Page 14 of The Debutantes
“In my defense, you snuck up on me.”
“Wait.” She squints at my hand. “Is thatbedazzled?”
I glance at my pepper spray, which is pink and—yes, okay,fine—sparkly, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of embarrassment. “It was the cheapest one.”
“Frugal of you.” With a look of what can only be described as sociological fascination on her face, Vivian crosses her arms over her Beaumont soccer hoodie. “What are you doing here?”
I debate coming up with a lie, but then I notice the time—noon on the dot—and I wonder if this is purely coincidental.
“Did Lily text you, too?” I ask.
Vivian frowns. “Yeah. Wait, did she also text—”
Before she can finish, shoes shuffle on the sidewalk behind us, and we both turn to find April Whitman approaching the Den gate. She blinks at us, looking like a meerkat with her wide brown eyes and dangling arms, that ever-present camera slung over her shoulder.
“Um,” she says. “Sorry, I…”
“Got a text from Lily? Welcome to the club,” I finish, because it looks like the sheer act of talking is making April so nervous, she might explode. Which maybe it is. Already, this might be more words than I’ve heard her say in nearly thirteen years of going to school together.
I check the time on my Apple Watch.
“It’s 12:02,” I say. “She’s late.”
As I look up again, I catch Vivian making an expression I’m used to—one transmitting a very clearChill out, Piper.All of Wyatt’s little posse look at me like that, like it’s some sort ofcrime to actuallycareabout anything besides sports or hooking up or whoever scored the booze for this weekend.
I straighten my spine. “Should we go in?”
“Wait. Just—what did Lily say in her text to y’all?”
Vivian still looks skeptical, like she can’t believe her best friend would deign to text the rest of us. Although to be fair, she might have a point. It’s not like Lily has been seeking out my company lately, and I’ve never seen her even speak to April. There’s nothing tying us together, besides school and Les Masques.
So this must be about the latter.
“She said we needed to talk about Margot, didn’t she? This is probably about last night.” I pause, watching Vivian’s confused expression. “Did she tell y’all something different?”
April shakes her head.
“No,” Vivian says.
“Well, then.” I gesture at the gate. “Shall we? She could already be inside.”
Doubtful, I think, but still, I’m not exactly dying to wait here in this awkward trio. I pull the gate handle. It doesn’t budge.
“It’s locked,” Vivian says, oh so helpfully. “There’s a code or something.”
April fidgets with a piece of mousy-brown hair, cut bluntly just above her shoulders with choppy bangs she no doubt sheared herself. She looks even more eager to escape than usual—I’m sure because she can’t bear to spend another second with anything or anyone debutante-related. Then, to my surprise, she steps up to the keypad and starts punching in numbers.
“Wait,” I start. “You shouldn’t—”
The keypad flashes green, and when April pushes, the gate swings open.
Vivian and I stare, open-mouthed.
“How did you know the code?” I ask.
“My dad.” She hikes up her camera strap and steps inside. “He let me come shoot the floats for a project last year.”
“And you just… remembered the code a year later?” I ask, still slightly in disbelief. I’m one of the best math students at Beaumont, but evenIhave trouble memorizing phone numbers, let alone a code I’ve only used once in my life.
