I glance back at the two girls who have stopped in the pathway a few feet away, then back at Vandy. Her back is pressed against the tower, but she looks more annoyed than scared. I recognize the girls instantly; Sydney and her friend Fiona.
“Syd and I used to be best friends,” Vandy explains quietly, “but there’s a lot of bad blood between us since a bunch of dumb drama went down the fall. Seeing her just makes me so mad. It’s easier to avoid her.”
“Sure,” I say, in response. If anyone understands the desire to stay out of someone’s way, it’s me. I lean next to her, but still have a pretty good view of them, and it’s hard not to overhear their conversation.
“If it’s not a big deal,” Fiona says, face stony, “then it shouldn’t be a problem for you to show me.”
Sydney shifts her backpack from one side to the other. “It looks worse than it is.”
Fiona crosses her arms over her chest and stares at her friend. “Syd, show me.”
Sydney’s exhalation is annoyed but she lifts up the hem of her shirt with one hand while pulling down the top of her skirt with the other. A large, purpling bruise splays over her hip and waist in the shape of fingers. My heart lurches into my throat, making it momentarily hard to breathe. I know that kind of bruise. Not an accident. The pit of my stomach aches as I look at it.
“Jesus Christ, Sydney,” Fiona gasps, peering to look at the bruise. Sydney drops her shirt and moves her hands protectively over her waist. “He did that to you?”
“You say that like he meant to hurt me or something. He got excited,” she replies flippantly. “I can’t help it if I have that kind of effect on a guy.”
“That’s not excitement, Syd, that’s….” Fiona swallows, “that’s not cool.”
I have to agree with Fiona on this one.
“Look, he’s older. More experienced. Passionate.” She gives Fiona a pitying look. “One day when you’re actually, like, having sex, you can have an opinion, but until then? Stay out of my business.”
Fiona’s jaw drops but Sydney has already started walking down the path. A moment later her friend follows, I guess willing to let the condescending tone slide. I glance over at Vandy and see that she’s also heard the entire conversation. The look of annoyance is gone, replaced by something I can’t discern. “Do you know anything about that?”
“No,” she replies, “but with Sydney you never know what’s really going on. She’s not known for her honesty. Telling lies, twisting truths, and spinning drama is pretty much her brand.” She pushes off the tower and starts toward the path, her foot dragging on the cobblestone. I definitely don’t have a handle on the inner workings of all the interpersonal dynamics around here—who’s a liar, who’s a sneak, who’s a narc—but I do know one thing.
That bruise is real and whoever put it there is dangerous.
“Thanks for doing this,” I say, once we’re up in Vandy’s bedroom. It’s so clean and bright that I’m almost afraid to move in case I accidentally stain something. “I’ve never had to go to this kind of dinner before. I’m guessing, aside from my Preston uniform, my usual ensembles aren’t going to cut it.”
Georgia had made this perfectly clear, but doesn’t have much to offer me in the way of options until she goes home for the weekend. Luckily, Vandy and I are about the same size, even if our styles are miles apart.
“Farmhouse is a pretty low-key restaurant; it’s got this whole ‘farm to table’ vibe. Everything is organic and locally sourced,” she says, walking over to her closet. “So it doesn’t need to be too dressy, but it never hurts to make a good impression.”
That means it’s going to be dressy.
‘Dressy’ to rich kids like Vandy and Georgia probably includes a ball gown, but to me, it’s anything that rules out jeans or leggings.
She flings open the closet door and Jesus Christ. It’s easily the size of my bedroom at home. It’s jam-packed with clothes of every color and function. She has more shoes on one shelf than I’ve owned my entire life. I’m doing everything I can not to judge the Hall’s expensive, massive home. Vandy has visible challenges and if the rumors are true, has had some major struggles. Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean things are perfect, but damn. What I wouldn’t give to have grown up with this much space.
I peek my head in but feel too anxious about ruining something expensive to actually enter. “Do you know the Adamses?”
She flips through the hangers, stopping occasionally to consider a piece of clothing. “Actually, I do. Mrs. Adams is a kick-ass lawyer who really helped Reyn out of a jam last year. I know there’s like, this preconceived notion that people like them are just do-gooders and over-compensating for something, but they’re a really great family. They actually believe in helping people.”
I snort. “Then what are they doing sending their kids to a school like Preston?”
“Hey!” She gives me an affronted look, but then laughs. “We’re not all bad, but I get it. Trust me, the Adams kids have suffered more than their share of abuse from the dickheads at Preston. All I know is their parents are both alumni and the kids actually choose to go.” She pulls out three different dresses, sizing them up. “Thank god, can you imagine how dull things would be without Micha?”
I smile, remembering our conversation from earlier in the day. “He definitely marches to the beat of his own tuba.”
She flutters past me in a whirl of fabric, tossing things onto her wide bed. “The only thing you need to really know about their parents is that they appreciate genuine things. So you should choose whatever here is most ‘you’.” She plants a hand on each hip, nodding her head in approval at the selection she’s curated.
I gnaw on a nail as I look over the choices, instantly nixing something unapologetically pink. There’s a dark purple dress that could work, edged in a fine-looking lace around the neck and sleeves, but it’s too nice. I’d spend all night worrying about staining it.
There’s a black, knee-length dress that flares out prettily, but also looks perfectly plain. The neck scoops a little lower than I’m used to, but the fabric looks nice and hardy—no delicate lace or fussy material. It wouldn’t be completely weird to wear my boots with, either.
“I think that’s my guy,” I say pointing to the dress.
She doesn’t look surprised. “Good choice! And don’t worry, I have a good bra to go with it.”
I change in her closet, feeling awkward as I stuff my tits into the bra. The awkwardness only amplifies when I get the dress over my head, feeling it swish around my knees, and then look down. Holy shit. My tits are unreal in this thing. I spend a moment adjusting the waist before submitting myself to Vandy’s inspection.
She gives a gleeful clap. “You need a necklace—oh, a choker! And some earrings!”
Resigned to being a sentient mannequin, I let Vandy deck me out in some of her jewelry, making sure she isn’t giving me anything even remotely valuable.
“I got this as a free gift with another purchase, it’s literally nothing,”