“How’d you know I’m going to a party?”

“The receipt for red plastic cups sticking out of your jacket. Your eyeliner. Girls don’t make eyeliner wings that big unless they plan on drinking.”

“Touché. You’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”

“And you’re far more annoying than I first suspected. If I’d known you’d stalk me like all the others, I never would’ve kissed you, even as payback.”

“Seriously, you kiss everyone like that though! It was nothing special.”

“Exactly. It was nothing special. So back off and leave me alone.”

He whirls around and strides away, and I wave madly at his back, jumping up and down.

“Bye, loser! Try not to suck! Or I guess you have to since you’re getting paid for it, huh?”

He flips me the bird over his shoulder but it only makes me laugh and fist pump in self-congratulations. This is the first time I’ve really seen him perturbed. Everything before now was just a bunch of cold sarcasm and stony glares. I got under his skin this time. I, Isis Blake, got under his permafrost skin. I skip the entire way to the car and blast a triumphant Katy Perry song on my way to the party. I don’t even particularly like Katy Perry. But for this second my victory is so sweet even mindless pop sounds like the battle trumpets of Roman gladiators and I’m shouting along to it anyway.

-6-

3 Years

14 Weeks

0 Days

Kayla’s front lawn is crowded with cars. I wedge my Beatle into a parking space between a tree and a BMW, and rush into the warmly-lit house.

“I come bearing gifts!” I shout above the already-thumping music. There must be a hundred people here, if not more. A little get-together, Kayla said. Pft. I could power a small jet plane on the body heat crammed into this room.

I dump the cups in the kitchen, where bottles of Jack and Bacardi crowd the counters. I guard my frosting jealously, nibbling on it as I meander through the party looking for Kayla. The usual writhing group of dancers congregate around the speakers, and the equally writhing makeouts are happening on every chair and couch. Someone throws a roll of purple streamers around, someone has a plastic horse-head mask on that creeps me out, and someone else is wiping puke off the bookshelf with a TV remote. I don’t recognize half the people in here – some of them must be from Midvale High. Kayla’s in the garden, a gorgeous gathering of ivy trellises and a gently burbling fountain. She’s breathtaking – her blue tube top and white skirt making her look like some tanned tennis goddess. She’s talking to some of Avery’s crowd, but when she sees me she trots over smiling.

“Hey! You made it!”

“Yeah, cups are in the kitchen.”

“Awesome. Thank you so much. You look really great.”

“You too. Gonna be on high alert tonight, fight off those creepers with a baseball bat if I have to.”

“Oh, chill out,” she laughs. “Go get something to drink!”

When I come back with a coke and rum, Kayla’s gone. I look around for her and find her dancing with some guy. He isn’t grinding on her or staring at her tits 99% of the time, so he’s fine with me. For now. When he happens to catch my eye I point two fingers at my eyes and then at him in an I’m-watching-you warning, and he must get it because he smiles nervously back and nods. Good boy.

“Threatening the male populace as usual?” A familiar voice says. I turn to see Wren, in a casual polo shirt and jeans. He’s clutching a drink, grinning in that sunny way and staring at me in that creepy hellbent way.

“Yup. What’s up with you, homes? Why are you here? Oh, that’s right – you’re the super cool prez. You don’t tattle on boozers.”

“Well, if I did tattle I wouldn’t be friends with quite so many people now, would I?”

“Ah, I see. You’re hungry for that popularity game.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “It’s not so much popularity as it’s…what’s the word? Amiable? I just like being liked.”

“Huh. Is that rooted in a deep-seated need for approval fostered by your alcoholic mother and workaholic father? That’d explain why you volunteer so much – trying to do good because no one does good for you.”

He looks like I zapped him. I wave my hand and laugh.

“I was kidding. I get crazy conclusiony when I get buzzed.”

“How did you –” He stops himself. “I guess I should stop asking that at this point. You and him never cease to amaze me.”

Him. He means Jack. I point at his cup to get him off the subject.

“Whaddya you drinking?”

“Grape juice.”

I laugh. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’m the designated driver for quite a few people tonight.”

“Ahh, prez.” I slap his back and he slops juice on the floor. “Always so straight-edge. You gotta learn to live a little!”

“I do! I live constantly!”

“Yeah, but it’s all living for other people and shit. No time to yourself. You’re gonna start resenting everybody pretty soon if you keep doing stuff for them and not you.”

The song changes to Royals by Lorde, and I scream a little and shove my cup at him.

“Hold this! I gotta go dance!”

“You dance?”

“Uh, yeah, I am well-versed in the butt-tango, thank you.”

Wren looks between the dance floor and me, his eyes darting back and forth.

“You wanna dance with me?” I shout.

“What?” His face drains to a pale white in a split second.

“C’mon! It’ll be fun!”

“I don’t dance.”

“Yeah, I don’t poop.”

“What? That sounds a little unhealthy.”

“C’mon, prez!” I grab his hand and pull him towards the ‘dance floor’, which is just a 10x10 of carpet in the corner pushed free of couches. I do my stupidest dances – making myself look like an idiot so Wren won’t feel so uptight about dancing ‘right’. People who don’t dance worry about making fools out of themselves, but when you make a fool out of yourself as often as I do, dancing is kind of easy. Wren laughs when I kneel on the floor and try to do a breakdance head-spin. I end up taking down two people before Kayla kicks me in a friendly manner to get me to stop. Wren bobs a little to the beat, looking nervous as hell. I dance around him, mostly, and when a slower song comes on, I put his arms around my waist and show him how to slow dance. Except he already knows.

“See? You do know how to dance.”

“Ballroom classes,” He says. “My mom made me take them when I was little.”

He doesn’t have cologne on like Jack, but his natural smell is pleasant compared to all of the sweaty boys who are dripping Axe from every pore. It’s then I notice someone sitting on the couch on the other side of the house, staring at me. The icy-blue of his eyes is very familiar. What is he doing here? Did Kayla invite him? And why does his gaze linger where Wren’s arms are around my waist?

Finally, I get bored of being stared at, and rush back to where our drinks are. Wren follows, downing his grape juice in one thirsty gulp. I do the same, the stale coke burning as it goes down.

“I’m wayyyyy too hot,” I say. “Physically my booty is hot, but I’m also hot temperature-wise, so I’m going outside.”

Wren laughs. “Alright. Thanks for the dance.”

“No, thank you, prez.”

“Wren! There you are!”

I watch Kayla run over to him, beaming. Wren almost drops his cup and his glasses slide off his face. Kayla bends to pick them up for him and he stammers an apology. I take my exit and let them fumble through the awkward.

I swallow cool air and try to catch my breath. I haven’t danced in, well, forever. I hadn’t been invited to parties after what happened with Nameless in Florida. His influence spread far and wide, so I was kind of barred from any and all get-togethers. Not that they invited me, the fat girl, to begin with. But still. I’d danced before but this was the first night in a long time, and it felt good. I sweated off some of my worry over Mom in those few minutes. And to think, I danced with Nameless’ cousin. I laugh and slap the bench I’m sitting on.