Project Paper Doll (24 page)

O
NE MORE NIGHT.
J
UST ONE.
It won’t make that much of a difference.

That’s what I told myself over and over again throughout the rest of the afternoon and with every step on my way home. Zane had offered me a ride, but since I was already acting in direct defiance to my father’s wishes, I didn’t want to push my luck. Or fate or karma or whatever.

My guilty conscience was already working overtime, making me jumpy. Since talking to Zane, I’d been on high alert, waiting for my phone to chirp with a text from my dad telling me I was busted (if he was monitoring the security camera feed, that was more than possible) or that we needed to run.

But so far, my phone had remained silent. So much so that I’d taken it out of my bag and turned it off and then on again to make sure it was working.

Now, on the sidewalk, I tensed every time a car passed, expecting the shrill screech of tires and brakes, and either my very angry father or a GTX retrieval team to storm into my path.

But all was quiet except for regular traffic and the same dumb black van from this morning. This time, though, it zoomed past me. It had a large white banner on the side, proclaiming
DORIS THE FLORIST, TULIPS ARE BETTER THAN NONE
!

It made me edgy, but if it was a front for GTX and they knew who/what I was, they wouldn’t have been wasting their time driving around.

I was being paranoid. I was pretty sure.

Approaching our house, I couldn’t help but notice it had an abandoned air to it—the empty driveway, the curtains pulled tight. But that had to be my imagination, my fear that my father would be taken and hurt because of my actions. Right?

I hurried up the walkway and, with shaking hands, managed to get the key in the lock. Once inside, I peeked into the kitchen, half convinced that the table and chairs would be turned over, dishes shattered on the floor. But everything was as I’d left it. My single spoon and bowl in the drying rack. No one had been here since I’d left this morning, as far as I could tell.

I let out a relieved and guilty breath. My father was probably still at work, though he’d put in more than his required hours this week. He was watching out for me again—as always.

I looked at his chair, where he’d sat last night, drinking away his disappointment in me.

Was it worth all of this?

I bit my lip. I’d have the rest of my life to follow the Rules. I just wanted one more night off to put Rachel in her place.

I retreated to my bedroom, dropped my bag on the floor, and climbed onto my bed, sinking into the fluffy comforter and pillows. But they offered no relief, no feeling of escape or safety. If anything, they felt claustrophobic, surrounding me too closely.

I stared up at the plastic stars dotting the ceiling and realized for the first time I’d recreated the outside in here. Stars overhead, a blue sky on the upper part of the wall, the darker sandy color of the earth below it. Guess that answered the question of how scared I was of life, even as recently as three years ago. I’d brought the outside in rather than venturing out on my own.

Frustrated, I fought my way off the bed and started pacing the length of my room, as I’d once walked my GTX cage.

I stopped in front of my closet and yanked open the louvered doors. If I was going to go through with this tonight, I needed something to wear. And from the second Rachel had challenged me to show up, I’d known what it should be.

At the back of my closet, shoved behind all the grays, whites, and earth tones, a pink shirt screamed like a neon sign.

Jenna had given it to me last year for my (Ariane’s) birthday, annoyed by the lack of “happy colors” in my wardrobe. The color listed on the tag was “dusty rose,” which sounded awful if you thought about it literally; but it was a pretty, soft pink fabric.

The style was a deep V-neck with the material gathered slightly under the chest for emphasis, which was good because I needed all the help I could get. Then it descended into deliberately ragged layers, one on top of the other. It was fashionable and shouted, “Look at me.”

It was much too flashy for my regular wardrobe, so I’d never worn it. And, I realized suddenly, Jenna probably never expected that I would. She preferred me as I was—pale, colorless, bland, nonthreatening.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I shoved my other clothes to the side and pulled the “dusty rose” shirt off the hanger.

It was as pretty as I remembered, the fine fabric catching on my fingertips. Jenna had spent serious money on this gift. And suddenly I wanted to wear it, wanted to prove her wrong. That I could be someone who would wear this shirt and be comfortable in it. That I wouldn’t just be the freaky girl whose only purpose was to make average girls look better.

I pulled my gray Henley over my head. The air felt too cool against my skin, and I shivered.

Then I squirmed my way into the new shirt—it was tighter than most of the other things I wore. And for good reason. I turned to look at myself in the mirror. As I’d suspected, the crisscross of the fabric in front aided in the appearance of a B-cup, and the layers of ruffles below the chest created the illusion of someone with more distance between breasts and hips.

I backed up a step or two for a better look. It made me appear taller, too. Not that I would resemble any definition of that word standing next to Zane, but the illusion was more than I had otherwise. Pair it with another of my favorite jeans—maybe the ones with the Swarovski crystal designs on the back pockets—and I’d be set.

In the mirror, my face was flushed, and my pale hair stood up in crazy, static-filled tufts.

But I looked…happy. Not normal, exactly, but a better version of me.

And I wanted to be
her
tonight, that girl in the mirror. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week. But for tonight.

I turned to pull the tags off the shirt and caught my first glimpse of a problem. The neck that tapered down to a fine point in the front started out much wider at the shoulders. So much so that the edge of the bandage covering the GTX identifier on my shoulder blade was visible.

Get one of the clear bandages,
my inner voice argued.
Or a smaller one. You have options!

I did. But there was only one option I was interested in.

Using the mirror for guidance, I plucked at the bandage with shaking hands. After a second, the edge came free, and I managed to wrest the entire thing away. It came off a twisted and mangled bit of cotton and sticky tape. And the four-by-four-inch space of my skin—covered every minute of every day for the last ten years except for the few seconds it took to change the bandage—felt absurdly sensitive, as if the nerve endings had multiplied in the constant dark. The fabric of my shirt felt cool and slippery soft against that place.

Before leaving the room to shower and then wrestle with my hair, I double-checked to make sure the tattoo wasn’t visible above or through my shirt.

It wasn’t. My back was a solid wall of dusty rose.

So, tonight, for one last night, I would do what I wanted. I’d break the Rules and be the Ariane Tucker
I
wanted to be.

F
EELING ODDLY NERVOUS
, I arrived at Pine and Rushmore a few minutes early and parked around the corner, as usual. I wished she’d have let me pick her up, but I knew better than to try
that
argument. I hoped the owners of the house on the corner didn’t mind my waiting here again, because the last thing I needed was someone calling the police. My dad was still pissed that I’d talked him into the SUV for one last night. I’d stayed holed up in my room—emerging only to grab a plate of half-thawed chicken casserole—to avoid the possibility of another fight that would cause him to renege.

Fortunately, no one on the street seemed the least bit interested in me or my truck. Most of the houses were lit up—people watching television, finishing dinner, or getting their families to bed. It was almost nine. In fact, the only other vehicle in sight was a dark utility van parked on the other side of the street, its engine running.

Squinting at it, I could just barely make out the lettering on the side. Something about tulips. A florist’s van?

I frowned. Kind of late in the day for flower deliveries, wasn’t it?

I might have thought more about it, but then I caught a glimpse of Ariane in the side mirror as she came around the corner and moved through the light of the streetlamp. She was wearing pink, definitely a brighter color than I’d ever seen her in. And her hair was down and loose around her shoulders. I felt like I was seeing
her
for the first time.

I fumbled for the handle and got out of the truck.

“Don’t,” she warned, her shoulders tense, when she saw me.

I held up my hands in defense. “I wasn’t going to. You look…amazing.”

She dropped her gaze, but she was smiling. “Thanks.”

I stepped around her and opened the door. “You ready for this?” I asked.

Her smile faded. “Probably not. But this is what we’ve been working toward, right?” She slipped past me and climbed into the truck.

I shut the door, suddenly feeling uncertain about my plan. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Goading Ariane into accepting the invitation had only been an opening move, something to keep her talking to me. But if tonight was my only chance to convince her that this thing between us was worth pursuing, Rachel’s bonfire party probably wasn’t the right environment to help me win the fight.

I jogged around the Blazer and got behind the wheel. “You know, we don’t have to go tonight,” I said. “There will be other parties. Other opportunities to watch Rachel lose her mind when she learns she can’t control everyone and everything in her path.” I gave Ariane a grim smile.

“Yeah, like when she kills you for not showing up after you made her invite me.”

“I’m serious, Ariane. We don’t have to go.”

“No,” she said, “let’s just get this done.”

“Okay,” I said reluctantly. I put the truck in gear and headed in the direction of Rachel’s neighborhood. But I couldn’t shake the unaccountable feeling of dread in my gut. My phone had been disturbingly quiet for the last couple of hours—no texts or calls from Rachel—which should have been a good sign, except it felt wrong somehow. “How about afterward?” I persisted, feeling some gnawing need to establish a further connection, future plans that would cement us together.

She frowned. “What about it?”

“Well, we’re not going to want to hang around while Rachel tries to keep from going nuclear in front of everyone.”

She raised her eyebrows, surprised. “I thought…I figured you’d want to stay.”

“No way. We’re going to walk in, wait for Rachel to pull the trigger on our ‘breakup,’ and stick around long enough to see the look on her face when she realizes we’ve gotten the better of her. Fifteen minutes, tops, and we’ll be out of there.”

“What did you have in mind?” she asked.

“How do you feel about bowling?” All right, it wasn’t my best idea ever, but it was the first thing that popped into my head.

“You mean in general or the eternal question—sport or game?” she asked with a hint of a smile. “I’ve never played, so I couldn’t say.”

“Bowling is an eternal question?” I asked, trying not to laugh.

“Yes,” she said with an air of absolute confidence.

“I want to ask,” I said, “but I’m a little afraid of what the other eternal questions might be.”

“It’s not a comprehensive list, but Star Wars versus Star Trek, Dumbledore or Gandalf, and foosball: game of skill and chance or exercise in futility,” she said promptly.

I stared at her in wonder. “And how did you come across these eternal questions? Do you have a reputable source or—”

“Years of study,” she said, sounding distracted. She leaned forward in her seat, staring out the window. “Wow.”

We were in Rachel’s subdivision already, and the
thump-thump
of bass from the party rattled my windows from several houses away. Cars, trucks, and a few vans lined the street on both sides. For all of Rachel’s talk of exclusivity, it looked like most of the school was here, and the bonfire wasn’t even over yet. I’d thought by arriving ahead of the crowd we’d be able to avoid most of the drama. But Rachel must have invited everyone to come over early. Maybe this was designed to function as much as a pre-party as post. Or maybe she’d just wanted as many people as possible to witness what she was going to do to Ariane.

“Yeah,” I said grimly. “She’s not going to miss a chance to show off. She had to work to steal this party away from Lauren-Whitney Tate.”

Ariane looked at me questioningly.

“The bonfire party is always supposed to be at a senior’s house, but Rachel convinced everyone to come here instead.” I wasn’t sure what she had promised to get them to show up, but whatever it was, it had worked.

I slowed down to look for parking, finally finding a spot between Matty’s beat-up Volvo and a bright and shiny Kia that I didn’t recognize.

I cut the engine, but neither of us moved to get out.

I twisted in my seat to face Ariane. “At the risk of repeating myself, are you sure you want to—”

“No.” But she pushed her door open and slid out.

So I guess that answered that. I hurried to follow, catching up with her in the middle of the street.

Taking her hand in mine, I led the way to the wrought-iron gate that divided the backyard from the front. From the corner of my eye, I could see Ariane taking it all in. Rachel’s house, a two-story stone monstrosity bathed in floodlights with a hand-to-God pair of matching turrets, was worlds away from the neighborhood of small square houses where she lived.

“Just…stay close to me, okay?” I said, feeling as if I were about to introduce a newborn puppy to a pack of hungry wolves. Which was dumb because Ariane had proven time and time again that she wasn’t afraid to defend herself or others. It was more the sense of her being untainted, I guess.

She nodded, her expression serious. Too serious.

I squeezed her hand gently. “So, out of curiosity, how do you come down on those eternal questions?”

“Star Wars but only the original three, Dumbledore, and exercise in futility,” she said with a faint frown, as if I’d suggested that there might be another way to answer.

I laughed. And suddenly I was glad we were on our way in to see Rachel. The sooner we were done with our “fake” relationship, the sooner I could convince Ariane that giving a real one a shot would be worth it. Starting with bowling, of course.

As we cleared the edge of house, she slowed down. “Something’s wrong,” she said in a voice so quiet I could barely hear. I turned to look at her. Her head was tilted, her forehead wrinkled in concentration, as if listening for something.

I frowned. I didn’t hear anything except the buzzing of a speaker with the bass blown, the shouts and splashes of people in the pool, and laughter and conversation at a level that could probably be heard three blocks from here.

I might have written it off as cold feet, but Ariane didn’t seem nervous or upset, just perplexed.

“Are you sure? We can leave,” I offered, hoping she’d take me up on it.

She frowned. “It’s probably nothing.” But she didn’t sound convinced.

And as soon as we started up the stairs to the oversized deck, it was clear she’d been right. There was an air of tension, a sense of waiting, hanging over the party. How Ariane had picked up on that before we even saw anyone, I didn’t know. But I didn’t have time to worry about that right now.

Heads swiveled toward us, and regular conversation dropped off to be replaced by whispering and stares. Confirmation of that gut-level dread I’d been feeling.

I turned to Ariane. “Let’s go. We should—”

“You’re here!”

I glanced back to find Rachel wobbling her way around the hot tub toward us. She was barefoot and very drunk in a short red dress that swirled around her tanned thighs. “Now the fun can start,” she said with a wide and too-perfect smile that in no way disguised the mean glint in her eye.

Oh, this couldn’t be good.
I frowned. Why the hell was Rachel drunk? She should have been clearheaded and reveling in triumph, not sloppy and staggering.

“Zaney,” she said, pouting at me as she stumbled closer, almost tripping over a cooler at the edge of the hot tub. “Remember when we used to call you that?”

I looked for familiar faces in the crowd, for help. But Cami and Cassi were huddled together on the far side of the pool, watching like trauma victims hoping the serial killer was too distracted to remember they were there. And Trey was in the far corner alone, surrounded by discarded red cups and glaring at me.

My God, how bad had it gotten before we arrived? Rachel could be vicious when she was drunk, but most of us in her inner circle were usually spared. Something strange was going on here tonight.

“Yeah, I remember,” I said.

“And then your mom left and you got all boring and sad.” She heaved a big sigh.

Ariane stiffened.

“You don’t want to talk to us anymore, you don’t want to have any fun.” Rachel’s eyes sparkled with tears.

“Rach…” I started toward her, feeling a tug of sympathy—we’d been friends for years, no matter what was happening now—but Ariane’s hand tightened on mine.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

Without warning, Rachel went from bad to bat-shit. “And then I have to find out from Princess Monkey-face Ass-kisser over there that you’re double-crossing me with that freak,” she shrieked, her face nearly as red as her dress.

I followed her gaze to find Jenna Mayborne standing awkwardly by the pool steps in a skirt that looked too tight, a blush rising from her throat into her cheeks.

Oh, shit.

“Jenna,” Ariane breathed, her voice cracking with hurt.

I made a decision. It wasn’t how I would have preferred to do it, but I didn’t have a lot of options. “I’m not double-crossing you,” I said to Rachel. “It’s real.” I wrapped my arm around Ariane’s shoulders.

Ariane looked up at me, shocked.

Rachel threw back her head and laughed. Several people around her giggled nervously.

I stayed still, and Ariane slid her hand around my back. Which had an immediately nullifying effect on the laughter, nervous or not. And even though now was so not the time to be worrying about it, I couldn’t help but feel relieved. Maybe this would work out after all, assuming we could survive tonight.

“Right, Zane.” Rachel swayed closer. “Like I’m going to believe that. Even
you
have better taste.” But her voice held a note of vulnerability, and I suddenly remembered Ariane’s theory about why Rachel had been so insistent that I be the one to follow through on her plan.

I grimaced. “Rachel, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Apparently that apology did more to convince her than any attempt at an explanation.

“Son of a bitch,” she said with a hiccupping gasp, and staggered back, knocking into the open cooler again, sending ice water sloshing over the side into the hot tub. Somebody squealed.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” I said to Ariane. It hadn’t gone down exactly the way I’d anticipated, but it was over, at least.

She hesitated and then nodded.

As we turned away, I saw Cami and Cassi edging closer to Rachel, their hands out, whether in defense or in an attempt to be soothing.

“Rach, it’s okay,” Cami murmured behind us. “It’s no big deal.”

“Yeah, Rachel, who cares. It’s just Zane. It’s not like
you
wanted him.… Wait. Unless you did?” Cassi sounded confused and even spacier than normal, but volume certainly wasn’t an issue. Anyone at the party who
hadn’t
been clear on what was going on definitely knew now. Which only made things worse; the scattered whispers became more concentrated and mixed with giggles. People laughing at Rachel. Not good.

I closed my eyes for a second. Cassi, for the win.

I tugged at Ariane’s hand, urging her silently to hurry.

“Rachel, don’t!” Cami shouted.

Ariane stiffened next to me a split second before something slammed into the back of my knee, sending pain ricocheting upward through my thigh and knocking me off balance.

Reeling, I looked back in shock. A full beer bottle lay just behind me, spinning. And Rachel was digging into the cooler to reload.