Page 20 of The Initial Insult

“Ballin’,” I whisper to myself.

“Excuse me?” Febrezio’s sympathy disappears.

“Sorry, I . . .” I’m trying not to laugh. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste metal. “No, I didn’t know. Swear.”

She nods, but I can tell I lost points by being amused.

“I’ve got some shirts from lost and found you can choose from,” she says. “Unless you want to just wear . . .” Her voice fades off, taking in the tee I had on under the jersey. It’s a rumpled mess, but she’s had too much training to say so.

“I’m fine,” I say, stuffing Cecil’s jersey into my bookbag. “Sorry about the . . .” I almost say cock and balls but stop myself. I’ve been living with Cecil so long my filter isn’t always in place.

“Have a good day, Tress,” Febrezio calls behind me, but I’m already slipping past the row of kids who want study hall, don’t want study hall, or just want to align their schedules more closely with their friends’.

I’m cruising through the halls, scanning lockers for my number when someone grabs my elbow. “Dude, what happened to your shirt?”

It’s the football player again, all smiles and teeth, and I think of Rue. She’s either going to hug you or kill you. I give him the benefit of the doubt, something I don’t do often.

“I’ve been castrated,” I say, shrugging.

He laughs, and a few people turn to look. I’m struggling to find words, to think of what to say next. I almost unzip my backpack and offer him the jersey, since he likes it so much, but then he clamps a hand onto my shoulder, and I reassess. It would never fit him. This guy is huge.

“Huge,” I say, the word filling the gap between us. “Hugh Broward.”

“Yeah,” he says. “See you around, Tress Montor.”

I nod like he didn’t just give me a gift, then turn to my locker. The staff put signs on all the freshman lockers, little welcome banners with our names. My eyes slide to the one next to mine, curious, and my heart goes up into my throat just as I hear a gasp behind me.

I turn to see Felicity Turnado, clean and beautiful and perfect. I still feel good about making Hugh Broward laugh; I can still feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder. So there’s a lightness in my chest that lifts a little more when I see her, a buoyancy that rises to my face and pulls the corners of my mouth up.

I’m smiling at Felicity Turnado when she turns her back on me and walks away.

Chapter 17

Felicity

Freshman Year

I don’t have anything to wear.

Correction—I have too many choices. I’m staring at my closet, wondering how best to usher in high school, overwhelmed by the fact that I have an unnatural amount of clothing. It’s the first day of freshman year, and while being Felicity Turnado mattered in junior high, it doesn’t mean shit to the upperclassmen. What I wear today will announce to everyone where I see myself fitting in, so I’ve got to make it count. I’m not an athlete, and it’s not like I own a ton of sweatpants and hoodies anyway, so that look is easily shot down. I’m smart, but not sure how much I want to push that. I’ve been playing down the cute smart girl thing since I ditched my glasses for LASIK in seventh grade.

I’m in the choir and was tapped to sing the national anthem at junior high graduation, but I’m not sure the arts crowd is quite where I click. I’ve got the boho clothes for it, and if I wear my hair down and loose I can rock the free-spirit hippie thing. But there’s a lot of confidence required for that, and the little part I landed in the junior high musical last year got me a backstage pass. Even behind the curtain the stage kids were always on, being funny, dramatic, or just all out themselves—like they had nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe they don’t. That’s probably why I never felt comfortable.

I didn’t mind the attention, though . . . not at all.

With that thought, I grab a pair of ripped jean shorts and a cute little tank. Enough to show off what I’ve got while still playing it safe with dress code. The labels are from brands that will set me apart but not above. That’s important. Really important, in Amontillado.

I look in the mirror, adjusting a fold there, applying a little more mascara here. Dabbing my lipstick off when I realize the color is too much, too confident. I’ve got to attract boys but not alienate girls. Especially as a freshman. I want upperclassmen to notice me, but I can’t be pegged as fresh meat by the boys, or as a threat by the girls. It’s a fine line, a delicate balance, and I can’t make a misstep.

I’m still the girl who was with the Montors when they disappeared, the one who doesn’t know what happened—or won’t say. I’m a mystery to most, a pity case to some, and complicit to a few holdouts. Amontillado still hasn’t decided what I am, five years later.

I straighten my shoulders and put on the smile I’ve been practicing in the mirror.

I’ve got to show them that I’m Felicity Turnado, and I am just fine.

Mom drops me off at school without making too much of a fuss. She hasn’t let me ride the bus since second grade, when I had my first seizure moments after walking in the door at home. She’s convinced I’m going to seize during the ride, with no one noticing until they open the doors in front of our house and I don’t get up. She’s a worst-case scenario type of person. I can’t say I blame her there, though, given that the Montors—and their car—disappeared into thin air, leaving me wet, gasping, and forgetful on the riverbank. I don’t have the best track record with moving vehicles.

“Bye, Mom,” I call over my shoulder as I leave, ducking out from under her arm as she reaches for me.