The Fine Art of Truth or Dare (16 page)

“Yup,” I agreed.

“Typical Willing.”

“It is.”

“Well,” he asked, “whaddya expect?”

It was so obviously a rhetorical question that of course I answered it. My truth impulse seemed stronger around this boy, my impulse control way under par.

“I would expect you to be dancing.”

His expression was unreadable in the limited light. “Is that an invitation?”

“No. An observation.”

He shrugged. “Okay. I needed a break. It was either keep an eye on Chase while he pukes up a fifth of cheap rum in the guys' bathroom or follow the girls into the ladies' room.”

I almost smiled and told him about Willing's bathrooms and me. Instead, some truly horrific and irresistible impulse had me announcing, “Amanda looks really pretty tonight.”

“So do you.”

Bizarrely, I felt my breath catch in my chest, and for a long, awful second, I thought I might cry. I gripped the top of my pad tightly, concentrated on the spiral metal binding where it dug into my skin.

“It's a cool costume,” he said. “Water nymph?”

“Sea goddess,” I answered quietly. “Roman.”

“Hmm.” Alex was staring out toward the garden now, looking so at ease that I went from pretzel to knot. Could it really be that easy for him? To say things like he did without thinking? Without meaning anything at all? “Too many mermaids tonight. Not that I have anything against mermaids. Mermaids are hot. I mean, you saw my drawing.”

I nodded.

“You know,” he went on, “that day in the hall, you compared my stuff to two Japanese artists—”

I nodded again, even though he was looking out into the darkened gardens now and not at me. “Suzuki Harunobu and Utagawa Kuniyoshi. They were eighteenth- and nineteenth-century woodblock print masters—”

“Ella,” he interrupted. “I know who they are.”

“Oh.”

“In fact, I have a couple original Kuniyoshi prints.”

“Oh. Wow.
Wow.
”

He shrugged. “They're not that rare. What I'm really hoping to get is one of his
Princess Tamatori
series. Do you know it?” When I shook my head, he explained, “You know he did all these illustrations for books and folktales. Right? Some like cartoons or graphic novels. Princess Tamatori sets off to recover this massive pearl from the Dragon King underwater. She has to fight him and all these crazy creatures on her way back. So I had this idea for a graphic novel about . . .” His voice trailed off.

“A mermaid,” I finished for him.

“Yeah.”

Neither of us said anything for a minute. Then, “Your drawings are really, really good,” I said softly. “You should do that book.”

He grunted. “You ever hear of a rich graphic novelist?”

“You ever hear of a happy lawyer?” I shot back, less surprised at myself than amused by just how much of Frankie and Sadie had rubbed off on me in two years. I didn't say, “You're already rich,” which would have been too much Frankie and no Sadie whatsoever.

“Who knows?” Alex sighed, and I let that rhetorical question go. From inside, I could hear the opening notes of “Come Sail Away.” “Why is it,” he asked after a few bars, “that they always play these schizo songs at dances? They start out slow, so you're all psyched, then get fast halfway through, so you end up feeling like a total idiot, trying to decide what to do. One person always chooses to keep doing the slow thing—”

“And the other one jumps back and starts boogying.”

“Exactly! You've been there,” he said, smiling. I wasn't about to mention that
there
for me had always been the wallflower seat. “My dad loves this song.”

It was my turn to smile. “So does mine.”

“So . . .”

“So?”

He bumped my knee with his. “Wanna dance?”

“You're kidding, right?”

Even in the limited light, he looked offended. “I am not.” In a second, he'd levered himself off the step. “C'mon. We'll dance fast at the beginning and slow when the music speeds up.”

“Slow . . .” I was totally distracted by the image of the two of us on the floor.

Not, apparently, for the same reasons he was. “I'll do a Quasimodo,” he offered, bending and twisting
à la
the Hunchback so he was closer to my height. “C'mon, Ella. It's just a dance.”

“Okay.” This time, I got it right. With my butt still firmly planted on the step, I reached up and took his hand. I didn't yank mine back, either, once I was upright. In fact, I held on to him for what was probably a beat too long; he was the one to let go.

I'm not sure why I thought it might actually happen. It was probably the whole Japanese woodblock/graphic novel thing. He had me at Kuniyoshi.

We only got as far as the hallway inside the door.

“Yo, dawg!” We both turned. Chase Vere was walking toward us, weaving a little and grinning. “Where were you? I just did some serious Technicolor spewing.”

“Good for you,” Alex answered. He thrust a protective arm in front of me as Chase came to a lurching halt a foot away. I got a faint whiff of alcohol and something even less pleasant.

“Oh. Hey.” Chase squinted at me. “Her.”

“Ella,” Alex said tightly. “Her name is Ella.”

“Okay, sure. Ella.” Chase nodded. This time, his unfocused gaze did a slow roam from my head to my toes. It came back to rest on my breasts, which, I discovered, was in no way preferable to my scar. “She looks hot.”

“Jesus, Vere—”

Whatever else Alex was going to say was lost as Chase did a slightly wobbly pivot and yelled back down the hall. “I found him! With the weird girl. Only she's hot tonight.”

“Vere, you jackass.” Alex turned to me. “I'm really sorry. He's wasted.”

“It's okay. I'll just go. Now.” I'd seen them; Alex hadn't because he was facing me. The Hannandas had rounded the corner and were on their way toward us, a fierce trio wearing pretty sequins and ugly expressions.

“What is going on?” Amanda demanded, eyes blazing from Alex to me and back.

“Nothing,” I answered automatically, knowing even as the words left my mouth that I probably shouldn't have said anything at all.

For all the times I'd played and replayed the lunchtime hall scene in my head, for all the times I'd imagined how it might have been if Alex hadn't ignored me, if he'd stopped and said hello, or even just acknowledged my existence, I cringed when he announced, “Ella and I were on our way back into the dance.”

He didn't even have to say that we were actually planning on dancing. Amanda's eyebrows shot up; her nostrils flared. For an instant, she looked like a really angry sea horse.

“Who'd'a thought she had such a sweet little bod? Cover the bad part; I'd do her,” Chase mumbled. Then, almost in the same breath, “Oh, man. I'm gonna hurl again.”

“I hope it hurts,” Alex muttered, even as he was moving, shoving Chase quickly and efficiently toward the garden door. “Not here, you dipshit.” They disappeared into the shadows. A moment later, the unmistakable sounds of retching filtered through the music.

I started to creep away. I didn't get the chance. Amanda stalked toward me, eyes narrowed, effectively pinning me to the wall. Anna and Hannah lockstepped behind her. I thought of jackals, watching the kill. Amanda stopped a few inches from me. She was just tall enough to loom.

“Look, Freddy Krueger, if I thought there was a chance in a gazillion that Alex would even feature you in a nightmare, I might not be saying this so nicely. But I feel sorry for you, so I'm going to give you a tip.” The
p
was sharp, harsh. She leaned in, close enough that I could see the pale, shimmery lipstick caked in the corners of her mouth. “This thing you have for him just makes you look like the world's most pitiful loser. Did you really think you had even the smallest chance with him? Did you?”

I didn't answer. Maybe a no would have satisfied her. Maybe not.

“You are a skank and a freak,” she snapped, the hard sounds making me flinch. “You don't belong here. Go back to your greaseball 'hood. The sight of you makes me sick!”

Any girl who has ever been face-to-face with another angry girl, especially one with infinitely more spite and social standing, knows to run. It's innate, from bunnies to baboons. Don't mess with the alpha female. She'll tear your throat out. So I ran, but not before I got a glimpse of Anna's face.

In the second before she turned away, she looked like someone had slapped her. Funny, seeing that didn't make me feel any better.

I hit the dance floor just as the song tempo changed. Around me, couples faltered, clearly caught in that slow/fast dilemma. I found Frankie and Connor easily. They were a solid white column in the middle of the floor, wrapped around each other and barely moving. I tapped Frankie on the shoulder.

“I'm going,” I told him.

“What? Why?”

But I was already walking away. “Make sure Sadie gets home,” I called over my shoulder.

He caught up with me quickly. “Hey. What happened?” he demanded, fingers finding mine and pulling me to a stop.

“Nothing.” When he narrowed his eyes at me, I sighed. “Hannandas. Nothing major. I just want to go.”

“We'll go, too,” he declared. “We'll walk you home then come back for Sadie.” He jerked his chin toward the sidelines. She was sitting with Walt and his friends. They were laughing. “You cannot walk home alone.”

I snorted. “It's Halloween in South Philly. The streets are full of little ghouls and their parents.” I remembered being maybe eight, in a nylon fairy costume, walking next to Annamaria Lombardi in her equally flammable princess dress, our mothers following ten feet behind, chatting like they'd known each other all their lives, because they had. “If I get attacked, it will be by a pack of small goblins looking for a candy fix.”

For a second, I thought Frankie was going to argue. Then he shrugged. “Fine. Call me when you get home.”

I went before he could change his mind. Behind me, I thought I heard someone call my name. I didn't stop. Once on the street, I gathered up my skirts and ran, barely pausing at intersections to look for cars. Even at this hour, there were trick-or-treaters still out. I dodged a few ghosts, sidestepped chattering moms, and was home in a matter of minutes. The house was dark, the porch light off. I figured Nonna had left her post to go over to the restaurant. It was a Saturday; they would need her in the kitchen.

I didn't turn on any lights in the house. My bedroom window is visible from both the kitchen and the restaurant office. I figured my parents were there, and I didn't want them to know I was home already. Their disappointment would be tangible.

I kicked off my shoes and reached for the tie at my waist. But I didn't undo the knot. Instead, I sat down at my desk, still fully dressed. My cell phone was there. I had a message.

It was Sadie, yelling against the music. “Where did you go? I looked . . . thought I saw . . .” Whatever she said next was lost.” . . . want me to leave, it's fine. Jared wants . . . outside. Call me!”

I didn't. I didn't call Frankie, either. I texted him. I didn't think he would complain about the charge.
Got home OK,
I typed.
Tell Sadie. XO.

XOOXOOXOOX,
he sent back.

I turned off my phone. Above me, Edward was staring out of his card, expression unreadable in the dark.

“An excellent young man, your Frankie,” he said.

“Yup. He is.” Exhausted suddenly, I folded my arms on the desk and dropped my head onto them.

“Oh, Ella. I wish you'd had a better time at the ball.”

“Fuhgeddaboudit,” I muttered.
Greaseball. Freddy. Freak.
“It's not like she and I were ever going to be BFFs.”

“I wasn't just referring to Amanda.”

Of course he wasn't.

“I'll try,” I moaned into the crook of my elbow. “‘Oh, Lord, I'll try to carry on.'”

“That sounds rather dramatic, even for you.”

“It's Styx,” I told him. “After your time, before mine. I don't know all the words, but those work for the moment. And for the record, I'm being ironic, not dramatic.”

“If you say so.”

I ignored him. “I have had my last flutter over Alex Bainbridge. I mean it. Frankie was right. How many signs do I need that we are never, ever going to have . . . anything . . . before I get it? Obviously, it doesn't matter that we relate to the same schizo seventies songs. Or that we can discuss antique Japanese woodblock prints. Or that when he sits next to me, he kinda takes my breath away. You would think that would count for a lot, wouldn't you?”

Edward gets the concept of rhetorical questions, so I went on. “I wouldn't even want to hazard a guess about what makes Amanda's pulse go all skittery, but I would bet anything it's not Alex. And he's still with her. He doesn't belong with her, but apparently he feels he belongs
to
her. Explain that, please.”

“Oh, Ella. We men are not always the best at looking beyond the . . . er . . .”

“Boobs, Edward. You can say it. Amanda Alstead is all boobs and blonde hair. Beyond that, I can't see a single thing that's special about her.”

“Because there isn't a single thing. Beyond the . . . er, obvious. You, on the other hand, are a creature of infinite charms. Shall I list them alphabetically or from the top down?”

I scowled up at him. “Y'know, you are beginning to sound a little too much like Frankie and Sadie, my deluded Greek chorus.”

“Yes, well, I rather thought that's what friends were for.”

“You're not supposed to be my friend,” I muttered. “You're supposed to be my Prince Charming.”

“Ahem.” Edward's sculpted lips compressed into a grim line. “Have you looked at me lately? I am
supposed
to be startling and even a bit scary.”