"This is The Aud. Home of anything remotely fun that happens at this school. This is where the auditions and rehearsals for the annual senior class Christmas gala are held." My face scrunches in confusion at her mention of Christmas since it’s only the end of September, and she laughs. “Seems excessive, right? I have no idea why, but it always starts in September. Tradition, maybe?” She gives me a wink, moving inside and down the stairs to three students lounging in the plush seats a few rows back from the stage. I follow, mostly because I'm not sure what else to do.
The room is beautiful and like none I’ve ever been in. About thirty tiered rows, with aisles dividing them into three equal sections, rise gracefully from the elevated stage down at the front of the space. And while the seats still fold down like standard old-school movie theater seats, they’re covered in a velvety deep blue material and are probably more comfortable than my bed back in New York. By the time I reach Sunday and her group, I am once again sure this must be a dream or a mistake. There is no way somebody like me would be allowed into a place like this.
"Stella, meet Aylie, Payne, and Roxy. Guys, this is Stella Bradleigh." Sunday pats the empty seat next to her, and I flop into it gratefully. I'm saved from having to do anything more than return the friendly smiles of the girls and the nod from the lone guy in the group by the opening cowbell from Marvin Gaye's ‘Got To Give It Up’ booming through The Aud's impressive sound system. A loud collective cheer erupts from the students in the room, none more piercing than the high-pitched screeching generated by three girls standing together in the front row. Leaning over to Sunday, I yell so she can hear me over the racket.
"If those girls throw their panties on stage, I am so out of here," I threaten with a laugh.
"Don't joke!" she laughs back. "I'm pretty sure they've tried to do more than throw their panties at them." With that somewhat gross visual, she stands, gives a small salute to the group we are sitting with, and motions for me to follow her through the row to the far exit aisle. The music is loud and infectious, and I find myself bobbing my head and sort of dancing along behind her.
When we get to the stairs, I can see the stage clearly, so I grab her sleeve, wanting to stop and watch. Three guys are on stage, conga-lining like idiots and singing along to the music. Too foolish to be part of a Christmas gala, it looks more like a highly successful attempt to annoy the plain-looking girl also on stage trying in vain to call the next person up to audition.
Sunday is dancing beside me, and I forget myself long enough for us to give each other a few disco-flavored hip bumps as we laugh and cheer along with the crowd.
Even in a group of rowdy teenagers, my new friend stands out, and the guys on stage catch sight of us. Two of them send her huge grins and thumbs ups in approval. The third, though, he looks straight at me, winds his hips, and winks audaciously. Caught up in the music and the moment, I throw my head back and fully laugh for the first time in what feels like forever. My laughter turns to ash in my throat when I look back at the stage. Now openly staring at me, recognition slides over his striking features and sinks into my gut.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
Suddenly extremely uncomfortable, I whirl around and take off up the stairs to the exit, my face flushed, and my heart racing.
Once back in the hallway, I run straight for the restrooms we passed earlier. Finding an open stall at the far end, I slam the door behind me, locking it and resting my forehead against the dark wood. Squeezing my eyes shut, I silently will myself to disappear. A few minutes pass, my short, sharp breaths the only sounds in the cavernous room before the main door bangs open.
“New Girl? Are you in here?" Footsteps make their way down the row of stalls, stopping at each door and testing the lock on it until she finally gets to mine. I open my eyes and see the toes of her shoes peeking under the door. Hiding from her at this point is useless, and ignoring her would be incredibly rude, so I step back and flip the lock, allowing the door to swing inward and reveal me in all my freaked-out glory. “What the hell happened back there?" Sunday's face and voice exhibit nothing but worry.
"I, uh, suffer from a bit of a panic disorder, so sometimes I freak out in big groups.” It’s not a total lie; it just isn’t the whole truth. Shrugging one shoulder and hoping she’ll accept my explanation at face value, I move to make my way past her to the nearest sink. Before I can take more than two steps, her arms wrap around me in a tight hug. Pulling back, but not fully letting go, she stares me straight in the face.
"You can always tell me what's going on. You need to leave, we leave together. Just grab me and pull. For reals. You aren't alone here, Stell." The sincerity of her words and the ferocity of her hug stuns me into silence. Finding my voice again, I clear my throat and ask the obvious question.
"What’s in this for you, Sunday? Why do you give a shit? You don't even know me." The words come out more bitchy than intended, but that doesn’t seem to faze her.
"I knew you the minute we met, silly!" She grins like a fool at me, all perfect teeth and shiny pink lip gloss. "Kindred spirits and all that. Felt it in my gut, and the Easton gut never lies." She sticks her belly out and pats it a few times for emphasis.
"You're crazy. You know that, right?" I ask, shaking my head and grinning back.
"Oh probably, but if I am, it's the best kind of crazy!" she promises with a Girl Scout salute.
“Were you ever actually a Girl Scout?" I question with a healthy amount of skepticism.
"Not a fucking chance!" she chortles gleefully. With that not so surprising revelation, she drags me out of the restroom and down the hall to homeroom.
Chapter Five
Sitting through my first class is torture. It’s been so long since I've been in an actual classroom setting that it feels claustrophobic. Being the new girl isn't helping matters either. Usually, I'm reasonably good at tuning out what other people are doing and don’t give a shit what anybody thinks of me.
Not today.
Today, these offspring of the high and mighty are making me feel like a discount sweater at a fire sale—something to be examined and then rejected for not meeting their distorted standards. One group of girls, specifically, seem particularly venomous; the poison in their eyes aimed squarely in my direction. They look vaguely familiar, but there have been so many new faces today, I could be imagining it.
"Sunday," I whisper loudly and lean over to her desk beside mine. "What's with the Bitches of Eastwick over there?" Lowering my head to hide my face from the other students around us, I flick my eyes in the direction of the three very well-accessorized and good-looking girls. Doing a miserable job stifling her hoot of laughter, she knows exactly who I'm talking about without having to look.
"That would be Hali, Laina, and Carrisa. And that is the best description for that gaggle of nasty females I've ever heard. Hali is the ringleader, and the other two are her agents of chaos.” Sunday sits up straight and smiles innocently at our homeroom teacher as he shoots us the universally known face for ‘shut the hell up in my classroom’. As soon as he goes back to reading over his notes, I lean over to her again.