It was such a relief to tell Sibylla and Lou the true story of the winged cardigan, even through the hiccups and sobs that continued while her body recovered from the crying storm.
In her measured way, Lou looked at Vân Ước. “I know you don’t like talking, but you have to let people know how you found the cardigan.”
“It’s a cool story. It must be someone’s art/life/fashion project,” said Sibylla.
Seeing the sense in telling everyone her side of the story was one thing; being able to do it would require her to speak to people. Major impediment.
Sibylla frowned. “The first thing we do is rip down what’s on the board. And if Holly prints more and puts them back up, we tell Ms. King.”
“Or at least tell Holly that we’ll tell her,” said Lou.
“Which brings us to why she’s being such a complete bitch to you,” said Sibylla. “It’s obviously Billy. You’re stepping on her territory. More so since they hooked up recently. Not that that means anything. To him, anyway. But there’s no way she’s going to welcome you into the fold.”
“I mean, are you in the fold?” Lou wanted to know. “Is there something happening with you and Billy?”
Vân Ước shook her head. “I have no idea why he’s—”
“Climbing onto toilets to talk to you?”
“He’s just… I don’t think he even knew who I was last term, and now he’s following me around.” Saying it out loud didn’t make it seem any more plausible.
“Not that you’re not crush-worthy, Vân Ước. But it is a bit weird,” said Lou.
“It’s just that Billy’s…” Sibylla paused, looking worried.
“A dick,” Lou finished.
“He’s so used to everyone thinking he’s this great guy, he’s funny, he’s popular, that he’ll happily trample over anyone to get a laugh and not even notice that he’s done any damage.”
“He’s like a really annoying puppy—he chewed your shoes but, oh, look, he’s still wagging his tail. Remember how he went on and on about your big undies, Sib?”
Sibylla smacked her forehead in mock despair. He’d continued a once seen, never forgotten series of gags about her knickers for the whole time they were at Mount Fairweather, Vân Ước remembered. “He’s a guy who doesn’t give a shit about collateral damage if he gets a laugh.”
“Did you hear he set up a fake Crowthorne Grammar School e-mail account last year and sent a pile of e-mails that looked like they came from the year-ten coordinator to all his friends’ parents, complaining of—what was it?—lackluster academic performance, and encouraging them to set more rigorous study timetables at home,” said Lou.
Vân Ước couldn’t help smiling. It was pretty funny. But that sort of prank didn’t happen on the spur of the moment. It took some planning.
“Also, he’s never really had what I would call a relationship,” said Sibylla. “He periodically succumbs to being someone’s boyfriend, so long as they do all the work and don’t make any demands.”
“And I think we’ve all heard the revolting line he uses about rowing: ‘oars before whores’?” said Lou.
“Gross,” said Vân Ước. It really was. In which case, why, since she first laid eyes on him, and despite everything she’d since discovered about him, had he been the one to persistently invade her daydreams?
“I mean, I guess the message is, keep your guard up. Whatever he’s up to, following you around like you’re his new hobby, he’s never shown himself to be good boyfriend material,” said Sibylla.
“Bottom line, he’s your standard-issue two-dimensional hot jock, and you can do better,” said Lou.
What was Billy up to? He certainly had no history of interest in a girl on the outermost ring of the social circle. In fact, even the inner-sanctum girls had a hard time getting quality attention from him. And if it was the wish—it couldn’t be the wish—shouldn’t she hear a shimmer of fairy bells or something every time he came near?
They kept chatting as they headed upstairs, by which time a quick check in the mirror showed Vân Ước that her eyes were brightly vasoconstricted white, thanks to Sibylla’s drops, and her face only a little bit blotchy.