I look at Isabella next, and then go sit beside Creed, struggling to keep my breathing in check. He notices me having a mini freak-out and pulls me into his lap, putting his mouth near my ear.
“What’s the matter, birthday girl?” he asks, and I realize I only know his birthday because of Miranda. August 26th. I don’t know any of the guys’ birthdays. They’re all older than me by at least a few weeks, I do know that. None of them had any extravagant parties or anything that I’m aware of.
“Do you think Isabella looks like my dad?” I ask, and Creed turns to glance at her. The brown-haired, brown-eyed girl is looking between the five boys at the party with renewed interest, but she doesn’t make any effort to join us at the table.
“You think she’s your father’s daughter?” Tristan asks, turning to look at me. I nod, but then grimace.
“How soap opera is that? That shit just doesn’t happen in real life.”
“Doesn’t it, though?” he asks, sighing and reaching up to push back some locks of raven-dark hair. “Your mother wants a comfortable life, and money, and a healthy husband. But she loves your dad.” Tristan stands up suddenly and stalks off toward the lake. I watch him as he heads to the end of the dock, removes his shoes, and rolls up his pants, putting his feet in the water.
It’s such an … well, an un-Tristan-like thing to do that I end up enraptured by the sight.
Lizzie follows right behind him, sitting down at his side, the whisper of their shared conversation wafting back to me. My mouth tightens into a thin line, but I have other things to worry about right now.
Jennifer is presenting the baby to Charlie, and I swear, his entire face lights up.
Isabella finally relents and takes a seat at the table, but other than making eyes at the boys, she says and does nothing. She doesn’t even bother to wish me a happy birthday.
When it comes time to open gifts, I start with Jennifer’s, just for curiosity’s sake, and find a key on the end of a chain.
“My home is your home,” she tells me with a huge, shiny smile. “This is the key to the house. The address is tucked in the box, and I’ve got a room all set up for you.”
That, apparently, is just too much for Isabella Carmichael. She takes off, locks herself in the car, and doesn’t come out for the rest of the party.
“Thanks,” I say, but I don’t plan on taking her up on that. Forgiveness is one thing, but … Jennifer’s offer is just too little, too late.The fourth year uniform at Burberry Prep has always been my favorite: black from head to toe. Even the socks and shoes are black.
“I feel like I'm going to a funeral,” Miranda whines, looking at herself in the bathroom mirror. We're in the visitors' parking lot bathroom, waiting for everyone in our little group to change clothes. Every Blueblood, you mean. You guys are the Bluebloods this year. It's pretty much official.
Last year, I wasn't willing to accept the position.
This year, I'm going to embrace it.
No bullying allowed at my school.
“It's not funereal,” I murmur, defending the uniform as I run my hand down the tie, and she gives me a look, hopping up on the counter to switch out her socks. We're allowed to wear the sock choices from any year, so I'm not surprised when Miranda dons the white ones with the red and black stripe from last year. “Those don't go with the outfit,” I tease as Lizzie comes out of one of the stalls, fully-dressed from head to toe in black.
She smiles at me, and I smile back, but there's this weird tension between us that wasn't there before her confession. We spent the whole summer dancing around the issue, and here we are, with nothing to say to one another.
“Miranda!” Creed calls from outside the bathroom, and she rolls her eyes dramatically before sliding off the counter and tossing her white-blonde hair over her shoulder. She gives me a look, and I nod, telling her that yes, it's okay to leave me alone with Lizzie Walton.
“Hey so,” Lizzie starts, leaning over the counter, her dark curls straightened into a shiny black sheet. She glances up and over at me with bright amber eyes, and I suck in a sharp breath. She really is pretty, isn't she? That thought's immediately followed by a momentary blip of insecurity.
No, Marnye, you're way past that. I push it away by dunking my hands under some cold water and washing them with the foaming soap that smells like honeysuckle.
“So?” I ask, quirking a brow as I dry my hands quickly and lean back against the wall. Lizzie's still staring at me, her expression unreadable.
