Page 99 of The Initial Insult

“Neat,” I say, which is a nice word that when you say it just right, becomes something else. Years of listening to Mom and Dad have taught me how to wield tone like a weapon.

I brush past the geeks, but they aren’t interested, already lost in a pile of cogs on the floor, heads together. I go to the railing on the second floor, scanning the crowd below for Tress’s hair, black and shining. I don’t see it, and I give a little kick to the railing in frustration, sending a spindle falling into the people below me. Somebody yells, and I give them a little wave.

Because I’m Felicity Turnado, which means I can take a freshman’s beer and kick a guy who grabs me and accidentally rain splintered wood on people, but the one thing I can’t do is ask anybody if they know where Tress Montor is.

She runs a decent but discreet business, setting up somewhere secluded at a party and dealing until her stash is depleted and her pockets full, declaring the store closed and leaving before anyone offers her a beer, or tries to make small talk past ounces or milligrams.

I scout out rooms on the second floor, toeing a few early hard partiers out of the way, freshmen who hit it too fast on their first—and only—night at the Allan house. I’m considering that I might have to wander up to the third floor when I spot her, or rather, I spot her cousin.

Ribbit Usher is the most awkward thing I’ve ever seen, and I’m counting Brynn’s taco in that. But while Brynn can take the taco off, revealing her hard-as-nails volleyball body underneath, Ribbit can’t strip off his freckled skin or take any of the rough angles off his arms and legs. I slam what’s left of the beer I lifted, reconsidering my opinion as Ribbit stretches his arms in the air, illustrating something for Tress’s benefit.

He’s got broad shoulders, and I bet he could fill out with some muscle. Maybe if someone like Hugh pulled him aside and showed him how to bench he could be salvageable. Gretchen and I could lighten his hair, take the red down a touch. But that would never happen, I think, crushing my can. Hugh can’t stand Ribbit, something he’s tried to explain to me before, when we were out on our own, after one of my seizures.

“That kid’s just not right,” Hugh had said, even though Ribbit’s the same age we are. “Something about him . . . I don’t know.” Hugh had shrugged, not able to put words to it. “Remember when Gretchen’s dog bit him?”

“William Wilson?” I’d asked.

“Huh? No, when it bit Usher.”

“William Wilson is the dog, dumbo,” I’d said, swatting at his arm.

“Jesus, what a stuck-up name for a dog. Figures. Anyway, that dog has been at parties with people yelling and screaming, getting shoved into pools, and once, somebody spray-painted him yellow, remember that?”

“Yeah, maybe,” I’d said, not sure what Hugh had been driving at.

“But the one time—the only time—that dog ever bites anybody, it’s Ribbit Usher, and for no reason.”

“So?”

“So, dogs know things, Felicity. You’ve got to listen to their instincts. Dogs and babies.”

“Yeah, well.” My eyes had wandered to a corner, where Gretchen was pressed up between the wall and a junior. “Give Gretchen another few minutes and maybe you can get the opinion of a baby in about nine months.”

Instincts or not, I think Hugh just doesn’t understand a boy who doesn’t know what offside means. Personally, I can’t say I mind Ribbit one bit, especially not when he lights up like one of the strung bulbs the second he sees me.

“Felicity!” he calls, waving frantically as I come down the stairs. Tress pulls his arm down, whispering something into his ear, probably telling him not to be such a puppy.

I don’t mind. I like puppies.

“Ribbit,” I say, making my way over to them. “You made it.”

I say that like he isn’t at every party, isn’t always trying to do anything he can to please everyone else. He’ll grab drinks and find lost earrings. He even made a tampon run one time. Last month he spent most of the night in the woods because Gretchen’s dog ran out there in a panic after Hugh tried to crowd-surf and there wasn’t enough crowd for his bulk. The resulting crash had made William Wilson bolt for the door, and while everyone else made a joke out of running through the woods and calling for him, Ribbit had wandered, borrowing phones when his battery died, until he found the dog, wet and muddy, but not exactly grateful. He’d scratched the crap out of Ribbit when he tried to pick him up—more evidence to log into Hugh’s instinct file, I guess.

Although Ribbit did score one successful pickup that night—Gretchen’s thanks had come in the form of more than just words. And good for him; Gretchen hands it out like candy at Halloween and there’s no reason he shouldn’t be in on it with the other trick-or-treaters.

“Like my lights?” Ribbit asks, motioning overhead.

“You did this?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He nods, a blush spreading. “I thought everyone might like it. Last night, and all.”

I think everyone does, but I’m not quite able to fake enthusiasm, and Ribbit’s face falls.

“You don’t like it?”

“I . . .” How do I explain the way the exposed studs make me feel? The little mouse prints and the faded, falling wallpaper? “I guess it just makes me sad,” I say. “This used to be a really nice place, once.”

Tress nods in agreement, surprising me. “Something to nothing,” she says.