“She does,” Ivy replied, mounting the stone steps. “She kind of invited us.”
I blinked, confused, but before I could say anything, she threw open the double oak doors and all my friends jumped out from behind columns and pews.
“Surprise!”
My hand flew to my heart and for a second I thought I was about to find out how it felt to be scared to death. Then I saw the hundreds of candles aglow around the room, the huge banner strung over the pulpit reading, “Congratulations, Reed!” and what seemed to be at least two hundred black and silver balloons cramming the lofty ceilings.
“Congratulations?” I breathed, as Kiki and Lorna swooped in for hugs and Tiffany snapped about a dozen pictures.
“For surviving your latest near-death experience!” Astrid shouted, letting out a celebratory cheer that was echoed by the rest of the group.
I laughed, shaking my head at their ridiculousness as the Twin Cities pulled me into the room. Half the girls were swigging bloodred punch from china cups, the other half toting delicate flutes full of bubbling champagne. “Wow. You really will find any excuse to throw a party.”
“You know us so well,” London chirped. She grabbed a cupcake off a pastry cart at the front of the room and handed it to me. The frosting was green and looked like grass, and a black cookie stuck out from the top with the letters A.R.I.P. piped on in white letters.
“Arip?” I asked.
“Almost Rest In Peace,” Portia explained, pointing at each corresponding letter in turn.
I rolled my eyes and handed the cupcake to her. “I’m laughing on the inside,” I said wryly. “What else ya got?”
“We have Death by Chocolate, black M&Ms, rocky road ice cream . . . ,” Vienna said, walking around the pastry cart and pointing things out like a game-show hostess. “And . . .”
“Our drink choices are Cristal, some crazy blood punch London’s brother taught her to make, and . . . Johnnie Walker Black!” Shelby announced, proffering a bottle of scotch. “Want some?”
I laughed and waved her off. “No, thank you. But I will have some of that rocky road. . . .”
“Wait! We almost forgot the costumes!” Amberly called out as everyone dug into the desserts. “Where’s Noelle?”
“Right here! And no, I don’t need any help, thanks for asking,” she said, rolling her eyes. She shoved a rolling wardrobe rack out from one of the alcoves on the side of the church, its wheels creaking and squeaking as she tried to maneuver it over the old chipped and warped floorboards. The rack appeared to be packed with black and white clothing, everything from satin to tulle to rubber to spandex.
“Costumes?” I asked warily, sucking the ice cream off an almond before crunching into it. “What kind of costumes?”
“It’s up to you,” Noelle said, dusting her hands off before leafing through the choices. “You can be the angel of death, a priest, a nun, an assassin, a zombie—a sexy zombie, of course . . .”
“Do they sell any other kind?” Ivy asked, taking a sip from her punch glass.
Already my friends were attacking the rack, always up for a fun wardrobe change. Their chatter filled the room, crowding my chest with its giddy excitement.
“What about this?” Noelle said, emerging from the throng with a grim reaper mask. “I figure the reaper can’t come for you if you are the reaper.”
I put my dish of ice cream aside and plucked the mask from her hands, then sat at the end of the nearest pew, staring down at its gaping eye holes.
“This was your idea?” I asked her.
“I thought I’d take your mind off things without entirely ignoring the unignorable,” she said, lifting her palms. “Brilliant, no?”
I tilted my head. “Either that or highly inappropriate.”
“Can’t it be both?”
Noelle grabbed a black veil from the end of the rack, along with a comically huge black tulle skirt. She shimmied out of her jeans, exposing her string bikini underpants and the scar just above her hip. I felt myself staring at it, as always, and quickly looked away.
“Whoa. What happened to you?” Ivy blurted.
Everyone sort of froze and the conversation died completely. In the two years I’d known
Noelle, no one had ever asked her about the scar. I had almost done it a dozen times, but had always stopped myself. Because I thought it would be rude. Or because I didn’t want to know. The scar was angry and red and jagged. It just seemed like the story behind that couldn’t be anything but bad.