7

"Hey Marnye, it's Dad"—as if I didn't know—"I just wanted to see how things were going at your new school." He pauses, and I tense up, wondering if his voice sounds warbled, wondering if he's drunk again. "I bet you're making all sorts of friends. I just hope you don't have a boyfriend yet, though I'm sure you've already gotten offers." He chuckles, but I frown. Offers? Not so much. Being called a Working Girl and offered money for sex? Yeah, there's that. "I'm already looking forward to Parents' Weekend. Until then, keep me in your thoughts. Love you, bye."

I'm feeling pretty good about leaving Dad alone until I realize that's the only message he's left me. Just one voicemail, no texts, no social media tags. My mouth purses into a thin line as I dial our home number and wait. Nothing.

If he's fallen back into old habits, Dad'll be at the bar on Chambers. But that's worst-case scenario. I shoot a text over to our old neighbor, Mrs. Fleming, to see if his car's in the driveway. She's practically deaf, so she's the only ninety-seven year old I know of that exclusively uses text messages for communication. She's also an incorrigible gossip, a Supernatural superfan, and the head of the local neighborhood watch.

When she doesn't text back right away, I figure she's probably on one of her Sam and Dean binge sessions, and head over to my new wardrobe in the corner, this towering antique piece with fleur-de-lis designs carved into the decorative arch on the top. Opening it, I get a sharp stab from the blade of reality.

During school hours, everyone wears their uniforms.

At a weekend party, nobody will be wearing them, and my twenty dollar Target dress will stand out like a sore thumb. That is, if Miranda even finds a way to get me an invite.

As I'm thumbing through my meager collection of thrift store, Walmart, and garage sale finds, there's a knock at the door. With no small amount of caution, I move over to open it. If it's anyone but Miranda, I'm leaving it bolted.

But when I peek through the peephole, I find Miranda grinning and waving, holding a dress in one arm and a shoebox in the other. I open it, and she bounces in, grinning from ear to ear.

"I got them to agree," she says, breathless from sprinting over here from her shared apartment with Creed. They have a two bedroom with a balcony that Miranda promises I can see someday, but which I don't think I ever will seeing as her brother hates my guts. "Well, I got Creed to agree, and that's all we need."

"Wow," I say as she tosses the dress on the bed, and I see that it's an expensive, tight-fitting little black number that I wouldn't be caught dead in. I'm sure Miranda will have no trouble pulling it off though. "Your brother really does have a soft spot for you, doesn't he?"

"He'll have a soft spot for you, too, when he sees you in this dress," she says, smirking and popping out a hip. For a moment, the expression reminds me of her twin, and I get goose bumps. "And these shoes." Miranda points a long, shiny fingernail at the box.

I can't miss the label printed on the top.

"Manolo Blahnik?" I choke out, and then my eyes flick to the dress again. "And I don't care what designer made that dress; I won't fit into it."

Miranda rolls her eyes like I'm a crazy person, and then slides a bottle of champagne out from under the dress that I didn't see before. "You're being too hard on yourself. Let me dress you up while we pre-drink, and we'll have an epic party. This is the first weekend of our freshmen year; we have to live this up." She pops the champagne, and the cork flies up and hits the ceiling, making us both laugh. Me, with nervousness. Her, with her usual good cheer.

"So is Creed like the Yang to your Yin?" I ask as Miranda opens the clear plastic of the garment bag, revealing two little black dresses instead of one. And I'd thought there was little fabric to be had to begin with. Now there's even less.

"He's … complicated," she starts as she moves into the kitchenette, opening the frosted glass cabinet door and pulling out two crystal cups. There aren't any champagne flutes, but that's not particularly surprising considering we're several years off from being able to legally drink. "You can't let him get to you. He's just … he's so concerned at being 'new money' that he overcompensates." Miranda pours a generous glass of champagne for each of us, handing one over to me.

If I get caught drinking, I could be kicked out of the academy—permanently.

At the same time, I don't want to spit on Miranda's goodwill. I wait for her to move into the bathroom and flick on the lights before I quickly empty my glass into the sink.

"They redid this whole place, huh?" she asks as I step in behind her, taking in the deep tub, the stand-up shower, and the windows overlooking the park-like courtyard behind the church. They each have a set of handy wooden blinds that block out all the light, but they're open now, showing off the dusky evening sky.

"This is basically a palace to me," I say with a smile, a flitter of nervous energy taking over my belly when I see the amount of makeup that Miranda's stuffed into her purse. She unloads it onto the burnished gold stone of the countertop, and then turns to look at me with a critical eye. "What?" I ask, suddenly wary, and Miranda grins at me.

"How do you feel about curls?" she asks, reaching out to play with my hair. I look past her and into the mirror, locked into my own brown-eyed gaze. My lips are too thin, my chin too pointed, my nose too big. At least those judgements are my own. The things they used to say to me back home rarely had anything to do with my appearance. Mostly, they attacked my character.

"Curls are great," I say, trying to force a smile. On the inside, I'm wondering if there's anything I could wear or do that would make a difference tonight. I imagine not. Because on the inside, I'll still be poor. At the end of the night, I still won't own a private jet or a series of islands in the fucking Caribbean. "Do whatever you want; I'm no good at hair or makeup."

Miranda lets out a small sound of excitement, downs her champagne, and pours us both another round.

I wish I could drink it.

I have a feeling I'm going to need it to get through tonight.The walk down to the beach is easy, lined with solar-powered lanterns that give the winding, pebbled walkway a warm yellow glow. Picking my way down in the stilettos that Miranda brought me is no easy feat, and I'm sure I look like I'm already drunk by the time we get to the bonfire.

Doesn't matter, I suppose, since it looks like everyone else here already is.

"Mandy!" this redheaded girl calls out, waving her arms like she's on crack. At my old school, she might have been. Here … she still could be. Instead, she stumbles over to Miranda with her heels hanging from one hand, the distinctive red bottoms of the Louboutins obvious even in the flickering orange light from the bonfire. The bottoms are scuffed and the shoes are wet and covered in sand. Without a second thought, the girl chucks them into a pile of other expensive designer shoes, like they're Walmart flip-flops or something. "I'm so glad you're here. Tristan was asking about you."

"Right," Miranda says, biting her bottom lip and glancing over at me. She seems nervous about something, but I'm not about to ask what it is with the redhead standing next to us. I know I'm supposed to know her name, but even though I've memorized the entire list of Bluebloods, I can't remember exactly which one she is. Inner Circle, for sure. Anna, maybe? Or Abigail? "I'll talk to him later. For now, point us in the direction of the drinks?"

The redhead is too drunk to care about me, or maybe she just doesn't recognize me with a headful of big, chocolate curls, and a designer dress. She points us over to a table that's been hastily piled with glass bottles and cups. There isn't any hired help here tonight, and it's starting to look like a rich teen party is much the same as a poor teen party, just with much better alcohol.

"I'll make us some drinks," Miranda says, dragging me toward the table by my wrist. She lets go and starts to put together some concoction while I stand there and fidget, my eyes searching the beach for potential predators. After all, I'm used to being hunted.

My borrowed outfit is far too tight and too short to be comfortable, and I find myself tugging the fabric down in the front. I don't feel right in it, like I'm playing the part of somebody else, somebody who wears bodycon dresses and Manolo Blahniks, and parties with the children of the ultra-wealthy.

"Wow. Looks like you've already taken my advice," a voice drawls from behind me, raspy and husky and sexy. The sound of it gives me chills in the best way possible, but when I turn around, I find Zayd Kaiser standing there in a pair of black swim shorts, sans shirt and shoes, his body ripped and muscular, all of those hard planes catching the red and orange light from the bonfire.