Another stall door opens as I'm blotting my cheeks with powder.
“I think you dropped this.”
I lower my compact and watch the person in the mirror.
Kelsey Anderson.
She holds up a purple ticket. “You're going to need it for the Thursday party, right?”
I take it from her pale hands. “Yeah, you must be going too?” I try to coax her with a smile.
She shakes her head, her face as solemn as death. “No.”
“Then how did you know about the ticket?”
“My boyfriend had one.” Empty eyes meet mine. “The night he hit the tree.”
I
'm sorry, the cat's not available.”
This is the tenth person I've talked to this week and it's only Thursday evening.
“What do you mean not available?”
“I'm going to be honest with you, sir.” I clench the phone to my ear. “You don't want the cat. It has a massive shedding problem.”
“That's okay. I have other cats. I'm used to it.”
“Oh, she can't stand other cats. Last time Moxie was around another cat... she ate it.” Okay, she bit it. But one could interpret it as a sign of borderline cannibalism.
“Well, I don't know about that. Muffy and Mr. Whisker Britches are gentle souls. They won't take kindly to someone coming in and taking over the herd.”
“And take over Moxie will, sir. With her teeth, if you know what I mean. Your Muffy and Mr. Whiskery Bottoms—”
“Whisker Britches—”
“—will not fare well at all. If you value their lives, I would find yourself a different cat, I'm afraid.”
“Bella?”
I jump, dropping the phone. Jake.
Hanging up, I square my shoulders and compose my most innocent expression. “Yes?”
“Was that someone calling about the cat?”
“Who, that?” I point to the phone. “Um . . . yes, but they called to say they're no longer interested.”
“We've had a lot of people back out on taking Moxie this week.”
“Indeed we have.” This guy still makes me uncomfortable. I mean he pounds people into the ground for sport. And I want to be around him because . . . ?
He pours a glass of orange juice then hands it to me. “Take a seat.”
“Oh, thanks, but I really have to go. Don't want to be late for the get-together tonight.”
“Do you want to tell your mom about intercepting the phone calls for Moxie, or should I?”
I toss back the juice and pull out a chair.
“Bella, I'm really sorry the cat has to go. But I know you don't want Budge sick.”
“Budge isn't sick. He's totally faking it.”
Jake's look is patronizing at best. “He wouldn't do that.” If he pats me on the head and calls me a silly little girl, I am so out of here.
“I'm telling you, I seriously doubt your son is allergic to my cat. He just hates me, that's all.”
“Budge doesn't hate you.” Jake steeples his fingers and inhales deeply. “This has been a tough transition for him too. But nobody wants to see you hurt over your cat. I am sorry. I know she means a lot to you.”
Tears cloud my vision. “She's totally my BFF.” Yes, that's right, Bella Kirkwood is on the verge of crying here. I don't think I've teared up since I was in diapers. No, I
will
hold it together. “I would do anything to keep her. Anything.”
“It's just not going to be possible.” His hand settles over mine. Actually, it covers it like a giant's manacle. “I'm sorry. I want you to be happy here, and I know you're not. I've really been praying about this, and—”
“Then pray for me to keep Moxie.” I jerk my hand away and explode from the seat. “She's all I have left.” And I storm out the kitchen and up to my room, wiping my eyes, my fingers black with melted mascara.
At six forty-five, I check my reflection in the mirror, satisfied with my wavy hair, Fred Segal sundress, and trendy retro sandals. I search under the bed for Moxie to tell her good-bye, but she's not there. Grabbing my purse, I head to the living room to wait for Matt and Lindy.
Halfway down the stairs, I stop.
“So I would make a great home for her. I love animals. The cat I just lost was with me almost twenty years.”
I all but fall the rest of the way down. “What's going on here?”
A white-haired woman sits on the couch—Moxie in her queen-sized arms.
Mom stands up. “Bella, this is Marjorie Bisby. She's here to take Moxie.”
My throat burns. Words slam-dance on my tongue, desperate for release. “No” is all I can manage.
My mother's arm slips around me. “We've found the best possible home, honey.”
“But she's mine.” There goes the mascara. Again. “You can't take her away from me. You've taken
everything
else away from me.”
Marjorie Bisby's mouth forms an O. She scoots from the middle of the couch to the end—away from me.
“I need her!” I run a hand across my dripping nose. “Does anybody ever stop and care what I need anymore? Nobody cares that I left my home. My boyfriend. My friends. My dad.”
“Bella, I do care.” Mom tries to hug me to her, but I throw off her embrace. “I love you, but we have the whole family to consider now. I tried to include you in picking where Moxie would go, but you wouldn't have it. It simply came to this.” Mom glances at our guest. And I would never turn her over to someone I thought wouldn't take the best care of her.” She stares at the floor. “I'm sorry, but this is it. Moxie will go home with Ms. Bisby. Say good-bye to her, sweetie.”
If looks could wound, I wouldn't be the only one moaning in agony here.
With trembling hands, I reach for my cat. I hold her close and listen to her rhythmic purr one more time. Through it all, she's been my constant. Not my boyfriend, not my parents, but a stinkih cat.
I whisper words to her—mumblings of good-bye, fragments of apologies.
“It's time to give her up.” Mom holds out her arms. “Let me have her.”
My throat tightens and burns. “You can't change her name. She knows it.”
“I won't, dear,” the old woman says, her own eyes pooling.
“And she runs into walls. She'll need extra pets when that happens.”
“I'll do it.”
“And she has a toy mouse that she likes. She likes you to throw it, but”—I sniff loudly—“she won't bring it back to you. And she falls off the bed on a regular basis, so maybe pad the floor with pillows. She's hit her head a lot.”
“I promise to take good care of her.” The woman stands up from the couch. “I tend to run into walls myself.”
That does not comfort me.
“Let her go, Bella.” Mom pulls the cat out of my arms just as a car pulls into the drive. Matt and Lindy. I fully release Moxie. Look at her one last time.
Then run out the door.
I
not and parties do
not
go together.
I blow my nose one last time as Matt shifts his truck into park.
“Are you sure you're okay?” Lindy asks for the fifth time.
I just nod my head. Every time I open my mouth, pitiful squeaking sounds are all I can manage.
“We don't have to go tonight.” Matt watches the dirt road as headlights approach.
“No.” I daub at my eyes. “Let's do this.” And then I'll go back home and look for my beating heart somewhere in the yard, where I'm sure I dropped it.
I jump at the knock on Matt's window. He rolls it down.
“Tickets, please.” A football player I recognize from the field house sticks his hand into the truck and takes our purple passes. “We need you to get out of the vehicle, and my boy Adam here is going to blindfold you.”
Um, excuse me? I know my makeup looks pretty bad right now, but no need to cover up my face.
“We'll help you to our cars then drive you to the secret party location.”
Lindy leans over Matt. “I'm not wearing a blindfold, Dante.”
“Then this meeting is over. That's the rules.” He slaps the hood. “Have a nice night.”
“No! Wait! We'll do it.” I unbuckle my seat belt and open the door. “Come on, Lindy. Be brave.”
She scoots across the seat. “I don't know about this, Bella. We'll be stuck out there with no car, no way home until they bring us back.”
“You both know all these guys. I'm sure we can get a ride if we need one. Let's just go and have some fun.” I think I deserve fun right now. And a cat.
“Fine,” Lindy huffs, then swings her pointing finger between me and Matt. “But if there's any funny business, we are out of there. We walk if we have to. No kegs, no drugs, no streaking.”
“No streaking? You could've mentioned that
before
I took the time to shave my legs.” I pull her toward Dante and Adam. “Kidding. I'm kidding.”
I feel a moment's panic as a black handkerchief falls over my eyes and is tied behind my head.
Dante gently guides me toward a car. “The two girls will ride with me. And Matt will ride with Adam.”
Second frisson of panic.
We're being separated?
When the football player opens his car door, I hear the voices of other girls but don't really recognize them. But I breathe easier that they're giggling and apparently not concerned with their safety. Lindy goes in first. Then me.
Fifteen minutes later my stomach is in my throat as we've weaved through winding roads and whiplash curves. The girl on the other side of Lindy has made choking noises the last five minutes, and if she blows chunks on me tonight, I am going to rip off this blindfold and hurt somebody.
I hear the music before we even stop.
“Here we are, ladies. Party central.”
A warm breeze hits me as the door is opened. Dante pulls me out by the hand and uncovers my eyes.
I struggle to focus before finally making out an old cabin. Are we at the lake?”
Dante reaches for Lindy. “I can't tell you anything.” He lowers his voice, his dark eyes intense on mine. “If you want to stay, you can't ask any questions.”
The car carrying Matt pulls up behind us, and a minute later he joins Lindy and me in the yard.
We follow the pulsing music inside to a large but outdated living room. Outdated as in early nineties. Not as in total antique like the Finleys' taste in décor.
“Hey, Matt! Lindy!” Jared Campbell pushes his way through to us, holding a cup in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. His face dims when he spots me. “Oh . . . hi.”
I smile anyway.
He returns his attention to Lindy and Matt. “Grab some food. There're some Cokes and stuff in the kitchen in a cooler. Some harder stuff on the back porch.”
“We'll just be sticking with the easy stuff tonight.”
Jared pounds his knuckles to Matt's. “I know, dude. Just thought I'd offer.”
After grazing in the kitchen lor a while, the three oi us walk single file back into the living room. The music rattles the windows and shakes the rustic wood pancling.
“You girls want to dance?”
Lindy pales, but I nod. “Yeah. Lead the way.”
As Matt clears us a path through our fellow students, I grab Lindy. “This is your chance to show him you can dance.”
“I can't dance!”
“Yes, you can. Just remember what Colton taught you in New York.” Not that one lesson is enough, but it's a start. Couldn't get any worse than her old way of sliding from foot to foot and snapping her fingers. “Come on, I'll help you. Just follow my lead.”
Though I receive a few rude stares from some Truman Tigers who have yet to forgive and forget, most people are too caught up in the music and dancing to care about my past transgressions.
My arms go over my head, and I let the music take over.
Lindy starts out with some basic moves, her arms stiff as broomsticks. But by the end of the second song, she's got it. Well, minus a few obnoxious head bobs.
An hour and a half later, the speakers pour out a slow song. The floor clears a little.
“Do you want to dance?” Matt asks me, nothing but friendship reflecting in those eyes.
“Um ...” I can nearly taste Lindy's disappointment. “I think I'm going to get another Sprite. But, Lindy, this is your favorite song, isn't it?” I lightly push Matt toward her. “You two should totally dance.” I sidestep them and make my way through the swaying masses.
Ten feet away from the kitchen door, I turn back to look at Lindy's progress.
And bump into a solid wall of boy.
“Oh! I'm so—”
Jared glares down at me.
“—sorry.” I move to get out of his way but he steps in front of me and blocks my escape.
“Wait... Bella. I . . . um . . . wanted to tell you that I'm sorry.”
I lift a questioning brow as a couple bumps into me, totally oblivious to anything but each other and the song. He takes a step out of their way. We both smile.
Jared reaches for my hand. “Come on. We're going to get mowed down if we stand still.”
And before I can say, “Let me count the ways my boyfriend Hunter is the best guy in the whole wide world,” my arms wrap around his neck, his slide to my waist, and we're moving in perfect tempo.
We dance in silence for a few moments before I am compelled to speak. “So . . . whose house did you say this was?”
He frowns. “I didn't.”
“Oh.”
That usually works on TV.
“Then whose is it?”
He shrugs. “Doesn't matter.”
“Are we still in Truman?”
“Just shut up and dance.”
“Wow, if you talk all romantic like that all the time, no wonder you have Brittany falling all over you.”
“What?”
He's absolutely clueless. “Um, nothing.”
“Bella ... I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry for the way you were treated after . . . um ...”
“The nuclear fallout from my blog going public?”
“Yeah. That. What you said about us wasn't cool, but I don't think anybody wanted yon dropped to total pariah status or anything.”
My eyes travel the room and land on Brittany Taylor, who looks as if she's trying to wish me away with mind power. “I'm not so sure about that.” Her eyes are slits, like those of a snake about to strike.
“I know the girls can be mean. But they'll get over it in time. I'd love for you to hang out with us again.”
“I...” What does that mean? Like a friend or as in he's interested in me? Why are boys so hard to read? “I think it's going to be awhile before Emma and Brittany are ready to talk to me. But I can use all the friends I can get.” I tune out the weight of Brittany's stare. “I really appreciate your breaking away from the pack and talking to me.”