Avery’s essay is a bit maudlin, but not terrible. She talks about knowing Emma for practically her whole life, that familiarity, taking her friend’s presence for granted, and exploring her emotions and new perspective on life. I agree with Megan that “What I’ve Learned from My Friend’s Death” likely won’t play well with admissions, but I still don’t fault Avery for trying. I understand the impulse.
Tyler’s essay is something else. Several lines are lifted straight from the obituary he submitted to the school paper. I hear a toilet flush and resort to skimming. It’s eerie, reading his account of the memorial, his staid version of Mr. Tipton’s arrest. Things feel very different, very much not like fodder for college admissions essays, when you’re the one being dragged behind a building and thrown up against a wall by a possible killer.
I rush to close out the tabs I’ve opened and get back into my chair with seconds to spare before Megan rounds the corner.
“If it’s okay with you, I’m going upstairs to check in with Avery,” I say to her. “Unless you need me down here?”
“Oh yeah, that’s fine. Actually…” She checks the time. “I’ll finish these at home. You’ll have notes by the time you wake up tomorrow morning.”
It’s fine by me, so I thank her for her help and head upstairs. Avery is in her bathroom, and she looks like someone punched her in the face. When I walk in, she’s leaning close to the mirror, applying black liner liberally, extending the lines far beyond her eyes, creating a smudged mask look. She’s ratted and curled her hair, twisted sections into braids, and is only half-dressed, but I can already tell who she is.
“Lexa, huh?”
Avery grins at her reflection, making eye contact with me in the mirror. “Like it? It’s the best I can do with this morbid-ass party theme. Plus, I get to wear a leather corset. Win-win. I put your costume on your bed. No wussing out.”
“That makes me think I’m going to hate it.”
“You’ll love it, but you’ll protest. Go.”
With a groan, I head down the hall to discover my fate for the evening. There it is, laid across the crisp white bedspread, an equally white and crisp dress. Next to it, a short and carefully curled blond wig and a strapless bra. Oh no.
I take a deep breath and remember what I told Cataldo. I’ve got to play the game.
It takes some tugging, to be sure, but I manage to secure the strapless bra, somehow shoving into the cups with minimal spillage, and shimmy into the dress. Though the real test is whether the dress will zip up. I hear a shuffle at the door, turn around, expecting Avery. But it’s Tyler. My hands fly up to the front of the dress to hold it in place so he doesn’t get a show. His hair is immaculately coiffed, and he’s wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and a leather jacket.
“What are you doing here?”
“Sorry.” He waves off my state of partial dress, eyes not even lingering. Perfect gentleman. Or I’m not hot enough for his tastes. Either way. “I wanted to ask how it went with the detective. What did she ask you?”
I take a deep breath, exhale into the most casual posture and tone I can manage. “Oh, nothing major. She needed to corroborate all the sexts Tipton sent Emma that I found on her second phone. Needs it all on the record for when it goes to court. You know.”
Tyler’s face falls at mention of the sexts, and immediately I feel like an asshole for being so casual about it. An apology doesn’t seem like enough, so instead I deflect, change the subject.
“James Dean, right?”
“What? Oh, uh, yeah. It’s my dad’s. Some old Halloween costume.”
“Quite the theme you picked for the party.” I can’t help ribbing him gently. Tyler’s shoulders go stiff, and his mouth hardens into a straight line.
“It’s to help everyone process their grief. My grief. I thought you, of all people, would understand.”
He reminds me of one of those fire-and-brimstone preachers who used to be on television, firm and fervent in his conviction. I sense it’s best not to argue, so I simply offer a tight smile. Avery appears behind him, nostrils flaring.
“Tyler, you perv, get out of here!” She boots him from the doorway and rushes in, shutting the door behind her. When she motions for me to turn around, I obey, and she zips me up. “See, totally fits.”
Immediately I spring for the bathroom to check for myself. It feels really tight on top. My eyes practically bug out of my head. “Avery, my boobs are falling out of this!”
“Yes, it looks great.” She appears behind me, hairnet and wig in hand. “Now for this.”
I have no choice. Tonight, I will be Marilyn Monroe.
People start trickling in at eight, and lucky me, one of the first guests to arrive is my least-favorite Ivy. Margot makes clear from her just-sniffed-poo-under-my-nose expression that the feeling is mutual. Unlike Avery, she has not forgiven me for my sleuthing. Which sucks, because I really want to grill her about Tipton. She had to know that Emma was hooking up with him, which makes her the prime suspect as his blackmailer, or she might be aware of who else knew. I’ve had one drink, and already my blood is thrumming with that old drive. I know I’m supposed to be playing it cool, but the party is the perfect opportunity to gather more information. Everyone will be getting ass drunk and will be off their guard.
“You came all the way from New York?” I ask Margot, who is dressed in a tightly cinched trench coat and has artful smudges across her cheek and brow. I guess she’s Éponine from Les Mis, which is so on brand for the musical diva that I nearly laugh. I try to make friendly conversation as she scoops herself some special punch. Because, yes, at Avery’s party there is punch, and other classy drinks like gin fizzes and champagne.
“I’m staying at an Airbnb in town,” she replies breezily, like that should have been obvious. “New York is overcrowded and so passé. You know people have to wear adult diapers to Times Square? It’s gross. Of course, my parents always have a reservation at the Crowne Plaza, but I’ve done that so many times.”
Typically, I spend New Year’s Eve in my living room with my mother, wearing our pajamas and goofy hats, sipping sparkling apple cider and stuffing ourselves with cookies. Approximately half the time, Mom falls asleep before the ball drops, and I ring in the New Year to the dulcet sounds of her snoring.
“I invited Sierra to stay with me, but she says Los Angeles is perfect this time of year, and she just got back,” Margot says. “And why are you here?”
“Had an appointment with the police,” I answer matter-of-factly. It wipes the derision off Margot’s face.