Thorn Abbey (18 page)

“Of course you do! You just haven’t met the right people. Even sharks can be amusing. Useful, too. Come, let me introduce you around. And let me freshen that for you.”

Killian takes my cup and hands me another one. Whatever’s in it tastes different, less Alsatian, more fiery. He walks me around the crowded room, air kissing everyone, telling me about this person and that person:
His family practically owns Hollywood . . . . She’s related to the Bahraini royal family . . . . Oh, and did I mention my famous New Year’s Eve party at the Plaza last year?
I’m not taking in a lot of it because my head is kind of fuzzy and reeling.

At one point, Killian introduces me to two girls named Mandy and Rae. Or Randy and Mae. One of them blows a smoke ring in my face, and the other giggles hysterically. Louis Armstrong isn’t playing his trumpet anymore. A woman, Billie Holiday maybe, is singing about how her man doesn’t love her.

Max, Max . . . where are you?
I wonder forlornly.

And then suddenly—or it seems like suddenly, anyway—
Killian and Mandy/Randy are no longer there; it’s Devon, and her hands are on my hips, and we’re swaying to the music and dancing. “Having a good time?” she asks me.

“W-what?”

“I take that as a yes. You’re definitely growing up. I’m impressed.”

“Um, thanks?”

“But a word of caution?” Devon moves closer to me. “You will never replace her,” she whispers fiercely. “Do you understand?”

“Replace who?”

She smiles at me coldly.

Then kisses me on the mouth.

Her lips—her bloodred lips—taste like cherries.

I have no idea what time it is as I stagger across the quad toward Kerrith. I’m probably in violation of curfew, or close to it, anyway. Everything is blurry: the buildings, the grass, the trees.
I’m drunk
, I tell myself.
I’m really, really drunk.

Surely I will get busted—by Mrs. What’s-Her-Name the house counselor and by the Kerrith security guard—and sent home to Avery Park. Which is just as well. Thorn Abbey is too, too confusing. It’s like living in a fun house. Or a foreign country. Or a fun house in a foreign country. Or a fun house in a foreign country in an alternate universe.

I’m totally not making any sense.

My feet are freezing. I look down. I’m not wearing any shoes. Where on earth did I leave them? At that boy’s party?

“Tess?”

Someone is calling my name. Maybe it’s that boy, with my shoes. I spin around on my toes like a ballerina. But no one’s there.

Although . . . there appears to be a person sitting on the steps of one of the buildings. Of Kerrith, actually. He gets up.

It’s
him
. It’s Max.

“Ohmigosh, hi,” I say, waving. “What are you doing here?”

Max rushes up to me and hugs me, practically crushing me in his arms. “I’ve been texting you and calling you and looking for you everywhere,” he murmurs. “I wanted to apologize.”

“You . . . what? Why?”

He steps back and stares at me—and then at my feet. “Tess. Are you drunk?”

“Maybe a tiny bit.” I forgot how cute he was.

“God. This is all my fault.”

“No, it snot,” I slur. “I mean, it’s
not
.”

“Yes, it is. I made you upset. When we met up for coffee at the library.”

Library, library . . .

“Listen. I haven’t been totally honest with you about stuff because I was afraid,” he confesses. “I still am.”

Above us, I see a cloud passing across the moon.

“Maybe someday I can tell you everything. But right now, I need you to know that I care about you. I want to be with you, Tess. That is, if you still want to be with me.”

“Oh!”

A small epiphany sparks to life in the dark, alcohol-soaked recesses of my brain: This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.

“I want to be with you, too,” I say.

Max smiles and takes me in his arms again. He kisses me—deeply, hungrily. I can still taste Devon’s cherry gloss on my lips.

I lean in to his kiss. An owl hoots mournfully.

I’m in love.

PART TWO

T
HE LAST TIME
I
CELEBRATED
V
ALENTINE’S
D
AY WAS WHEN
I
was in second grade, and the teacher made us pass out those store-bought cards to everyone in class—the ones that say
BE MINE
and
HAVE A BEARY GOOD VALENTINE’S DAY
! and stuff like that. Other than that, it was pretty much just my mom and me, watching romantic old movies on TCM and eating too many Russell Stover chocolates.

Which is why I can’t wait for Valentine’s Day this year. Thorn Abbey has an annual costume ball, and Max asked me to go with him.

“Mom, I need some sort of cool dress to wear to the ball,” I tell her on the phone. “Cool but costumey. Something vintage
or maybe even historical. Isn’t there something in the attic, like in one of those old trunks?”

Across the room, Devon, studying-slash-eavesdropping on her bed, makes a gagging motion with her finger. I roll my eyes at her.

“Honey, those old trunks are full of magazines from the nineties and other crap I haven’t gotten around to throwing away,” my mom is saying. “I can poke around at the consignment shops for you, though. Oh, and the Salvation Army thrift store, too.”

“Okay, thanks. I checked the stores in town, but I didn’t find anything I liked. Besides, everything’s super-expensive here.”

“So are you going to this dance with your friends? Or with that boy you told me about at Christmas? How are things going with him?”

I hesitate. I don’t want to say anything, especially with Devon sitting right there.

“Things are fine,” I tell my mom quickly. “Listen, I have to run. Tons of homework! I’ll e-mail you, okay? If you find any good dresses, can you text me pictures?”

“Will do. Love you!”

“Love you too, Mom.” I hang up.

Devon glances up from her textbook. “Inverse functions suck,” she mutters. “So you’re dress hunting long distance, huh?”

“I need something to wear to the costume ball.”

“What about one of your usual outfits? You could go as a gender-confused hillbilly.”

“Yeah, or I could borrow one of
your
usual outfits and go as a hooker,” I banter back.

Devon grins. “Ha-ha. Hey, speaking of.” She sets aside her textbook and reaches across the bed for her laptop. “
What
was the name of that website?” she mutters as she types. “I saw something the other day that might work for you. How do you feel about the slutty Victorian barmaid look?”

“That’s not me.”

“I know it’s not you. That’s the whole point of a costume ball. You told your mom that you wanted something historical.”

“I’d prefer something more, you know, elegant.”

“Well, Victorian barmaids can be elegant. In a slutty sort of way.”

“You would know.”

“Bitch!”

“Bitch!”

We crack up.

“Ow!”
Devon stops laughing all of a sudden and rubs her temples.

“What’s the matter?” I ask worriedly.

She closes her eyes and doesn’t answer.

“Devon?”

“Hmm?” She opens her eyes and blinks slowly.

“Hey, are you all right?”

“This, uh, headache just hit me.”

“I’m sorry. Do you want some Advil?”

“No, thanks.” Devon turns to me with a tired smile. “Listen, I just thought of the perfect costume for you.”

“You did? What is it?”

“Don’t ask questions. Follow me.” She stands up and holds her hand out to me. She looks a little pale.

I’m confused. But pleased. Devon wants to help me. “What about your headache? Are you sure you’re up for—”

“Yes! Don’t ask questions. Come on, before I change my mind.”

“Okay.”

I smile eagerly. This is going to be the best Valentine’s Day ever.

It’s been almost four months since Killian’s party, when I kind of lost myself. From what I can remember, anyway. Since then, Max and I have been together and drama free. More or less.

After that party, I made a big decision. I decided to stop obsessing about Becca. I didn’t like the jealous, crazy girl I’d
turned into. I wanted to be the girl I used to be, before Thorn Abbey, but better. Braver. More confident.

I haven’t looked inside Devon’s silver box since I peeked in Becca’s diary, ages ago. I’ve stopped cyber-stalking Becca—and Max and Killian, too. When Devon or the girls or anyone mention Becca, I tune it out and think about other stuff.

It’s better this way. My mom read this book once that said your thoughts become your reality. It’s hokey, I guess, but I have to admit that it’s sort of true. I don’t let Becca occupy space in my brain, so her memory no longer has power over me.

I also told Killian that I couldn’t hang out with him anymore. He tried to talk me out of it until I explained that I couldn’t keep our friendship from Max any longer. When I said that, Killian’s expression got all weird and inscrutable. He promised he would “be a gentleman” and keep his distance from me.

Not sure what that was about. But I’m glad Killian backed off so easily.

Another major change is Devon. She’s been way less intense lately. I think it has to do with this guy she’s been dating, Leo. Plus, I came across some new medications on her dresser a while back, prescribed by a Dr. Caitlin Brennan. I looked them up online, and they’re for sleep disorders, anxiety, and depression. They must be working, because she’s definitely not as bitchy
and bossy as she used to be. And she doesn’t have her sleep-talking spells anymore, either. Thank God.

There haven’t been any scary noises, unexplained temperature changes, fireballs, glowing seagulls, or other “paranormal activity,” as Kayleigh would say, not that I believe in ghosts. Still, I’m glad everything’s as normal as it can be at Thorn Abbey.

With one exception. After the Christmas holiday, we all returned to find that someone had trashed the Kerrith third-floor lounge. One of the couches had been slashed. Shattered glass from the broken poster frames covered the floors. Graffiti defaced the walls. There was a single recognizable word in the chaos of spray paint:

OBEY