“Little Sister is a real bitch, isn’t she?’ Chasm asks, and then he cranks the stereo up to ear shattering levels, leaving me to sit hunched in the back seat with my palms pressed over my ears as I grit my teeth.
I started off wanting to make friends; I usually try the nice route first. But these guys are not making it easy.
About thirty minutes later, just as I’m starting to become convinced that my eardrums are about to explode, we pull up to a massive, filigreed gate with the words Whitehall Preparatory Academy arched over the top.
Shit.
“We’re at the school?” I choke out, staring down at my bare feet and then looking back up and out the front window as Parrish follows a narrow road that winds around the back of the school. There’s a parking garage, half-buried in the hillside. This is where we park, and then the boys are up and out of their seats, taking their book bags with them.
“What am I supposed to do with no shoes and no phone?” I call out, leaning my head out the door as Parrish and Chasm start up a winding ramp that leads to the top floor of the garage.
Parrish glances briefly back at me, a cruel edge to his lips that makes fury burn bright and hot inside me.
“I have no idea. I’m just a shitty, wannabe artist and Chasm here is just an unloved scamp, am I right?” He turns away and the two of them share a cruel laugh while I scramble around inside the car, looking for any spare shoes. He’s a teenage guy, right? Like, he must have some spare gym shoes or something in here.
Only … there’s nothing, and I forgot to bring my phone. Faced with the idea of sitting in Parrish’s car for eight hours alone or wandering the fancy-pants academy sans shoes, I choose the latter.
I’ve always been a bit of a risk taker.
Hopping out, I start across the pavement, side-eying the rows of luxury cars on both sides of me.
I’ve never found excess admirable, to be honest. So when I come across an old beater covered in stickers, a smile takes over me and I find myself pausing to see what the driver looks like.
A beautiful black girl climbs out, a piece of toast stuck between her lips, items tumbling out of her purse as she struggles to heft a box and a book bag out of the car at the same time.
Recognizing a fellow clumsy chick in need, I jog over in bare feet and just barely manage to catch the box before it falls to the ground.
“Thanks,” the girl breathes before she turns around and spots me, dressed in casual clothes and standing barefoot on the cool pavement. “Oh.” Her breath releases in a rush as she looks me over. “You’re the missing girl, huh? Parrish Vanguard’s sister?”
I cringe a bit at that. I’d been sort of hoping that I could sneak into the student populace unnoticed. But, apparently, my reputation precedes me.
“That’s me,” I reply, forcing a smile that I don’t feel on the inside. Fake it till you make it. I’m really trying here, I am. But maybe I need to try harder. I owe that to my grandparents; I promised them. So I don’t correct the girl about being Parrish’s sister. “My err, new stepbrother sort of left me high and dry here.”
“You seem to be in need of some shoes,” the girl replies cheerily, perking up. “Danyella.” She extends her hand as I shift the box into the crook of my elbow and offer my own up. Her palm is warm and smooth, her grip firm and self-assured. I spy a potential friend right off the bat. “Here.”
Danyella opens the back door of her car and garbage spills out on the pavement as I chuckle.
“Sorry, sorry, I’ve been meaning to clean this thing out …” She shoves aside stacks of papers, bags of glitter spilling gold across her hands, as bits and pieces of brightly colored fabric scraps tumble to the pavement. “I’ve just been so busy with the production.”
“The production?” I ask, hope filling me. I was always involved with art clubs and shit at my old school. I wasn’t sure if they even had any here. I mean, I know it’s a pompous rich-people academy and all that, but I wasn’t sure spoiled assholes like Parrish or Chasm would be cool with long nights painting scenery or sewing costumes; I figured they might hire stuff like that out.
“We’re doing Wicked this year, Hamilton next.” Danyella makes a sound of triumph and then stands back up. Next thing I know, she’s taking the box from me and setting it on the roof of her car. She throws a black blazer around my shoulders and stands back with a satisfied smile.
“There. That’ll help make you a bit less noticeable.”
I realize suddenly as I blush and mutter my thanks that I haven’t actually introduced myself.
“I’m Dakota Banks,” I blurt and Danyella laughs. Her braided hair is studded with bows, most of which seem to be themed. I recognize a pale blue Dear Evan Hansen one right away. And there, on the opposite side, one with the SIX logo in the center. Clearly, this girl is a fan of musical theater.
Thank the heavens.
“I know who you are,” she reminds me, but not unkindly. “The long-lost daughter of renowned true crime novelist, Tess Vanguard.” Danyella flashes a white-toothed grin. “In my arms she once rested; in the darkness I weep and hold only her ghost.”
I flinch like I’ve been slapped, and Danyella grimaces. She’s only quoting one of the more popular lines from Tess’ most famous book—the one that’s about me—which was a New York Times bestseller for fifty weeks straight. It sold over four million copies in its first year of publication alone and almost twenty million copies in the decade that followed.
“Sorry,” Danyella begins at the same time that I wave my hand dismissively. I’m already wondering if it isn’t too forward to ask her if I might use her phone for a second.
Not sure, exactly, who I’m going to call since I don’t know Tess’ number, but maybe I could get a cab or an Uber or something to take me back to the house?
Only … I guess I don’t know the address of that either.
Crap.
“It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s not. I used to love Abducted Under a Noonday Sun. It was the first book I ever read of Tess’, and a frequent reread for me. Now, I can barely stand looking at the cover. Somehow, finding out that I’m the true story that it’s based on makes it unbearable.
“No, it’s not,” she says, opening her trunk and revealing nearly two dozen boxes of what seem to be brand-new shoes. She gives me a look over her shoulder and then shrugs. “I’m sure you’ve had to put up with people in your business for weeks now; I don’t need to add to your discomfort.” She digs around for a moment, checking the sizes on the boxes, and then looks back at me again. “What are you, a size seven? Seven and a half?”
I lift a brow and nod as Danyella chuckles.
“Seven. Damn, you’re good,” I tell her as she lifts a lid on one of the boxes and the edge of her lip quirks up in amusement.
“My parents own a bunch of online shoe retailers,” she tells me, handing over the box. “That, and a snooty flagship store in Seattle; they make me work there on the weekends for minimum wage.” Danyella rolls her eyes as I sit down on the pavement, opening the lid on the shoes and choking out a laugh as I lift up a red patent leather pump. “They say it teaches character or … something.” She lifts her chin in my direction when she notices my expression of terror. “Only pair in your size, I’m afraid.”