How It Ends (8 page)

“Okay.”

“House party or other?”

“House.”

“Grade level of host?”

“Tenth.”

“Coed?”

“Of course. Would I care about all this if it wasn't?”

“Good point. Parents home or away?”

“Home.”

“Drag. Okay. Come with me.”

“But . . .” I gesture toward my closet.

“Listen, Annie—I can't believe I'm doing this, but I'm pretty stoked you asked me for help. So, for this one night only, I'm opening my closet door to you.”

My jaw drops.

“I know. But we're almost like sisters . . . technically. Plus, I want you to go out and have a blast so you'll take that stick out of your ass and be human around here.”

Sophie heads off to her room, leaving me staring after her. She turns at her door and looks at her watch. “I'd hurry up if I were you.”

I race to her room, already envisioning myself in her clothes.

When my dad calls upstairs for me twenty minutes later, Sophie's still hard at work. “Hold on, Martin,” she yells down the stairs. “I'm not done with her yet.”

“Done with . . . ”

“I'm making Annie gorgeous.”

I close my eyes, my stomach fluttering. Patience isn't one of my dad's best qualities. I'm expecting him to start nagging that it's time to go, or threatening me with no ride if I don't hurry up. He must be as shocked as I am at Sophie's sudden friendliness, though, because he doesn't say a word.

Sophie works her magic for almost another hour, and still, my dad stays silent.

Finally she steps back and smiles. “Turn around.”

I look up at her, and it's suddenly hard to breathe. There's a softness in Sophie's eyes that reminds me of my mother. I feel dizzy, as if I'm in the present and the past at the same time. I swallow hard around the lump in my throat, terrified that I might break down in front of her. Then I turn and catch sight of myself, and all those thoughts scatter.

I can't believe the girl in the mirror is me. I look
hot.
My usual heavy eyeliner and mascara are gone. With far less makeup than I normally use, Sophie's managed to give me a natural look that makes me seem more sophisticated and less like a kid playing dress-up. She's blown out my hair, lent me a pair of low-rise jeans that make me look at least two years older, and finished off the outfit with a black tank top that's just this side of acceptable for parental viewing.

“Sophie,” I breathe. “You're a miracle worker.”

“I know, right?” She laughs at the expression on my face. “It wasn't that hard. You're very pretty.”

A blush creeps up my cheeks.
Why's she being so nice to me?

Sophie races down the stairs ahead of me, calling for Madge and my dad to come see.

“Annie,” my dad thunders as I ease down the stairs on Sophie's heels. “You're gorgeous!”

Madge actually
smiles
at me. “You look beautiful,” she says before turning to Sophie. “I'm so proud of you, darling. Are those your clothes Annie's wearing?”

Sophie shrugs. “I always wanted a sister to trade clothes with.”

For a moment, I have a flash of how things could be around here. Maybe if I try harder, Sophie and I could be friends. Maybe I could feel more at home here instead of always needing to be at Jessie's house. Maybe I could have my own home.

“Let's get going,” Dad says, jingling his car keys.

“Actually,” Sophie says, “can I drive her?”

“You want to drive Annie to her party?”

“Yeah . . . and maybe I can borrow the car to go out tonight, too?” Her hopeful eyes are on Madge now. “I'll just be at Margot's house. I'll leave in time to pick up Annie from the party and get her home before her curfew.”

My dad's smile is huge. “Well, what do you think of this, Madeleine? We'll have the place all to ourselves.” He waggles his eyebrows at her, turning our stomachs.

“We're out of here,” Sophie announces, snatching the keys from Dad's hand. “You two behave while we're gone.”

“So gross!” I squeal as we run for the car. Sophie's cheeks are flushed and her smile is real. I feel like I'm flying.

“So where is this party?”

I give directions as we drive, settling into the seat and committing this night to memory. Sophie changes the radio station—something forbidden in Dad's car—and we race along into the night with dance music blaring.

Larissa's house is even nicer than I expected. Judging from her wardrobe, I figured she had money, but nothing prepared me for her house. The entranceway alone is more than twice the size of my bedroom.

Her father answers the door, a glass of wine in his hand. “Welcome!” he booms. “Head on down to the basement. The party's in full swing down there.” He gestures toward a door at the end of the hall, and I can hear the dull thud of music coming up through the floor.

I fight off panic as I slip down the stairs.
What if I have no one to talk to?
As I round the corner at the bottom of the staircase, a squeal startles me. Larissa races up and grabs onto my arm like we're long-lost pals.

“Annie! I'm so glad you came.”

I look around the dimly lit room. There are at least forty people down here, huddled in groups.

Larissa pulls me over to a corner. “Guess who's been asking about you tonight?”

“Um . . . I don't know. Who?”

“Scott!”

“Scott Hutchins?”

“Of
course
Scott Hutchins. You know, the absolute cutest guy in our grade!”

If she's so smitten with Scott, why's she excited that he's asking about me?
“I don't know. I kind of think Jonathan's hotter.”

Larissa gives me a playful push, laughing so hard she snorts. “Well, duh, but since he's my
boyfriend,
don't get any ideas!”

“Ha. Yeah. Just kidding!”
Since when are they dating?
I make a mental note to befriend some people who are better at gossiping than Jess.

“Anyway, Scott is Jon's best friend, and they were talking about hot girls in our grade and Scott totally said that he thinks you're cute.”

My mind swerves to keep up with this. “But I thought he liked Jessie.”

Again with the snorting laughter. “Jessie? Be serious. She's just tutoring him in science. Jessie's hardly his type.”

I feel a swell of protectiveness for Jess before remembering that she ditched me here to fend for myself.

“So, can I tell Jon to tell Scott that you like him?”

“Huh? I mean . . . I'm not sure. Maybe let's just wait and see what happens.”

“Come on!” She grabs me by the arm and drags me into a corner of the room. “Look who's here!” she announces as we stumble into Jon and Scott.

I smile, staring somewhere between the two of them. It feels like everyone in the room is watching us.

“I'm glad you came, Annie,” Scott says, handing me a red plastic cup of something. “Did Jess come with you?”
I knew it!

“Nah. She had other plans.”

“I'm kind of glad,” he says, leaning over so he doesn't have to shout over the music. “That means I get you all to myself tonight.”

A little thrill snakes its way up my spine. I take a sip from the cup and sputter at the taste. His eyes are sparkly. “It's got rum in it,” he explains.
Rum?
I suddenly see my dad's disapproving face in my mind. I haven't drunk anything since last September, when my friends and I smuggled wine coolers into school and got wasted in the girls' bathroom. I ended up with a three-day suspension and a massive guilt trip from Dad. He made me promise I wouldn't touch alcohol again until I'm nineteen. Rum. I grip the plastic cup hard, debating. It would be easy enough to set the cup down someplace and forget about it. Or I could just pretend to drink. I sneak another look at Scott, though, and think
Fuck it.

I gulp my drink and feel it blaze a trail all the way down to my stomach. Booze and Scott Hutchins. This is going to be an interesting night.

I lose track of how many times Scott refills my drink. I'm having a moral crisis, and the rum helps take the edge off. I know Jessie likes Scott, even though she swears that she doesn't. So the whole time I'm flirting with him, I keep a running tally of pros and cons in my head.

Basically the situation is this: Do I take Jessie at her word, or do I put my friend first and follow my instincts? I keep going back and forth. I love Jessie, but I'm pissed at her. I know she's not being honest with me, and I'm mad that she refused to come with me tonight. She
should
have come just to be a good friend. She stayed home because she's afraid of Courtney, but she won't listen to me when I tell her that Court's changed. And she's mad that I won't sacrifice my social life to join her in hiding, but I have just as much of a right to be mad that she's not trying to overcome her fears to spend time with me.

So when Scott leads me over to a couch in the far corner of the basement and starts looking at me like I'm dessert, I think,
What the hell?
I like him and he likes me. So what if Jessie has a secret crush on him? She's not here and not going after what she wants. I shouldn't have to sacrifice what I want . . .

I close my eyes and let him kiss me. My God. His lips are so soft and my heart's beating so fast and all I can think is,
This is what it feels like to have someone care about you.

I never, ever want this feeling to end. I want to crawl inside Scott's skin and never come out.

His hand slips under my shirt at the exact same time my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I don't know which makes me jump more. Scott looks somewhere between puzzled and annoyed until I pull out the phone and hold it up by way of explanation. He smiles awkwardly while I squint at the screen. “My stepsister's outside,” I apologize. He groans.

When I get up to make my way to the door, I sway unexpectedly, and he's there to support me. “I must have drunk more'n I thought,” I say.

Sophie's eyes are wide when Scott opens the door to her car and folds me inside. “I'm Scott,” he introduces himself, shaking her hand.

We pull away while he waves from the driveway. Sophie gets all the way to the end of the street before she speaks. “Well, well, well.”

“Did you have a good time tonight?” I ask, hoping to distract her from my current predicament.

“Not as good as you, apparently! Now, talk! Who's the hottie, and why do you smell like a bar?”

“Wha—”

“Don't even try to hide it.” She pulls over and swivels to face me. “You're totally drunk. And you apparently have great taste in guys. Now, spill it, sister!”

“Okay. I drank something with rum in it all night and we made out and he's really cute and I like him a lot.”

Sophie's laugh bounces around the inside of the car. “Good for you! Now let's get you home and into bed before my mom and your dad see you.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I mean for the question to come out in a joking way, but it's absolutely stark in its seriousness.

Sophie goes still, her laughter gone. “I know this all sucks for you. I know my mom can be a bitch sometimes and that I've been kinda rough on you. I just . . . I get so frustrated with you for always making such a huge deal out of everything and picking fights every two minutes. But after you and Mom fought about the art supplies, your dad sat me down and told me the whole story about the night your mom died and how hard it was for you afterward. I guess I kind of get now why you're always so angry and sad.”

It's the nicest thing she's ever said to me. Sadly, maybe even the nicest thing anyone has said since my mom died. I open my mouth to thank her, but a sob comes out instead.

“Good God, Annie! Don't turn into one of those pathetic girls who get overly emotional when they drink.” She shoots me a sly smile. “I recommend you dry those tears before we get home. The less you have to talk to anyone on our way in, the greater the chances you'll make it through this undetected.”

At home, Sophie sneaks me into my room and then brings me a glass of water and an Advil. “Drink the whole thing,” she commands, and watches while I drain the glass.

“Thanks, Sophie,” I mutter as I drift off to sleep.

The next thing I know, I'm jolting awake, heart pounding. Madge's face is inches from mine, and she's screeching my father's name. I leap out of bed, bumping into her and knocking the clothes I'd borrowed from Sophie out of her arms.

My dad skids into the doorway, his glasses askew.

“She's
drunk,
” Madge accuses.

“Madeleine! I thought someone was hurt!” Dad puts his arm out to prop himself up against the door and clutches at his chest.

I fall back on the bed, watching them through eyelids that are too heavy to keep open. “Can we talk about this in the morning?” I mumble, rolling over.