“Tress,” Felicity asks, her voice weak and shaky. “What are you thinking about?”
“Patrick Vance,” I tell her.
Chapter 58
Felicity
Sophomore Year
I am a fucking mess. And I like it.
I stare down into my Solo cup. I have no idea what’s in it. I just know that Patrick Vance handed it to me, and I’ve had a crush on him since seventh grade. He handed me a little white pill to pop along with it, and I didn’t even think twice, because right after that he asked for my number. Brynn had given me a sidelong look, and now she’s been by my side all night, not letting me out of her sight, even though we both know Gretchen’s house like the back of our hands. I mean, we practically live here on the weekends.
“I’m not going to get lost,” I say, giving her an elbow. A little too hard, I guess. Her cup slops over the top, and I notice she’s only drinking water.
“I’m not worried about you getting lost,” she says, flicking her hand dry. “I’m worried about somebody else finding you.”
“Ha,” I say, because I can’t come up with anything better. My mind is slow, catching up to thoughts, picking them up, examining them, then putting them back down, moving on to something else without remembering what it was holding a second before.
It’s nice. It’s like forgetting.
“Get your head on straight, Turnado,” Brynn says. “You’re wasted, and everybody knows it. You can’t go wandering off on your own. I don’t know half these people, and neither do you. Don’t be an idiot.”
“Like that guy?” I ask, pointing at Ribbit Usher.
Gretchen made the mistake of asking him if she needed to get permission from the school board for the cheerleaders to paint spirit signs in the athletic hallway. He’s answering her . . . has been, for about an hour. It’s turned into a lecture on parliamentary process, and Gretchen is politely trying to back out. Politely, because she can’t risk losing an Usher vote from the school board. She picks up William Wilson and tucks him under her arm; he’s shivering and upset at the crush of people.
“Oh! Is that your dog? I love your dog!” Ribbit says, and shoves his face into William Wilson’s. The dog gives a warning growl but not much of one, before lunging at Ribbit.
He’s bleeding in a second, blood spouting through his fingers from his torn lip. Gretchen grabs a towel, pressing it to his face while looking for someone to help her out. Brynn and I swivel, turning our backs immediately.
“Yeah, like that guy,” Brynn says as they brush past us, Ribbit insisting that everything is fine. He doesn’t need stitches. Dogs love him, he doesn’t know why that one would . . . His voice fades out as they disappear into the crowd, Gretchen discreetly leading him outside so he won’t bleed all over her mom’s carpet.
“I will try very hard not to get bit in the face by William Wilson,” I promise Brynn.
As for the rest . . . it’s hard not to swear I won’t be an idiot tonight. I’m wasted. But Brynn’s not wrong. Word about Gretchen’s party had spread a little too fast and a lot further than intended. The upperclassmen are more than welcome. Gretchen had practically rolled out the red carpet for Patrick Vance when he showed up with his entourage, but I’ve spotted a few varsity jackets from Prospero—the next town over—too.
So yeah, Brynn’s right. We don’t know everyone, and the smart move would be staying next to her. But I’m definitely getting a vibe from Patrick that he wouldn’t mind being alone with me . . . and I don’t have any objections. I also don’t have any illusions—I know what he’s interested in. I am, too. But I’d also like to ask him what that pill was.
Because I feel pretty damn good.
My eyes follow Patrick through the crowd; he’s broken away from a junior girl who had a death grip on his elbow. She’s staring after him, about to cry as he heads for the stairs.
“Gotta go to the bathroom,” I say to Brynn, shoving my cup into her hand.
She follows my gaze, her face darkening. “Patrick? Are you for real?”
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” I repeat, squeezing my legs together for emphasis. “Seriously. You can time me.”
“’Kay” is all Brynn says, setting my cup aside. “But—”
I don’t know what the but is because I’m already gone, following the huge raven on the back of Patrick’s jersey. But the stairs are crowded, and apparently plenty of people actually do need to use the bathroom, because there’s a line. It extends down the hall, and some of the rooms that Gretchen usually keeps shut on purpose have been opened.
She’s not going to be happy about that. I stand on my tiptoes, scanning the crowd to see if I can catch a glimpse of Patrick and his Ravens jersey. But there are too many people, too many faces and colors. They’re all a little fuzzy, and I think I might be about to pass out . . . except that’s not right because the sounds aren’t fading, they’re getting louder and—shit. Whatever Patrick gave me is interfering with my anti-seizure meds.
Panic grips me. I don’t want to seize. Not here. Not in front of everyone.
Who will marry you then? Mom’s voice insistent, worried, cuts right through whatever that pill was. I hear her loud and clear, distinct from the rumble of the crowd.
I push through a group of people to find a wall, the banister, anything that will support me. My hands find something solid and clench on to it. It turns out that something is Hugh Broward.
“Ouch, damn.” He turns around and looks down at me. His face changes from annoyance to concern.
“Felicity?” he asks.
But I can’t talk, can’t remember this boy’s name or where I am. His arms go around me, and suddenly he’s thrown me over his shoulder and I’m being carried through the hall, the flash of his calf tattoo the only thing I can see. He’s barreling his way through the crowd, forcing his way to the front of the bathroom line. People argue but fall silent when they turn and see this boy, his size quieting their objections.
The bathroom door opens, and there’s a girl in the mirror, light hair a tousled mess, blue eyes wide and questioning, the pupils tiny black dots in the center.
She’s scared.
She’s scared.
She’s gone.
“You with me?”
It’s a boy’s voice. Quiet. Calm.
“Felicity? You had a seizure.”
Shit. Yes, I did. And that’s . . . that’s Hugh Broward’s voice.
I sit up, and he’s at my side in a second, hands on my shoulders.
“Slow,” he says, and I nod in agreement, my face grimacing when I see the puke down my front.
“Oh God . . .”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Hugh says.
“It’s not okay,” I say, choking back a sob. “I puked all over myself.”
“Here.” He whips off his jersey, pulling it over his head. The white T-shirt underneath is glaringly bright under the bathroom lights, and I close my eyes against it.
“You all right?”
“Yeah,” I say, pushing my palms into my eyelids. Color bursts. Pinwheels spin. “Just . . .”