Rebel Belle
Page 26“If by ‘graciously volunteered,’ you mean ‘was threatened and coerced,’ then yes, I did,” David said, unfolding himself from that tiny chair.
A muscle twitched in Saylor’s jaw, but she let the remark pass. “Go ahead and line up at the top of the staircase,” she said, pulling that little blue pot of lip balm out of her pocket. “Oh, and Mary Beth, if you could come down here for a moment.”
“Ugh, what now?” Mary Beth sighed, but she went.
“Remember, girls,” Saylor called as David loped up the stairs, passing Mary Beth. “You are to lay your hand gently on the forearm, not loop your arm through his. This is Cotillion, not a square dance.”
“I actually think square dances are less shameful than this,” David muttered at the top of the stairs. Still, he held his arm out gallantly to Elizabeth Adams, keeping his spine straight and shoulders back. As they made their way down the staircase, I watched Saylor and Mary Beth. They had gone into the alcove by the front door, and Saylor was talking to her while holding her hands and looking into her eyes.
Once Elizabeth was at the bottom of the staircase, David jogged back up to take Abigail Foster’s arm, then, once she was done, Amanda’s, then Bee’s. There was only one other girl between me and Amanda: Lindsay Harris. According to The Aunts, every girl in town had done Cotillion when they were young, but now, fewer and fewer girls did it every year. It was becoming one of those traditions that some people thought was a little too old-fashioned, a little embarrassing.
Once Lindsay was safely at the bottom of the stairs, David came up to me, crooking his elbow. “Shall we?”
But before I could rest my hand on his forearm, Saylor called, “Actually David, I’d like for Miss Riley to go first.”
“Sure,” David said, shrugging and raising his eyebrows.
I was left to hover there awkwardly as Mary Beth walked back up the velvet-covered stairs, her white heels still hanging from her hands. When she reached the top, she took a deep breath, slid the heels on, and took David’s arm.
David made his way down the steps as carefully as if she’d been made of glass, but he shouldn’t have bothered. Mary Beth didn’t just walk. She floated. She glided. She practically levitated down those stairs.
As she passed me, I got a hint of rose, and then they were there at the bottom of the steps. With a little squeal, Mary Beth clapped her hands and bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. Even David seemed impressed.
Magic. Whatever Saylor had done to the lady who’d run Cotillion before, or the former head of the Pine Grove Betterment Society, she’d done it to Mary Beth, too. If you asked me, it seemed like kind of a waste of something so super powerful, but if it kept me from being trampled, I guess it was all for the good.
Now that Mary Beth had finally made her first successful run down the stairs, it was my turn again. David offered his arm, and I laid my palm as lightly as I could on his sleeve.
“We need to talk,” he said in a low voice as we started to descend.
“We don’t,” I replied through clenched teeth.
I could feel his forearm tense under my hand. “Except that we do.”
From her position at the bottom of the staircase, Saylor watched the two of us. Anyone observing would’ve thought she was making sure we were moving at the right pace while using the appropriate posture. But I knew better.
So when David turned to me again once we were done, I hurried off to the little powder room off the main foyer.
Like everything else in Magnolia House, it was done all in shades of burgundy and green. A tiny wicker table by the door held a basket of scented lotions and a small bowl of potpourri, and there were tiny framed pictures of Magnolia House throughout the years on the walls. It wasn’t actually an antebellum house—they’d built the place in the 30s—but it was still a pretty exact replica of the big places that had once filled Pine Grove. They even kept antique furniture in the bedrooms upstairs.
I was studying one of the pictures when I realized what else was covering the walls—dark green wallpaper with a familiar pattern. My vision swam with skinny golden figure eights. My hands started shaking as I turned on the little gold faucet shaped like a swan. I splashed my face with cold water and was taking a deep breath when the door suddenly opened and David was standing there.
He went to shut the door, but I pushed past him before he could. Or at least I tried to. Even though my hands only shoved against the air half a foot from him, David still got out of the way, letting me into the hallway.
“No more skulking,” I hissed, shooting a glance back at the main foyer. This corridor was nearly blocked by the main staircase, so David and I were partially hidden. “We don’t have anything to talk about. Not anymore.”
David made a move toward me. I thought he was going to grab my arm, but then he seemed to think better of it. “I need to talk to someone about this,” he said, and there was almost something pleading in his voice.
Since I’d never heard David Stark plead for anything ever, I hesitated. Then I remembered how desperate I’d been to tell someone, anyone, about what had happened with Dr. DuPont.
Sighing, David tugged at his hair before reaching into the pocket of his jeans. “This.” He handed me a crumpled piece of paper, and I saw that it was an e-mail.
“This is the third one of these I’ve gotten this month.”
From the foyer, I could hear Saylor announcing the next rehearsal, and I knew I didn’t have much longer before I’d be missed. As quickly as I could, I scanned the e-mail.
Dear Mr. Stark: We here at the University of West Alabama are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for our Distinguished Student Scholarship. Recipients of this scholarship must first submit to an in-person interview with a representative from the university. We would be happy to schedule this interview at any time that is most convenient for you. Kindly contact us so that we might set up a time as soon as possible.
Underneath that there was a phone number and a name, Blythe Collier.
Handing him the paper, I glanced over my shoulder. “Okay, what’s so weird about that? That’s a legit scholarship. I’ve heard of it.”
David leaned close enough for me to see my reflection in his glasses. “Yeah, it’s legit, but you have to apply for it, Pres. They don’t offer it to you. And there’s no interview for it.”
I flexed my fingers. “So someone might be trying to lure you out of town.”
“Maybe.” He was a little sheepish as he shoved the paper back into his pocket. “I know it sounds stupid—”
“David, you’re really going to have to stop saying that. And look, I admit, maybe this is a bit fishy, but why tell me? Why not tell Saylor?”
Snorting, David tugged at his hair. “Can you blame me for not trusting her right now, Pres? She’s lied to me my entire life. She’s not even my actual aunt.”
His voice rose on the last word, and I touched his arm. “Shhh. I know. But . . . she’s in this with you. I’m not.”
No. No. Tell him no. You are not his Paladin and this is not your issue anymore.
But I watched David chew a thumbnail, his skin pale. His other hand, shoved in his pocket, jangled change nervously, and he looked more freaked out than I’d seen him yet. That had to be the only reason I heard myself say, “E-mail her. Make an appointment. And I’ll . . . I’ll go with you.”
Chapter 20
“This is ridiculous. You know that, right?” David glared at me as he slid into the passenger seat, fastening his seatbelt. “You could’ve come up to my house. Or I could’ve gone to your house. Basically, there were at least three options that didn’t involve me walking three blocks from my house and you dressing like Carmen Sandiego.”
I adjusted my sunglasses and pulled my hat a little further down. “I’m not . . . look, you were the one who didn’t want your aunt to know we were doing this. And I think it would be better if people didn’t see us together.” Especially since I’d begged off hanging out with both Ryan and Bee, telling them I was studying for the SATs.
David settled into his seat and immediately reached out to flip the radio on. My finger itched to push his hand away—I could be as bad as Bee when it came to people touching my radio—but music was probably better than awkward silence or bickering.
The drive out of town was pretty. Fall had come to Alabama in full force, the leaves orange, gold, and red. Overhead, the sky was that pure, impossible blue that only happens in the fall, and if I rolled down the window, I knew I’d smell wood smoke.
Nearly every other house we passed had some kind of Thanksgiving decorations in the window or on the mailbox. I counted three papier-mâché turkeys, two cling-form Pilgrims, and at least half a dozen cornucopias. Pine Grove definitely went all out for the holidays.
It wasn’t until we were about a mile out of town that David finally turned down the radio. “We’re going to feel really stupid if this is a totally legit scholarship offer, aren’t we?”
I glanced over at him. “I won’t, but you should. Who turns up to a scholarship interview in skinny jeans and a Doctor Who Tshirt?”
Reaching down, David slid the seat as far back as it would go before resting his heels on the glove compartment. “You mean like you did? Because there are few things less conspicuous than a teenage girl rocking a sombrero.”
“It’s not a—forget it. My choice of headgear is not the important thing. We need to figure out what we’re going to do once we get there. I mean, if this is an attempt to lure you out of town to kill you or kidnap you or whatever, we should be prepared.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">