MEG
IF MY AVATAR AND LEGS’S GOT TOGETHER, THEY’D ACTUALLY MAKE A PRETTY cute couple. My green hair and his tree-stump legs against a nature background—the perfect fit. Though purple skin isn’t very nature-y. It is definitely badass, though, and Legs is badass, too. Sort of. More funny and kind, I guess.
“How many?” Kat’s question breaks into my thoughts.
I’m not admitting to her that I wasn’t listening. Again. I could just tell her about my ADHD, but what if it scares her away like it seems to do with everyone else? And it’s her own fault I’m so scattered. She insisted we work on our science proposal today, even though we stayed up way too late last night playing LotS.
“Um, ten,” I say.
She chews her lip and studies her page of neat, straight writing. “Do you know that many people?”
“What, ten people? Of course!”
“Okay.” She writes it down. “So this week we’ll both do some research on sugar so we can ensure our hypotheses make sense. I think this is a good start.”
A good start. Sweet. “Hey, don’t you think my avatar and Legs’s would make a cute couple?”
She purses her lips, and for a moment I think she’s going to ream me out for changing the topic, even though she basically just said we’re done. But then she says, “Well, his is quite a bit taller than yours. But your dwarf’s green hair would go well with his legs.”
I grin. “An excellent point.” The image of Legs’s face slips out of my mind and is replaced by another. “Hey, what did you think of Grayson?”
She looks back up from her paper. “Who?”
“Boxer Boy. I pointed him out in the caf, remember? Looks kind of like Legs.”
She shrugs. “I don’t think I actually saw him.”
“You didn’t? I’ll have to point him out again on Monday.” I wonder what type of character he’d play in LotS. An archer, obviously. “He’s a dragonlord archer,” I decide.
“Oh, cool,” Kat says, looking much more interested than she did a moment ago.
All week I watch for Grayson in the cafeteria so I can point him out again to Kat, but he must eat elsewhere sometimes, because I don’t spot him until Friday. “There!” I say, pointing to a table in the back corner.
“Don’t point,” Kat snaps, then turns her head ever so slightly in that direction. “The guy with the floppy hair and black shirt?” She’s whispering, as if there’s any chance he could hear her all the way across the busy room.
“That’s the one! Doesn’t he look kind of like Legs?”
She shrugs, then jerks her head down. “He’s spotted us.”
“He has?” I stand and turn, and sure enough, he’s looking right at us. I wave, then immediately regret waving, then don’t regret it at all because he actually waves right back and grins this grin so magical it should be named Perfection.
I sit back down to find Kat blinking wide-eyed at me, cheeks tinged with red.
“Isn’t he adorable?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Let’s just work on our proposal,” she whispers. She pulls our drafted and redrafted plan from her backpack.
“I told you, I don’t do homework at lunchtime,” I say, but I’m too happy to really protest. “Maybe Grayson can be one of the people we test. That’s a good idea. Write that down.”
Kat just rolls her eyes.
KAT
EVEN THOUGH OUR PROPOSAL IS PRETTY FAR ALONG, MY HEART POUNDS AS Mr. Carter leans over my desk to peer at it.
One judgment . . . two approval . . .
“Nice hypotheses,” Mr. Carter says.
“We want to do a bit more research on sugar this weekend,” Meg pipes up, which surprises me because I didn’t think she was listening when I told her that the research we’d done—and she had actually done a bit after I texted her to remind her—didn’t quite answer all my questions. “To make sure they make sense.”
Mr. Carter nods, eyes still on our paper. He reaches out and taps a line with his pencil. “You’re going to need to test more than ten people, though.”
More than ten.
Seven crowds . . . eight socialization . . .
“How about thirty?” Meg throws out.
“Yes, thirty would be much better.”
Meg grabs the sheet, turns it toward herself, and I’m forced to watch her make the revision as if in slow motion.
We will test ten thirty people.
Thirteen strangers . . . fourteen panic . . .
“Good work so far,” Mr. Carter says, then walks toward the next group, his legs disappearing from my field of view as I stare down at the page.
Sixteen introvert . . . seventeen conversation . . .
Thirty people.
When Meg and I decided on our science project, all I thought was: Legends of the Stone. Video game. Awesome.
I did not think about the fact that we would have to test real people. And I did not think about the fact that we would have to recruit those people.
I’m thinking about it now.
Twenty extroverts . . . twenty-one doomed . . .
“He said, ‘Good work,’” Meg says, beaming like she’s never had a teacher say that before, though I know she’s acing history and drama. She’s sitting backward in her chair, leaning over my desk, doodling on the corner of our proposal.
I can’t admit to her that I’m panicking. Can’t tell her that even though I’ve been here for more than a month, she’s the only person I know. We don’t need to actually finish the testing until February, with a check-in in January. That’s loads of time. Months and months. Which means I can push it out of my mind for now, and we can deal with that issue later. The people issue.
I hate people.
“Even me?” Meg asks, which could mean she’s a mind reader, but probably just means I accidentally said that out loud.
“You’re not people. You’re Meg.”
And something about the way she grins at that makes me feel the tiniest bit better.
LEGENDS OF THE STONE
[]Sythlight: Good job, team.
MEGAdawn: I only died five times!
KittyKat: you’re definitely improving
MEGAdawn: yeah now that we’ve handed in our proposal and you’re actually letting us play again instead of working all the time
KittyKat: oh shush. we played tons while we were working on it.
[]Sythlight: I should probably go soon. Need to go for a run before it gets dark.
MEGAdawn: u run in the snow?
[]Sythlight: No snow yet. It’s only October.
KittyKat has entered the waterlands.
MEGAdawn: we have a ton already
MEGAdawn: it snowed all weekend
MEGAdawn: u down somewhere south?
[]Sythlight: Nope, near Toronto.
[]Sythlight has entered the greenlands.
MEGAdawn: WOOOOO TEAM CANADA
MEGAdawn: we’re in Edmonton
[]Sythlight: A lot of us on here are in Canada. I think Pterion’s in Halifax. That’s how I connected with Lucien on the forums in the first place. Discovered we were both in Ontario and he invited me on here.
MEGAdawn: ur not a true Canadian if you don’t have snow yet, though
MEGAdawn has entered the waterlands.
KittyKat: stop perpetuating Canadian stereotypes
MEGAdawn: there’s no one else even on
Private Message from MEGAdawn to KittyKat:
MEGAdawn: u and Sythlight should totally get married
KittyKat: you’re ridiculous. I don’t even know if Syth is a girl or boy
MEGAdawn: boy
KittyKat: you don’t know that for sure
MEGAdawn: hey Syth, u a guy or a girl?
Private Message from KittyKat to MEGAdawn:
KittyKat: you are sooooo embarrassing
[]Sythlight: Guy. Why?
Private Message from MEGAdawn to KittyKat:
MEGAdawn: told you so
KittyKat: gah, he’s gonna think we’re stalking him
KittyKat: and maybe he doesn’t even like girls
KittyKat: BUT DON’T YOU DARE ASK THAT
KittyKat: and also I really don’t care
MEGAdawn: I have a theory that boys play girl and boy characters, but girls only play girls
KittyKat: that’s not confusing at all
[]Sythlight: How many people have you asked?
MEGAdawn: 1
MEGAdawn: so far 100% right. :P
Private Message from KittyKat to MEGAdawn:
KittyKat: if you want me to marry him, then you should probably stop flirting with him
MEGAdawn: OMG am I? so sorry!
KittyKat: dude, I’m not actually going to marry him. flirt away
MEGAdawn: no I’ll stop
MEGAdawn: random fact—I’m lactose intolerant so I fart after I eat ice cream
Private Message from KittyKat to MEGAdawn:
KittyKat: OMG!
MEGAdawn: no problem
MEG
NORMALLY, I LOVE SNOW——LOVE THE WAY IT TURNS GRAY STREETS WHITE AND piles up on lawns like mounds of fluffy pillows and makes everyone look like they have white hair. A city of grandparents.
As I bash my knee into the washing machine, though, I curse the stuff. Loudly.
The rest of our house is draped in carpet—except for the living room, but Mom yelled at me when she found me skateboarding on the hardwood floor. Which means that I’m stuck trying to learn this kick turn in our laundry room. The room may have cement floors, but it is way too tiny to do this trick right, let alone to do it wrong.
I let the skateboard skitter away toward the drain as I jab pause on the YouTube tutorial. My knee has taken enough bashing for now, and so has the washing machine. I pat it apologetically as I hop up to sit atop it. Then I text Kat.
I m bored.
She won’t respond. It’s Tuesday evening, which means she’s supposed to be out helping her granddad do I forget what. Maybe smoke a pipe and sort through old newspapers, snipping out articles about capitalism and world wars and the weather. I wonder if he has a weather clipping from every day since the war. Is he old enough to have been alive during one of those big ones? I could probably try to calculate it, but why bother?
My phone rings and I snatch it up, thinking it might be Kat, but it’s stupid Stephen-the-Leaver. I refuse to give him a moment’s thought. I hit the ignore button, hop off the washer, and head in search of my real parent who actually cares. She’s in her computer room, furiously typing numbers into some Excel spreadsheet. She’s been spending a lot of time doing that since her marketing company started doing so well.
“I’m going for a walk,” I report, then duck back out of there before she can subject me to some boring rant about how much she hates accounting. “You should hire a bookkeeper,” I always tell her, and she always says she can do it herself.
“Meg!” she calls after me, and my heart sinks.
“What?” Reluctantly, I stick my head back inside.
“Take your sister with you,” is all she says, not taking her eyes away from the screen.
I see her then. Kenzie sits on the floor at Mom’s feet, rolling Mom’s pant leg up and down. She gives me an impish grin.
“Come on, little wingling,” I say, swatting her lightly on the back to corral her out of the tiny room. Upstairs, I bundle Kenzie up in her fluorescent-pink snowsuit and alligator hat, then grab my own winter coat, and we head out.
Kenzie purrs some song about a pirate mermaid as we march along—probably one that she made up, but possibly not. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing she’s learned at day care. The wind is nippier than I expected. It seeps through my jeans, making my not-so-recently shaven leg hair stand on end. Fashion be damned; I should have worn snow pants like Kenzie.
“Hey, Meg!” The call comes from across the street. Boxer Boy—Grayson—is waving at us. At me.
There’s a busy street just a few blocks away that hums with constant traffic, but cars are rare on this side avenue, so Grayson barely glances each way before crossing the street to meet us. I stand up straighter, instantly relieved that I didn’t wear snow pants, the ugly things. They’d make my butt look about five sizes larger. Though maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Big butts and all that.
“You babysitting?” he asks as he draws up beside us. His green scarf is bunched around his neck, like a strangling boa constrictor.
“Kind of. This is my sister. Kenzie, say hi.”
She pops her thumb into her mouth, glove and all. Mom has been trying to get her to stop sucking her thumb for about a year, but even mittens won’t deter her.
“I like your snowsuit,” he says, grinning at her. She looks down at her body, brow furrowed, as if she’s just realized what she’s wearing.
“She likes pink,” I tell him. I think that’s why she likes Kat so much, since at least half of Kat’s wardrobe is pink. Kenzie tries to clamber into Kat’s lap pretty much every time she comes over. Kat never seems to mind, though, and she’s better at LotS than me even with Kenzie’s hand under her own on the mouse. “Where are you going?”
“Heading home from archery. I practice Tuesdays and Fridays, usually.”
I glance down the street at the nearby park he must be coming from. It’s really more a square of lawn than a park—snow-covered now, of course—with one large rock and a single line of planted trees. “What do you do? Practice on squirrels or something?”
He laughs, and a little wrinkle forms in his forehead, just above his eyebrow—adorably cute. “It’s target archery, not hunting archery. There’s a range at the club. About five blocks that way.” He waves his hand haphazardly in the direction he had been coming from.
“Oh. That makes a lot more sense.”
“Hey, you going to Schiller’s party on Friday?” Grayson asks. I know Ryan Schiller, but I didn’t know that he was having a party. Now that Lindsey and I don’t talk anymore—we haven’t texted since that weekend she went away—I never know about the good parties.
“Of course,” I say. “You?”
It might just be the snow reflecting in his pupils, but I swear his eyes lighten a little at my words. He nods. “Do you want to— Hey, should your sister be doing that?”
I whirl around, cursing Kenzie in my head before I even see her. She’s two houses away, on someone’s porch, pouring their small tub of ice melt into a heaping mound right in front of the door.
“Kenzie!” I shriek at her. “Put that down!” She doesn’t, of course, and blue crystals keep pouring like a landslide from the tub in her hands.
“At least they won’t have to worry about slipping on ice when they step out the door,” Grayson calls after me, laughing, as I run toward her. I bound up the front steps, snatch the bucket from Kenzie’s hands, and point at the blue pile.
“Clean that up,” I demand, and she scowls at me. As I scoop up gloved handfuls of the stuff, I look back to the sidewalk. Grayson has already moved a few houses down the street, but he’s still looking at us.
“See you Friday!” he shouts, waving.
My hands are full of blue crystals, and I can’t wave back.
KAT
MEG POPS HER HEAD INTO THE KITCHEN, HER SNOW-DUSTED BLACK CURLS hugging tightly together, free from their frequent ponytail. Snow in October is something I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get used to, no matter how long I end up living here.
“Did Mom let you in?” I ask. “I didn’t hear the doorbell.”
“No, your door was unlocked, so I just came in.”
“It was?” I smother the panic in my voice.
“Yes. And an evil murderer named Meg broke in. Be very afraid.”
“Shut up,” I yell over my shoulder as I duck into the hallway to lock the door. When I return to the kitchen, Meg’s sitting in a kitchen chair, backward—she has actually gone to the effort of turning one of the chairs around just to sit in it that way. Her chin rests on the top of the chair back.
“So, let’s talk about what we’re going to wear to Friday’s party.” Since she doesn’t lift her chin, the rest of her head bobs up and down as she talks.
“I thought you came over to borrow my math textbook.” She texted me that she forgot hers at school, and apparently she’s going to get a detention if she fails to do her math homework one more time this month. “And wait, what party?” There’s no way I agreed to go to a party. I would never agree to go to a party.
Meg slips off the chair and heads toward the fridge. “And people say I have a bad memory. I messaged you about it last night. Grayson’s going. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah. I just—I thought you were going with him.” One baboons . . . two drunken revelry . . . “I can’t go.”
“What? No! You have to come with me,” Meg whines, opening the fridge to pour herself a glass of milk. If we were at her house she’d grab a Coke, but we don’t usually have pop in the house unless someone else brings it.
“There’s no way,” I tell her flatly. “I don’t do parties.” Three panicky stampede . . . four trapped in crowded corners . . .
“Don’t do parties yet.”
The only time I’ve ever been to a party, it was an accident. My so-called friend invited me over with “just a few people.” Turns out “just a few” meant at least thirty. Not as many as those huge parties you see in movies, but enough that when she disappeared to make out with her boyfriend and I found myself alone on a couch in a dark corner surrounded by strangers, I forgot how to breathe. I sat there forever, the chatter and faces and laughter swirling around me as I struggled to remember where my lungs were, until finally I pulled myself together enough to go outside and call my mom to pick me up.
I’m not going through that again, but how do I get out of it without telling Meg about my panic attacks? Because there’s no way I’m telling Meg the Fearless that just sitting on a couch with strangers can make me hyperventilate. “Can’t you just go by yourself?”
“Not when I’m trying to impress a guy! What if he’s watching for me? I’ll look like a loner if I show up by myself.” Meg pouts as she slides back into her seat. “Don’t be nervous. It’ll be fun.”
I nibble on a hangnail. The party she’s talking about is probably the full-blown movie type. If she thinks it’s silly for me to be nervous about that, she’s going to think it’s completely ridiculous that a party with thirty people lounging around on couches induces full-blown panic mode. I definitely can’t tell her that. I can’t even tell her that I’m freaking out at the thought of testing thirty people for our science project. Ever since we handed in our proposal, I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night thinking about it. Eight overstimulated . . . nine disappearing friend . . . “Who is this guy again?”
“Grayson. The guy I pointed out in the cafeteria. Like, multiple times. You know, Boxer Boy. You’d like him, Kat. He’s an archer.”
“We don’t need a new archer,” I protest. “We need a tank.”
“No, not in LotS. In real life.”
“What, like with a real bow and arrows and stuff?” I stop gnawing at the tiny, loose flap of skin and nail. “I didn’t know people actually did that.”
She giggles girlishly. “Right? That’s exactly what I thought. So cool.”
“And you think he likes you?” It comes out sounding skeptical, which is not what I mean. Thankfully, Meg doesn’t notice.
“I think he was going to ask me to go with him. Before Kenzie screwed it up.” She scowls and pushes my math text away.
“Well, problem solved then.” My tension-filled shoulders relax. “Call him up and the two of you can go together. You don’t need me.”
Seventeen romance . . . eighteen archery range . . .
Meg plants both her hands on the table, elbows in the air, and stares me down. “I’ll call him up and invite him if,” she challenges, “you pick up your phone and invite any guy in the world on any date of your choice.”
I break eye contact first, glancing down at my phone, then back at her, as my shoulders reunite with their familiar tension. I can’t do that. Obviously I can’t do that. “All right, fine, you win. But I’m still not going.”
“Not going where?” Granddad asks as he shuffles into the kitchen. He was downstairs with Mom and Dad, watching some documentary on whales. I don’t know how he got up the stairs without me hearing him. I don’t know how he ever manages to get up those stairs without breaking his hip again.
Meg hops up from her chair. “Hi! You’re Granddad. We haven’t met yet.” She strides toward him.
“And you’re Meg,” Granddad says. “And no, we haven’t.”
Meg sticks her arm out and I think she’s going to shake his hand, but instead she offers him her fist. Granddad doesn’t even hesitate, just presses his own bony knuckle up to hers in a fist bump.
“I’ve been dying to meet the man with the epic eyebrows,” Meg says, and my face flushes instantly hot. But Granddad just grins and makes the white, bushy caterpillars on his forehead bob up and down. Meg laughs appreciatively. “You sure seem to go out a lot. You’re never here.”
I’m always bumping into Granddad around the house and trying to figure out what the heck to say to him, so it seems to me like he never leaves. But I guess he’s been out when Meg’s visited before.
“Well, I’m not going to let this thing”—he waves his hand toward his hip—“stop me from living my life.”
That’s a sentiment I don’t understand. If I had an excuse to never leave the house, I’d take it.
“You’re even cooler than I expected,” Meg says. Granddad laughs at that, and my stomach twists. This is the first time Meg’s ever met Granddad, and she’s already talking more comfortably with him than I ever have.
Meg heads back to the table, and Granddad hobbles after her. “So, where were the two of you going?” he asks.
“Nowhere, apparently,” Meg says as she plops back down on her backward chair—sideways this time. “Kat’s being a real party pooper. Literally. There’s this party on Friday night, and she refuses to go for no reason.”
“A party?” His eyes travel far away for a moment, before drifting back to us. “You should go, Katharina. Your grandma and I used to go to quite a few before she stopped leaving the house. I met her at a party.”
Even though we’re so different, I’ve always felt like Granddad somehow gets me. But if he thinks I should go to this party, maybe he doesn’t get me at all.
Meg raises her eyebrows at me, as if Granddad meeting my grandma at a party is so romantic that I can’t possibly argue with it. But it does nothing to quell my panic. I might find it more compelling if I had ever met my grandma, but she died before I was born. Granddad has always just been Granddad. My granddad.
“Was she a good dancer?” Meg asks, and Granddad’s face lights up. How does Meg always know what to say? Even to people she’s just met?
“Oh, was she ever,” he says. “She could dance a mean twist.”
“Man, I wish I could dance the twist,” Meg says, climbing to her feet as if she’s going to try right now.
“If it wasn’t for this hip, I’d teach you.”
Their banter is so smooth. They’re both so adventurous.
I’ve always known how much Granddad loved me. Always. Except, now that we live together, now that he’s seen how terribly scared I am all the time, I wonder if that’s changed. Not that I think he doesn’t love me anymore, but if he doesn’t understand, then maybe he’s unimpressed. Disappointed.
Meg and Granddad chatter away about different dance moves, old and new, as I try to imagine going to another party. I can’t picture it. My brain shoves the image away and I see only darkness. Feel the tightness in my lungs from holding my breath.
I let it out. One elephant . . . two fear . . .
Granddad should just go with Meg. He’d probably love that. She’d probably love that. They could go together, and I could sit alone in my room watching LumberLegs like I’ve done so many times before.
Except I don’t want that. I don’t want to be left behind and forgotten about. Don’t want to never leave the house because I’m too afraid. Don’t want to fail our science project because I can’t talk to people. Meg laughs at something Granddad says, and I scowl, but neither of them notices. I’m already being left behind.
Would it really be so bad to go to this party? I wouldn’t have to talk to people there, just be around them. It’s a baby step, really. If I can just be around hordes of people, then maybe I’ll be able to test hordes of people for our project when the time comes. Maybe I’ll be able to stop being a disappointment.
Meg and Granddad won’t need to understand me if I can just keep up with them. And I’m a capable, competent person; I should be able to keep up with them.
Seven baby steps . . . eight bravery . . .
“Fine, I’ll go,” I spit out, interrupting them.
Meg stops the pop-and-lock dance move she’s showing off to Granddad and spins toward me, beaming. “Really?”
No, not really, I want to say. No way in hell. No way in the badlands. No way in an epic rift of doom. But with both of them grinning proudly at me—proud of me for being brave, for being adventurous, for being more like them—there’s no way to back out.
Meg and I are going to a party.
MEG
I CRANK THE VOLUME ON MY SPEAKERS AND LEAP ONTO MY BED. THE MUSIC acts like a duck call; Kenzie comes flapping into the room and hops up beside me. I twirl her around and we leap, spin, and head pound around the room together.
I’ve already showered and scrunched styler into my hair and hung upside down off my bed while diffusing it and dressed and put on my makeup for tonight’s party, which means I should probably sit quietly with my ankles crossed until it’s go time. But screw that.
Droplets of sweat gather in my armpits. Thankfully, the sleeves of the hugely oversized green shirt I’m wearing over black leggings are too big and flowy to get noticeable pit stains. I texted Kat pictures of all my different outfit options yesterday, and this is the one she picked. Well, actually, she picked a different one, but I vetoed that one, and this was her second pick.
Aside from outfit choices, I tried not to bring up the party too much this week, because Kat’s already-pale face gets even paler every time I mention it, but yesterday, Grayson waved at me again from across the caf, and then, admittedly, I couldn’t really talk about anything else all day. Kat will be fine, though—more than fine; she’ll have an epic time. We’ll dance together, and then I’ll introduce her to Grayson, and then we’ll all dance together, and she’ll loosen up so much that we might even scope out a cute guy for her to say hello to.
My phone roars its Chewbacca cry. Speak of the devil—or the Wookiee or whatever.
I can’t make it. Sorry.
Ha-ha, funny. I tap out my response.
lol good try, see u soon
I know she’s a bit nervous, but I also know she won’t stand me up like Lindsey used to. Kat’s dependable that way. And she has nothing to be nervous about, because she’ll be with me. BFFs together forever. I stick my pinkie up in the air. “I promise I won’t leave your side for any reason whatsoever. Pinkie swear.”
Kenzie yanks at my leggings. “Who’re you talking to?”
“Invisible Kat,” I say.
“Oh,” she says, as if this makes perfect sense, then continues her own special version of headbanging—ducking her head down between her knees, curls hanging almost to the floor, before whipping up so quickly she almost throws herself backward.
My palms are sweating, but I’m not sure if it’s from dancing, nervousness, or excitement. I can’t wait for Kat to meet him, not just have him pointed out from across the room. I want her to tell me if he likes me or if I’m reading it all wrong.
I pick up Kenzie and twirl her around so fast the giggles burst out of her like a sneeze. A rainbow sneeze. I set her back down and she wobbles on her feet like a little drunken woman. Or squirrel. I wonder what squirrels would be like drunk. Now that would be an interesting science project thingy.
“When’s Princess Kat coming?” Kenzie asks.
“Soon.” I check my phone. No texts. She should be here by now, should have been here a while ago, actually. “She’s not coming to play with you, though. We’re going out.” If she ever gets here. I message her again.
dude where are u?!!?!?
Kenzie sticks out her lip and puts her hand on her hip in a queen-of-brat pose that she definitely did not learn from me. I pat her on the head with one hand and dial Kat’s number with the other. It rings. And rings and rings. Then her boring, automated voice mail. “You have reached 780-5 . . .” I hang up, then try again. Still nothing.
I try another message.
Kat?!?!?
Nothing. I call again, and then again. Nothing and more nothing.
I flip through my text log and stare at her original message:
I can’t make it. Sorry.
Mom ducks her head through my doorway. “Meg, what time is Kat coming?” Her voice is more high-pitched than usual. A stray curl sticks out at the back of her neck. Did it come loose from her bun, or did she miss it when she put her hair up in the first place?
“I—I don’t think she is,” I say. “I mean, she was supposed to be coming, but now she’s not. I guess.”
“You’re not going out, then? That’s a relief. You can watch Kenzie and Nolan. I’ve got to pop over to your aunt’s. Teddy’s having another seizure.”
“No, Mom, I—”
She’s gone, though, before I can even figure out how I want to protest. “Kenzie, Nolan—Meg’s in charge,” she calls, already somewhere far away—probably at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m going to help with your cousin. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
And then I’m stuck at home. In my bedroom. Alone. Looking after two miniature monsters. Not dancing. Not drinking. Not making out with Boxer Boy. The outfit we spent hours deciding on, the wave from across the cafeteria that made my heart race all day—all for nothing.
And all for nothing why? I don’t get it. Why isn’t she coming? Why would she abandon me like that? Without any explanation. Just like Lindsey. And Brad’s friends. Why does everyone end up being the same?
Why do I somehow always end up alone?
I drop my phone on the floor, kick it across the room, then flop down on my bed and start on what is now officially my most exciting activity of the evening—staring at the ceiling.