“Have a good day, Tress,” Febrezio calls behind me, but I’m already slipping past the row of kids who want study hall, don’t want study hall, or just want to align their schedules more closely with their friends’.
I’m cruising through the halls, scanning lockers for my number when someone grabs my elbow. “Dude, what happened to your shirt?”
It’s the football player again, all smiles and teeth, and I think of Rue. She’s either going to hug you or kill you. I give him the benefit of the doubt, something I don’t do often.
“I’ve been castrated,” I say, shrugging.
He laughs, and a few people turn to look. I’m struggling to find words, to think of what to say next. I almost unzip my backpack and offer him the jersey, since he likes it so much, but then he clamps a hand onto my shoulder, and I reassess. It would never fit him. This guy is huge.
“Huge,” I say, the word filling the gap between us. “Hugh Broward.”
“Yeah,” he says. “See you around, Tress Montor.”
I nod like he didn’t just give me a gift, then turn to my locker. The staff put signs on all the freshman lockers, little welcome banners with our names. My eyes slide to the one next to mine, curious, and my heart goes up into my throat just as I hear a gasp behind me.
I turn to see Felicity Turnado, clean and beautiful and perfect. I still feel good about making Hugh Broward laugh; I can still feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder. So there’s a lightness in my chest that lifts a little more when I see her, a buoyancy that rises to my face and pulls the corners of my mouth up.
I’m smiling at Felicity Turnado when she turns her back on me and walks away.
Chapter 17
Felicity
Freshman Year
I don’t have anything to wear.
Correction—I have too many choices. I’m staring at my closet, wondering how best to usher in high school, overwhelmed by the fact that I have an unnatural amount of clothing. It’s the first day of freshman year, and while being Felicity Turnado mattered in junior high, it doesn’t mean shit to the upperclassmen. What I wear today will announce to everyone where I see myself fitting in, so I’ve got to make it count. I’m not an athlete, and it’s not like I own a ton of sweatpants and hoodies anyway, so that look is easily shot down. I’m smart, but not sure how much I want to push that. I’ve been playing down the cute smart girl thing since I ditched my glasses for LASIK in seventh grade.
I’m in the choir and was tapped to sing the national anthem at junior high graduation, but I’m not sure the arts crowd is quite where I click. I’ve got the boho clothes for it, and if I wear my hair down and loose I can rock the free-spirit hippie thing. But there’s a lot of confidence required for that, and the little part I landed in the junior high musical last year got me a backstage pass. Even behind the curtain the stage kids were always on, being funny, dramatic, or just all out themselves—like they had nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe they don’t. That’s probably why I never felt comfortable.
I didn’t mind the attention, though . . . not at all.
With that thought, I grab a pair of ripped jean shorts and a cute little tank. Enough to show off what I’ve got while still playing it safe with dress code. The labels are from brands that will set me apart but not above. That’s important. Really important, in Amontillado.
I look in the mirror, adjusting a fold there, applying a little more mascara here. Dabbing my lipstick off when I realize the color is too much, too confident. I’ve got to attract boys but not alienate girls. Especially as a freshman. I want upperclassmen to notice me, but I can’t be pegged as fresh meat by the boys, or as a threat by the girls. It’s a fine line, a delicate balance, and I can’t make a misstep.
I’m still the girl who was with the Montors when they disappeared, the one who doesn’t know what happened—or won’t say. I’m a mystery to most, a pity case to some, and complicit to a few holdouts. Amontillado still hasn’t decided what I am, five years later.
I straighten my shoulders and put on the smile I’ve been practicing in the mirror.
I’ve got to show them that I’m Felicity Turnado, and I am just fine.
Mom drops me off at school without making too much of a fuss. She hasn’t let me ride the bus since second grade, when I had my first seizure moments after walking in the door at home. She’s convinced I’m going to seize during the ride, with no one noticing until they open the doors in front of our house and I don’t get up. She’s a worst-case scenario type of person. I can’t say I blame her there, though, given that the Montors—and their car—disappeared into thin air, leaving me wet, gasping, and forgetful on the riverbank. I don’t have the best track record with moving vehicles.
“Bye, Mom,” I call over my shoulder as I leave, ducking out from under her arm as she reaches for me.
I sail into the atrium like I don’t care, like I’m not noticing every single person who notices me, not weighing the glances and determining where I land on their judgment scale. There are a few junior girls giving my tanned legs the stink-eye, but Brynn spots me and comes over, gives me a hug. Their attitude changes immediately, which tells me they must be athletes. Brynn’s been burning a hole in volleyball records since sixth grade; if she accepts me, they will, too.
“You look good,” she tells me, and I pay the compliment back, meaning it. She’s got dark skin and knows how to set it off . . . not that she needs to. Everything looks good on that build.
“What’s your first period?” she asks, taking me by the hand and leading me over to where the juniors are gathered.
“Um . . .” I glance at my phone. “English.”
“Cool,” Brynn says. “Me too. Walk together?”
“Yes.” I jump at her offer. Brynn introduces me to the other girls, and they warm up immediately when she tells them that I kept book for the eighth-grade volleyball team.
“We need a new book,” one of the girls says, obviously eyeing me. “You know the sport?”
“I don’t play, but I know it,” I tell her.
In and out, the closest I’ll ever get to being an athlete, myself. Brynn has played in school and travel leagues her whole life, and if you wanted to spend any time with her, you ended up watching a few games. Maybe a few hundred. I tend to run from projectiles—or just cover my face and scream—but that doesn’t mean I’m not into sports. I showed enough interest that the coach invited me to come to some scrimmages and taught me how to keep book. She said having a parent keep book was just inviting an unwanted coach to the bench. I’m practically a pro now; my book is tight. No smudges, no pencil strikes that are unsure, substitutions recorded like clockwork. You could look at my record of a game and relive it, accurately, play for play.
In junior high tournaments last year I noticed that Prospero was serving out of rotation. I’d glanced around, hoping an adult would say something, but both our coaches were consulting with the players, and they hadn’t spotted it. I checked my book again, stunned that something so obvious could slide. But my book didn’t lie, and I cleared my throat.
I didn’t miss the sneer on the Prospero coach’s face when I handed my book over to the officials, expecting a child’s unsure notes, a vague perception of reality. Instead, they’d consulted, nodding, and we ended up getting a point out of the mess. When the table official handed the book back to me, he said, “Good work, kid,” and gave me a high five.