Her voice breaks several seconds into the raw pain tearing its way from her throat, but she pushes through her vocal cords’ betrayal, the sound curdling. It’s not a fearful noise she makes. She isn’t afraid of anything. She’s angry. Her body rises and falls in the water from the exertion as the sound finally dies from her lips. Her arms raise and flap down into the water like anchors. Without context, anyone seeing this would think she’s a petulant teenager not getting her way.
That isn’t what she is at all.
“Fuuuck!” Her own damning word echoes right back into her face, and this time she pushes a wave of water at the wall she failed to reach.
I sink lower, still unable to leave. Lily kicks her legs out and floats on her back, growling into the empty room before windmilling her arms as her legs punish the water to take her back to where she started. I can see the top half of her body when she lifts herself out of the pool, and I grip the arms of my seat to ready for my escape. Before I slide out of the chair, though, Lily dives in the water, her speed urgent, her arms determined as she rushes across the pool yet again.
She isn’t giving up.
She stops in the same place as before. She screams again, this time adding to her words, reprimanding herself with a loud, strung-out “Fuck you, Lily!”
I should smirk at her unraveling. If I were a better person, I’d leave her to go through this alone. But I’m not. I’m not reveling in her self-hatred. I do, however, appreciate it. Suddenly, I feel a lot less alone.
Chapter11
Lily
Aparty is hardly the place I want to be. It feels . . . inappropriate. If we hadn’t gone off campus that night, into the woods, Anika never would have gotten the idea to take that car for a joyride. She’d still be here, rooming with us. Truth is, she’d still probably be prodding me to get ready for a party. She made it her personal mission to ruin my introvert status.
“James didn’t give you any details on whatever this place is we’re going?” Morgan is on her fourth outfit. She looks amazing in everything she wears, but it doesn’t matter how many times Brooklyn or I tell her that. She has a crush. She also wants to be mad at me for spending the morning with James, but she’s astute enough to know how immature that would be. Or maybe she’s biting her tongue until she can’t stand it anymore.
“We talked about Willa Cather,” I say with a shrug.
“Willa who?” Morgan holds the red dress she discarded two outfits ago up to her chest.
“That’s his first reading assignment. And Morgan, you look amazing in what you have on now.” She’s wearing knee-high black boots and a deep green tunic dress with a neckline that opens to the jeweled stud on the center of her black bra. All the time in the world under the most talented hands and I could never look like her.
She chews at her lip and glances to me then back to her reflection, still holding the red dress. Brooklyn and I make eye contact and she nods toward Morgan, I think urging me to put her worries to rest.
I toss my laptop on my pillow and slide to the edge of my bed, stopping just short of standing. Anika was always the best at these types of things—those mini pep talks that seemed to be filled with whatever magic words a person needed at that time. That’s what I need to do here. I need to say something Anika would say.
“I don’t like James. Likethat, I mean.”
Morgan’s hands stop fidgeting and her eyes widen slightly as she looks at herself. Brooklyn turns around, and I wish I could turn around too because this feels so awkward, but I know it’s what a real friend would do. That’s what Anika wanted for us all—real friendships. She’d also tell me to get off my ass and go to Morgan.
I walk over to stand behind her and rest my hand on her shoulder, my chin on my hand so we’re looking at each other in the mirror. She drops the dress to the floor and meets my reflected gaze.
“Do you think he’ll like this outfit?” She finishes with a crooked smile, and it’s the only thing on her face that is not perfectly symmetrical.
I step back and take her hand, stretching her arm out as I evaluate her curves, the boots, then back up to her waves of cinnamon-colored hair and lashes that are real and thick and long over blue eyes.
“If he doesn’t make a move on you tonight, I will.”
Morgan’s smile straightens, her blood-red lips coming together and stretching into the confident grin that suits her best.
“I’ll fight you for her,” Brooklyn adds, throwing the one-liner over her shoulder.
“You guys . . .” Morgan fakes modesty, but it’s not annoying. She’s embarrassed and trying to shift the attention. I get that. Isoget that.
I should do that now, before it’s too la—
“You’re not seriously wearing your school uniform, are you?” Morgan has quickly shifted into project mode again. My shoulders fall and I back up until the backs of my legs hit my mattress, and I flop down in my skirt that’s too big.
“You said I couldn’t wear my shorts or my joggers,” I protest.
Brooklyn picks the abandoned gray pair they forced me out of up from the floor and holds them out in front of her.
“Honey, these are sweatpants. You can’t call them joggers.” She proceeds to toss them into my clothes basket, and I stand to retrieve them.