that.”

“I don’t know, Sam…” But she’s already pushing my T-shirt over my head. I look in the mirror at the shirt clinging for dear life to the thin fabric underneath. If I don’t do this, I risk alienating the only friend I’ve made since moving here. Besides, I’ve behaved my entire life and look where that’s gotten me.

“It’s just a little thing, Liv,” she says, her expression serious. She leans back on the wall, crossing her arms as she watches me. “You need new clothes and your foster parents aren’t providing for you. It’s not like I’m asking you to break open the cash register. When you make better money, maybe you can come back and buy something for real. Come on, Miss Thang…”

It’s that pseudo-twang in her voice, the tone that reminds me of Bernadette, that makes up my mind.

Screw it. I put my arms in Sam’s sweater, imagining the tiny conscience fairy on my shoulder getting beaten to a pulp by a little guy with horns and twisted tail.

…

Z

I take off my glasses and wipe at my eyes. Page after page of information about Brownlow, Inc., and its founder and I’m coming up with crap. From the endless number of articles on his charitable contributions, Carlton Brownlow is a pretty major benefactor. The money he’s donated to United Way alone makes my take on most of these accounts look like a kid’s allowance. This doesn’t make me feel bad about cracking the bastard’s accounts in the least. The wealthy try to impress by giving huge donations and starting foundations, but it’s mostly tax-deductible shit that makes them feel less guilty about getting rich at other people’s expense.

Micah sails through the open door and drops into one of the chairs, kicking his feet up on the desk. “What’s up?”

“Took you long enough,” I grumble.

“I was busy. Anyway, here it is.”

He tosses me the flash drive, which is hot pink and covered in yellow flowers. I gaze at it, then him. “Really?”

He shrugs. “You don’t like it? Create your own program then, jackass.”

“Whatever.” I pick up the silly thing and flip it around my fingers. “How long will it take?”

“Depends. This one starts out slowly, then builds to flood their system without alerting their IT. At least for a while. But you’ll have to be ready. If his system is as advanced as I think it is, you won’t have long. How are you going to get it installed? I doubt you can set up a fake page or pop-ups or anything that they’ll recognize.”

“Still working on it. Might end up having to take a pretty banker out for drinks.”

Micah woo-hoos and smacks my hand. It’s a tactic used by Bill, and one he wants me to try. It’d probably be easy—meeting a woman “by chance” at a bar, getting her tipsy enough not to notice me slipping a loaded flash drive in her bag. For some reason, even though the idea once excited me, I’m not really looking forward to it.

“Z!” The singsongy voice pierces the doorway. Of all the kids in the house, Sam is the one I can always count on to interrupt me whenever I’m working. “Guess what? She’s in!” Sam says, bouncing on her heels like she’s twelve instead of seventeen. Micah jumps out of his chair and grabs her hands; the two of them start hopping around like idiots.

“Do you mind?” I ask acidly. “Some of us are trying to work.”

“But I did it! I got her to steal something! A shirt at the mall. It was ea-sy. Easy, easy, easy.” She does a hip-bump with Micah to emphasize each “easy.”

“Congratulations, sweetie,” he says, kissing her cheek. He probably doesn’t have a clue of what she’s talking about, but that doesn’t matter to Micah. He’s a hound for a good time. “Gotta go, though. Party later?” He salutes us and leaves.

Sam frowns at me, her hands on her hips. “Well, don’t break a sweat congratulating me or anything, Z.”

I wave my hand at her. “Fine. Good for you. Now go away.”

She grabs the arm of my chair and pulls it out from the desk. “Come on. Even you have to be excited about this. She’s in!”

I stand and yank the chair away from her. “No, she’s not. You bullied her into stealing a shirt, which has nothing to do with us.”

“Ha, so you say,” she replies smugly. “But at least we know she
will
do it.”

“So what’re you going to do now? Have her steal a car? Or hey, maybe bring her on over and see if she’d like to rob a bank. How about that? You’re an idiot if you believe it’s that easy.”

Sam’s eyes darken and she punches my shoulder. My skin smarts, but I don’t rub at it. I turn back to the computer and ignore her.

“I thought you’d be happy about this. Besides,” she says, her voice rising angrily, “I’m the only one who’s trying here. You’re not doing shit. Exactly what is your problem, Z?”