“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “Want to get a drink?”
He nods to the table, but Cotton Montgomery cuts us off, three drinks in his hand. They do the usual guy greeting, and Cotton hands Royal a cup of punch. “Duke’s already dumped the flask, so don’t drink too much,” he says. Then he acknowledges me for the first time, jerking his chin in a quick nod at me and handing me a can of soda. “Figured you’d appreciate a sealed one.”
He turns and walks off, and I stare after him. For some reason, I never thought about him hearing those rumors. I’ve never heard anything going around on the gossip circuit, but it’s common knowledge in his own group that girls don’t take drinks from him, and Dixie’s said something, too. I wonder if there was something on the blog the year before I came, or if this is more of an open secret. Either way, it must suck to know your own friends call you a predator behind your back.
“You’re friends with Cotton?” Royal asks as I open the soda.
“Not really,” I say, shrugging. “But I think we have a mutual respect since I joined the Swans.”
It’s a little more than that—Cotton respects me because I’m helping the Darlings, and I respect him for giving me a heads up about putting Colt in danger. Even a creeper can do something decent on occasion, and he risked himself and went out of his way to warn us. I’m not going to tell Royal that and get him booted from his friend group… Or worse.
I still haven’t asked Royal exactly what happened to Dawson.
He’s watching me in that weird way again, so I bug my eyes at him. “What?” I ask.
“You didn’t tell me you were popular this year.”
I cover my mouth so I don’t snort out soda. “I don’t think that’s the word for it.”
“Baron said you started shit with him and got a bunch of pissed off chicks they ghosted to help, not that you had friends.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I do,” I say. “Funny how that happens when there’s not someone there chasing away every guy you talk to and telling all the girls you’re a trashy whore.”
“You had friends last year,” Royal points out, obviously unmoved by my dig.
“Yeah,yourfriends,” I say.
He looks at me blankly, and I realize he doesn’t see the difference. Maybe there isn’t one to him. I didn’t really see the difference until I said it aloud. But it matters.
They’re not here because I’m with Royal. They won’t disappear if things don’t work out between us. They’re not my friends because I have the best boyfriend or because I’m in with the populars. Most of them aren’t even popular themselves. I don’t have a clique, but somehow, I’ve managed to gain the respect and friendship of people from a bunch of different groups. And they’re not here to ingratiate themselves or gain status, like they were when I was with Royal.
They’re here forme.
People have my back. I remember how excited I was last year when Gloria invited me to the mall, because as pathetic as it sounds, no one had ever sought out my company like they wanted to spend time with me. Now, people call my name when I walk into a place like this. People come say hi. Even Cotton, who’s on the enemy team, brought me a drink and made sure it was one I’d be comfortable drinking.
Last year, I wanted so badly what Royal had. I wanted the tight-knit group he had, the family, the brotherhood. So I tried to get in with them, and when I got Royal, I told myself they cared about me, too. I let myself get caught up in the fever of longing, of wanting to belong, to be a part of something. Now I realize I didn’t want to bewiththem. I wanted tobethem. I wanted to be Royal, to have brothers who were loyal and had my back no matter what.
But Baron doesn’t have his back. Baron’s never had anyone’s back but his own. And besides all that, I could never have that because I’m not part of that family.
Now, I have something better, something I built on my own, this group of friends who’ve come together from all different paths, groups, and families. It reminds me of Faulkner—a little microcosm of the mostly rich, mostly white side of town, anyway.
I like that somehow, I brought together this group who reflects more than just the most elite. There’s also the fallen elite. There’s the tatted up bad boy who smokes under the bleachers and is missing a finger. There’s the plus-sized goth girl who runs a gossip column. There’s the elite queen bee who’s really poor, a sassy little girl from the next generation to take over WHPA, and the girl who isn’t here because she’s too cool. And by extension of my friendship with Dixie, there’s the blue-haired wannabe rebel girl, and the chick who likes to stay home and bake on a Saturday night. And because of my Midnight Swans status, I can call the elite friends, too.
When Magnolia gestures for me to join them on the dance floor, I find that I have a place now, a niche I’ve carved out here. I have Royal, who’s older and doesn’t even go to school here, and Colt, who’s also older but still goes to Willow Heights. They’re enemies, and yet, they manage to coexist in our little circle on the dance floor. The gossip girls are goofing around, dabbing and doing the sprinkler and other cheesy dance moves, and the Walton girls are grinding on their dates, the Swan guys. But they don’t call me a skank like they did last year, and they don’t chase off Magnolia and her freshman friends who join us.
Gloria and Baron leave to receive their crowns, and then they play a slow song, and I wrap my arms around Royal’s neck and sway against him. Somehow, I’ve come back around to myself, back to a place where I can have fun for a moment, where I can carve away a sliver of happiness just for myself. “Do you think we could have this for the whole town?” I ask, looking up at Royal.
“Homecoming is for the whole town,” he says with a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Not just Homecoming,” I say, nodding at the dancefloor. “This. Everyone getting along, having fun together. Do you think Faulkner could ever have that?”
“I managed not to murder Preston Darling when I had the chance, so I guess hell’s already frozen over,” Royal says. “Anything’s possible now, Cherry Pie.”
“Would you help me?” I ask.
He narrows his eyes. “Help you do what?”
“Make it happen,” I say. “At least try. Or start the process.”