Fairfield High Renegades entertain what I like to think is a pretty decent-sized audience most game nights, considering it’s L.A. and school spirit isn’t really a thing here. So it’s no surprise that on the afternoon of homecoming, the bleachers are so jam-packed full they’re at risk of collapse.
I scan the crowd as I perform the moves to Bianca’s pregame warm-up routine, but realize that I won’t find who I’m looking for. Mom won’t be coming to any more of my games. I blink back tears, because now’s so not the time to get emotional.
Aunt Penny is here, though, front row center, with Bishop. So there’s that. The plan was to have Bishop watch the game from afar, so as to give the Priory the impression that I was alone, without protection. But the second I realized Aunt Penny couldn’t be talked out of coming to the game—she was homecoming queen her senior year, after all—I had to ditch that plan. At least I don’t have to worry about Paige, who agreed to stay home following only minor threats of violence against her if she didn’t listen.
Mrs. Hornby blows her obnoxious whistle as she jogs over from the sidelines. Hornby’s hard-core into female athletics and female empowerment in general and can pretty much one hundred percent of the time be found wearing a full tracksuit with big pitters. She’s been both the girls’ volleyball and girls’ soccer coach since forever, and has now taken on the role of cheerleading coach in the wake of Carmen’s death. And she’s … unpleasant. Mrs. Horny, as we’ve very maturely dubbed her, has made no secret of the fact that she thinks cheerleading is demeaning to women.
“All right, girls,” she says. “As you all know, it’s an important game today. And there is no way the football team can manage to win without you girls out there, shaking your booties and yelling out nice things to the boys. So do your school proud!”
A collective eye roll passes over the squad.
“Isn’t it against some sort of rule to be sarcastic to students?” I ask, eliciting a hum of support.
But Mrs. Malone’s voice comes over the speaker, announcing our squad, before Horny has a chance to respond.
“Come on, girls,” Bianca says, trotting toward the field. She turns around and runs backward. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint our favorite new coach,” she adds. And if I’m not mistaken, I’d say Bianca winked at me before spinning around again. Weird.
We take formation on the field. The music starts, and we launch into our choreographed dance.
And I must say, even with me slipping frantic searches for the Priory into the routine, we rock the faces off everyone in the stands. I like to think it’s why the Renegades are ahead 16–7 by the time the whistle blows for halftime.
On cue, the homecoming-court nominees head over to the carriage—which I guess sustained only minimal damages in the altercation with Leo—at the head of the processional of floats surrounding the field for the parade.
Bianca and I arrive at the carriage doors at the same time, and there’s an awkward thirty seconds where we both go to climb up at the same time, step back, then try again with equal success. Finally she steps back.
“Go ahead,” she says.
“No, you go ahead,” I respond.
“No, seriously,” she says. “I’m sorry I jumped in your way. It was wrong.” She gives a weak smile. It’s a bit much for the situation, and I get the distinct impression she’s apologizing for more than cutting me off. An actual apology would be more impressive, but it’s a start.
I climb up the steps into the carriage. Devon is already there, with two seniors from the football team who were also nominated for homecoming king, along with Mandy Allard, the strikingly gorgeous, black-haired sometimes-model and the only senior girl on the ticket for homecoming queen. She doesn’t bother to glare at us, and really, why should she? Juniors are never elected king and queen, even when we’re nominated.
Devon has the decency to look embarrassed when he sees Bianca and me enter the carriage together.
“Ladies,” he says, dipping his head at us before he launches into a conversation with one of the senior guys. We take our places for optimal viewing around the carriage as the marching band warms up, their horns and trumpets tooting and honking above the roar of the crowd.
I glance over at Aunt Penny and Bishop again. They’re making small talk, and Aunt Penny doesn’t look like she wants to jab his eyes out. Which is annoying. She waits until I hate the guy to decide he’s all right? Bishop glances over and catches my eye, giving me a little wave. I give him my back.
The driver guns the engine and the float jolts into action. The crowd goes nuts, waving their pennants and madly blowing into their noisemakers as we tour the track around the football field, led by the marching band. It’s easy to get lost in the energy of it all, and I find myself legitimately smiling as I wave at the audience. Weird, considering I could be attacked at any time. The thought puts me back on my game, and I spin around like a freaking contestant on Dancing with the Stars to make sure I’m not caught off guard. But the parade comes to an end, and the Priory doesn’t attack. In fact, the football game ends—Renegades win, 30–11, woo—and still no murderous sorcerers descend on the stadium.
Devon jogs up to me at the end of the game. “Hey, you have a second to talk?”
I glance over my shoulder and confirm my suspicion that Bishop is watching this whole interaction much more intently than any other portion of the game. I nod at Devon.
“Good,” he says. “So look …” He laces his fingers together and cracks his knuckles. After a few false starts he gets going again.
“I know you said you don’t want to hear any excuses about what I did with Bianca—”
My face glows red at the mention of the incident. “Stop right there,” I say. “I don’t want to get into it again. Just because I agreed to go to the dance with you tonight doesn’t mean we’re getting back together. It’s like you said—no use ruining homecoming for both of us.”
“That didn’t come out right,” he says, and it’s his turn for his cheeks to turn pink. “Look, I know we’re not getting back together, but … can we at least be friends?”
My instinct is to kick him in the nads, but that’d probably make for some awkward homecoming dance moments. And so I mumble a “fine” instead. A huge smile instantly lights up his face, and he envelops me in a bear hug.
“Thanks, Ind. I really mean it.” He plants a kiss on top of my head before taking off for the parking lot.
“Friends don’t kiss!” I call to his back, but he’s lost in the crowd. I shake my head.
“You did so great!” Aunt Penny squeals, bounding up behind me with Bishop in tow. She takes me by the shoulders. “You’re a rock star.”
“Made up with Quarterback Jack, I see,” Bishop says oh so casually, as if he were just reporting on the weather. Which is exactly why I know he’s jealous.
I give him an insincere smile.
“Sorry, Bishop,” Aunt Penny says, linking arms with me, “but I have to get this girl home. If we don’t get started on her hair now, she’ll never be ready in time.”
I try not to take that as an insult.
Aunt Penny stands behind me, critically assessing my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
“Something’s missing,” she mumbles, chewing the side of her fingernail.
I can’t imagine what that could possibly be. After three hours under her “professional guidance” (she once worked as a makeup artist on her friend’s indie movie), I’ve had so much gunk caked on my face I was sure that when I finally looked in the mirror I’d be ready to entertain at a children’s birthday party. I’ve had my hair straightened, curled, pulled into elaborate updos, and coated with toxic levels of hair spray, only to be pulled down and washed so many times I’ve lost count. All this only to end up with a simple low bun at the nape of my neck with a few curly tendrils framing my face, paired with light, shimmery eye shadow and bold pink lip gloss. Strangely, it’s my favorite look yet.
“Wait here.”
Aunt Penny leaves the bathroom, returning moments later with a handful of tiny white flowers.
“You just happened to have baby’s breath on hand?” I ask as she scatters the flowers throughout my curls.
“An artist is always prepared,” she says.
She steps back after poking at least eighty more bobby pins into my hair. And this time, she smiles.
“Done?” I ask her reflection.
“Done,” she responds. Her smile fades suddenly and she bites her lips.
“Aunt Penny?”
She tries to smile again but fails. “She loved you so much,” she croaks.
My eyes fill with tears at the mention of Mom. “And I loved her too,” I manage, my voice thick with emotion.
Aunt Penny puts her arms around my waist and rests her cheek against my shoulder. Our gazes meet in the mirror.
“You know, you’re doing a good job,” I say.
She lets out a little sob. We’re still for a moment, the memory of Mom so strong between us it’s practically a tangible thing. And then she straightens up and shakes off like a dog come in from the rain. “Okay, enough of this, you’re going to ruin your makeup, and then what’ll we do? Turn around, check yourself out.”
I spin to take in all the angles of my hair and makeup.
“You’re good,” I say, to which Aunt Penny responds by squealing and clapping.
“I told you to trust me. Devon is going to shit when he sees how hot you look.”
I roll my eyes. “I told you, I don’t care what Devon thinks. We’re just friends. Not even, really. I’m just going with him because everyone else already has a date.”
She cocks her head, a hand on her hip. “So you’re telling me not the tiniest part of you wants him to regret cheating on you?”
“Of course she wants that,” Paige says, poking her head around the open bathroom door. “What girl doesn’t want their cheating boyfriend to grovel and beg for forgiveness on hands and knees?”
“If even just to have better access to kick him in the teeth,” Aunt Penny adds, and they both nod.
“No, actually, I really and truly don’t care,” I say. “I mean, of course I want him to regret it, but no, I don’t care about him.… Ugh!” My cheeks flame. What I really regret is telling Aunt Penny that Devon cheated in the first place. And not just because I had to convince her that the whole ex-UFC-fighter thing was totally unnecessary.
Aunt Penny pats my shoulder, as if to say, “See, I know you better than you know yourself.”
“All right,” Paige says. “Let’s get you into your dress.”
A better plan has not been hatched.
It takes Paige under three minutes from the time we enter my bedroom to get me into the dress Mom helped me pick out months ago—a strapless, corset-back gown that fits tight around my bust, then billows out in a puff of navy-blue, crystal-embellished taffeta that reaches just past my knees (optimal dress length for running, thankfully)—buckle the clasps on my strappy heels (Paige insisted I wear flats, but I argued I can run just as well in heels), and hook my sequined clutch onto my arm. All just in time for the doorbell to ring.
My heart races, and I take a measured breath so that I don’t hyperventilate.
It’s really happening. After days of slapdash training, of Bishop begging his uncle to use whatever influence he has to turn down our plan, of Jezebel pleading with the Family until they miraculously agreed to our plan, of Bishop caving once he realized we really were going to do it with or without him, homecoming night is finally here.
“I’ll get it,” Aunt Penny says, a blur in the hallway.
“Devon’s right on time,” I say. “Now, there’s a shocker.” Especially considering Bianca is hosting a pre-homecoming party the whole universe except me is invited to. Not that I’d go even if I were invited. But Paige doesn’t laugh at my joke, just twists her hands together.
“Wish me luck,” I say, my traitorous voice cracking.
“I still don’t see why I can’t help,” Paige blurts out. Behind her glasses tears well up, which she doesn’t even try to wipe away.
I sigh and swallow my own tears, because one of us has to be the strong one.
“I know, I know,” Paige says. “You never thought you’d see the day when I was begging you to go to homecoming. But I just can’t stand sitting on the sidelines while you’re in danger.”
“Potentially in danger,” I correct her. “They might not even show up. It’s not like they didn’t have plenty of opportunities at the game today.”
“I know,” she says. “It’s just …” She shakes her head, mumbling something under her breath. Not for the first time, I worry that she’s just pretending she’s going over to Jessie’s for an anti-homecoming Jeopardy! party. That she’s going to follow me the minute I leave the house. I take her by the forearms and shake her until she looks up at me.
“Seriously, Paige. If the Priory knows anything about me, they’ll know you’re my closest friend. They could take you hostage. It’s hugely unsafe for you to be there.”
“I don’t care about that,” she says, pushing her chin up.
“But I do,” I tell her. “Yeah, my magic has improved, but I’m nothing compared with the Priory. The last thing I need is to have to look after you on top of myself. I won’t even have a chance then. Promise me you’re not going to follow me.”
She’s quiet a moment, her lips pressed into a line as a rogue tear slips down her cheek. Finally, she lets out a slow breath. “Fine. I don’t like it, but fine.”
She twines her fingers with mine and squeezes so hard it hurts, giving me a weak smile that I translate to “Good luck, stay safe, and in case you die, I love you.” It’s a complicated smile.
And then I walk downstairs.
Devon stands in the doorway, sporting the black tuxedo with a powder-blue vest and navy bow tie that we picked out because it both matches my gown and makes his eyes look impossibly blue. I could stand less gel in his hair, but that’s just me being picky—he looks great. And I feel nothing. Despite all my reassurances to Paige and Penny that I didn’t care about Devon, I will admit now that I did worry our date would somehow rekindle my desire for him, and then I’d end up being one of those lame-o girls who takes back her cheating boyfriend. I couldn’t be happier to find that the Devon-fire is safely dead.
Devon’s eyes go from my hair, linger around my on-display bust, and then move down to my legs.
“You look amazing,” he says. And even though I’m his date because there’s no one else left to ask, he actually looks sincere when he says it. “I have this.” He holds up a little plastic box with a corsage made of white orchids.
“Oh!” I turn to retrieve the box with Devon’s matching boutonniere from the coffee table, but Paige is already on it.
Aunt Penny snaps pictures while Devon slips the corsage around my wrist and I fumble to pin the boutonniere to his lapel. It feels silly to be doing all these things with him, and not just because the point of the evening is to lure the Priory out and not to make lasting high school memories. Though, if everything goes to plan, I’m sure that’ll happen too.
After hundreds of horribly posed pictures at various locales around the living room, Devon and I head for the door.
“Wait!” Aunt Penny calls to my back.
I spin around. Aunt Penny chews the inside of her cheek, her index finger pressed to her lips.
“What is it?” I ask.
Her eyes flit to Paige and then to Devon before settling on me again. “Just be careful, okay?”
Ew. It’s one thing for Aunt Penny to help out with my hair and makeup but another thing entirely when she gives me sex advice. Cool aunt or no.
“Careful. Yeah, sure.” I snag Devon’s arm to get out of here fast.
“Wait!”
Ugh. I spin around in the doorway. “Yes?”
Aunt Penny opens and closes her mouth as if trying to find the right words. I’m about to blurt out that she needn’t worry, because I’m not having sex tonight, when she finally speaks. “If … if you find yourself in a tough position”—she bites her bottom lip—“you can always call on Alica Frangere.”
Alica Frangere? I’ve never heard of the woman. I exchange confused glances with Paige. “Who’s that?” I ask.
Aunt Penny presses a hand to her temple, a pained look crossing her face.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She waves me away. “Just a headache. Forget about it. You’ll be fine, and have a great time tonight.” When I don’t move, she shoos me to the door. “Seriously, go, have fun.” She smiles so widely I’m forced to believe she’s okay.
Devon links arms with me and leads me outside. I crane my neck to look back inside the house until Aunt Penny closes the front door. He leads me down the three steps as though I’m a fragile doll that might break just because I’m wearing a dress. It’s ridiculous, but then I remember that Bishop and Jezebel are watching somewhere in the falling twilight, and I cling to Devon’s arm like the leading lady in some black-and-white movie all the way down the drive to Devon’s car.
Take that, jerkwad.
All I can say about the drive to Elysian Park, where we’re meeting up for photos with the group who went to Bianca’s party, is thank God for Jay-Z. I don’t know how I ever thought Devon and I were a good match, but in the many instances of awkward silence and stilted conversation that occur in the short drive, it has become very clear that we’re not. We’re so not.
Devon circles the parking lot and finds a spot at the rear. He opens my door for me, and that’s where the chivalry ends. He spots his friends climbing out of Jarrod’s car a few rows over and practically sprints over to join.
Right away I see one of the Amy/Ashley twins and Julia with their respective football-player dates, but it’s only as I get closer that I spot Bianca. It’s kind of hard not to spot her, with her white-blond hair, tanned skin, and hot-pink, painted-on dress that scoops low at the neck to show off her ta-tas.
Something like anxiety grips me. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act around her after her sort-of apology. It was much easier when my feelings weren’t so unclear (read: when I hated her guts).
Bianca smiles as I approach, a proprietary arm linked around a disinterested-looking college-age guy with an acne problem who I instantly recognize as Sebastian. He gives me a not-so-subtle up-and-down appraisal that Bianca catches the tail end of, and I can practically see the friendliness drain out of her, like it’s my fault her date is a douche.
She passes a critical eye over my dress. “Nice, did Sears have a sale?” Amy/Ashley laughs, and I shoot her a hard look that shuts her up.
So it’s like that now? Bianca knows my family has a hard time with money, knows just what buttons to press.
“That’s funny, Bianca. And I assume you found your dress in the children’s section at Barneys?” I say, bringing to light her little secret. “Because there’s no way that thing”—I circle a finger around her tiny dress—“was made for anyone over ten.”
“Oh, come on, girls,” Jarrod says. He produces a twenty-sixer of Jack Daniel’s from the backseat. “It’s homecoming. Have a shot.”
I cross my arms and look away.
“I’ll have one.” The swish of liquid tells me Bianca’s snagged the bottle from Jarrod. “I’m not a loser, after all.”
Must remember priorities. Must not punch her in the ovaries.
“Hey, that must be the photographer,” Julia says.
“ ’Bout friggin’ time,” Bianca says. “We’re not paying her just to stand around the parking lot. If we’re late to our dinner because of this I am so going to lose it. Lose it.”
I roll my eyes. At this rate I’d be pleased for the Priory to come swooping in, just so that I can throw Bianca in their warpath.
I’ve almost convinced myself this is true, but when my cell phone buzzes in my handbag, I feel like I might have leaped out of my skin if my corset weren’t so tight. I glance at the caller ID, and my heart picks up its pace. Paige. I casually wander a few steps away from the group to answer.
“Any sign of the Priory yet?” Paige asks.
“No, and don’t say the P word. Jessie could hear you.”
“I’m in the bathroom, and I’m just really nervous, okay? Call me as soon as you know what’s going on.”
“You’ll be the first to know.” I stow the phone in my purse and rejoin the group for photos.
And then it’s another wonderfully awful forty-minute drive to the Athenaeum in Pasadena, the venue for this year’s homecoming dinner and dance.
A ripple of fear runs through me as Devon leads me to the entrance of the massive white stucco building. Because here’s where I leave my protection behind. It was easy to be sort of confident about this whole thing with a practiced warlock and witch out there watching my every move, but when I go inside, Bishop and Jezebel—and the Family, but they won’t arrive until we really need help, so as not to tip off the Priory—won’t follow.
I take a slow breath and remind myself that they’ll be watching closely, that Bishop wouldn’t let the Priory get too close without charging inside to help
I don’t even have to enter the Athenaeum to know that Fairfield High has pulled out all the stops to make this year’s theme come to life.
The stone path leading to the entrance has been transformed into a drawbridge, complete with fully costumed, sword-and-shield-carrying guards standing sentinel at the entrance. As we enter, a herald blows a trumpet draped with a flag, then announces to the room that Lady Indigo Blackwood and Sir Devon Mills have arrived. Next to him, a woman in a crinoline gown plays the harp. It doesn’t stop there.
Inside, the Athenaeum looks like I’ve just stepped into King Arthur’s court. Swaths of deep red fabric hang from the ceiling, gathered in the center by an ornate gold chandelier. Navy pennant banners are slung between each of the turret-peaked white columns that act as a perimeter around the long dining room tables—each of which is draped in alternating red and gold tablecloths and is decked, buffet-style, with everything from whole cooked turkeys to dessert trays, flower garlands laced between the acres of food. But by far the most noticeable of the themed decor is the giant papier-mâché dragon whose spiky green tail snakes around the columns, its fire-breathing head looking out toward the dance floor. I wouldn’t be surprised if they passed around samples of the bubonic plague at dinner, for authenticity’s sake.
We mill around inside, admiring the decor, until, at the urging of the herald, we take our seats in the dining room.
I’m not hungry, but I pick at my dinner anyway—strength for battle and whatnot. By the time the butlers (seriously) have cleared the table, there’s still been no sign of the Priory. I do get another call from Paige, though, which I let go to voice mail. The girl can be annoying, God love her.
The soft dinner music cuts out to a DJ, who blasts Top 40 music through giant speakers set up in all corners of the room. The lights dim, and we’re ushered onto a dance floor teeming with artificial smoke and strobe lights. Just like in King Arthur’s court.
Still no Priory.
I must say, it’s hard to find a rhythm when you’re worried about a sorcerer killing you at any moment, but I try, because the whole point is that I appear to be casual, that I don’t look like I’m trying to lure the Priory out so we can reclaim the Bible and kill them.
Minutes turn into hours. The bottle of JD makes the rounds, and soon the dance floor is a writhing mass of teenagers bumping and grinding against each other in a formal-wear orgy.
The end of the night nears, and it becomes obvious the Priory isn’t coming, that they must have been on to our plans, when the music abruptly cuts out. My pulse drums harder than the beat of the club music still echoing in my ears.
But it’s not the Priory—just Mrs. Malone, dressed in an embarrassingly tight sequined dress, tapping the microphone onstage. There’s a table draped in red velvet behind her, atop which sits a large and a small version of the same jewel-encrusted gold crown.
“I trust you’re all having fun?” Mrs. Malone asks, nodding as if she knows the answer already.
Mrs. Malone smiles brightly. “All right, you’re all probably wondering why I’m interrupting your evening, so I’ll cut to the chase.” She pauses, and the crowd grows quiet. “It’s time to announce this year’s Fairfield High homecoming king and queen.”
Her last words are muffled by raucous applause.
Mrs. Malone waits a moment before holding up a hand for silence. “First, the homecoming king.”
The students roar. Our principal sweeps her gaze over the crowd, clearly loving her part in all the excitement.
“Over one thousand students voted, and it was unanimous: this year’s homecoming king is … Devon Mills!”
Whoa—an underclassman won homecoming king.
The football players lead a “Devon, Devon!” chant, and the rest of the crowd joins in.
“Come on up here, Devon.” Mrs. Malone waves him over.
Devon high-fives his friends before he jogs onstage. He bows low so that Mrs. Malone can place the larger gold crown atop his gelled blond hair, then waves to the audience in his best royalty impression.
Mrs. Malone returns to the microphone. “Doesn’t he make a charming king?” She allows the crowd a moment more of applause. “And now, what you’ve all been waiting for.”
The DJ begins a drumroll.
There’s a commotion on the dance floor, and Mandy Allard is pushed to the front of the crowd, rolling her eyes and smiling widely in her sad attempt to be humble.
Mrs. Malone continues. “It was a close call this year, but the votes are in; this year’s Fairfield High homecoming queen is … Indigo Blackwood!”
The crowd erupts into the same raucous applause that Devon received.
“What?” Mandy and Bianca say together. My jaw is somewhere on the booze-slick dance floor.
I couldn’t agree with them more. Me? A junior? Homecoming queen? After everything that happened? After falling out with Bianca and after befriending the girl everyone thinks is the school’s biggest loser?
It has to be pity, I decide. People feel bad for me because Mom died.
Hands push me forward, and I stumble onstage, squinting against the bright light and the flash of cameras in the audience. I bend down like Devon did so that Mrs. Malone can place the crown on my head. It’s heavier than expected, and I straighten carefully so that it doesn’t topple off. And then, finally, I allow myself to look out at the audience.
Bianca and Mandy sulk off toward the bathroom, Julia hot on their heels. But that’s it: just those three girls in the entire room of students appear the least bit upset with the decision, and the rest cheer as though they’re genuinely happy. And for the first moment, I realize that maybe not everyone loves Bianca. Maybe other people realize what a terrible person she is. It makes me feel sort of bad for her, which is shocking after the whole Sears dress debacle.
But then I see Bishop, and all thoughts of Bianca slip away. He’s inside, leaning against one of the turret-peaked columns that border the room, his hands plunged deep in the pockets of his suit pants, his wing tips crossed at the ankles. He looks up at me from under the bowler hat that sits cocked slightly forward on his head, under which spills his familiar tangle of black waves. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in anything but rocker clothing, and though I’m not entirely sure this doesn’t qualify as that, it makes me suck in a little breath. That, and the fact that he shouldn’t be here. And since he is, I guess it means everyone else has given up on the Priory too.
Bishop tips his hat and sends me a crooked grin, and I find myself smiling back before I remember that I’m supposed to hate him.
An arm wraps around my middle, and I jerk my gaze away from Bishop as the crowd begins chanting, “Kiss, kiss, kiss!”
Before I even get a chance to process what’s happening, Devon dips me backward and plants a wet kiss on my lips. For a moment, I’m too shocked to react, but then I realize that Devon’s kissing me, kissing me in front of the whole school, in front of Bishop, and that it’s not what I want. I put my hands onto his chest to push him away, but it’s too late. He’s already pulling me back to my feet.
And Bishop is gone.
Panting for air, I scan the columns at the back of the room, desperate to find him. But a strange movement in the room catches my attention. I squint into the darkness, sure that my eyes are playing tricks on me, because what I just saw cannot be right. Then the massive, green-spiked tail of the papier-mâché dragon flicks again, and my doubts are cast aside. The dragon is coming to life.