Don’t go in, her brain warned. But what else could she do? He drove. She was here. People were swarming inside. Maybe he just wanted to find his friends. Maybe he’d be nicer once they were, um, settled.
She went in, knees twanging with nervousness.
The place was mobbed. Whitfield Mansion was utterly gorgeous, high ceilings, black-and-white tiled floors, chandeliers and French doors. Posey looked around. It seemed like her trick of being invisible had worked brilliantly, because no one acknowledged her, no matter how nice Emma had been in the past month. Still, Posey fake-smiled at no one in particular, praying to see a familiar face, a friend. Rick was nowhere to be seen, and her heart raced with humiliation and fear. The smell of too much perfume and hairspray was making her sick, and, dang it, she hadn’t eaten since lunch, which meant there was a very good chance she’d faint. But who could eat with Liam’s words echoing in her heart?
And suddenly, there was Liam, right there in the huge foyer. Not in a tux…in a black suit with a black shirt, looking like he should be at the Oscars instead of a prom. His eyes met hers, and he gave a little chin jerk in recognition. He even smiled…a little smile, his mouth pulling up on one side, and that was when Posey really thought she might faint, because what the hell? He smiled at her after saying those horrible things? Her throat tightened, eyes stung with hot and angry tears.
“Hey! Posey, oh, wow, you look so pretty!” It was Emma. “Are you at our table? I asked Rick, but he didn’t know, I mean, I thought all of us would be together, right? Oh, hang on, there’s Lily. Can you believe Luke wore a maroon tuxedo? She’s ready to kill him. Be right back! Stay here, don’t move a muscle.”
Posey had no intention of staying put. Just stick to the walls and pretend you’re happy, advised the wiser part of her brain. Just hang in there. Don’t lose it. She made her way into the banquet room, which was mobbed as well, candles flickering on the tables, the smell of hothouse flowers gumming up her throat. She didn’t see Rick—she hated Rick. But, heck, if he’d showed up at her arm with a soda and a smile, she’d forgive him in a heartbeat. Maybe there was an explanation. There had to be. Because if there wasn’t, Posey had no idea what she was supposed to do. “What are you doing here?” came a voice, and Posey’s heart took a header. It was Jessica Blair, whose locker was next to hers, who’d dated Rick for almost a year. Her hair was piled on her head like Nefertiti’s, and she wore a dress that showed off three-quarters of her significant breasts. “This is senior prom, okay? Not for underclassmen.”
“I—” Posey cleared her throat. “Um, I’m here with someone,” she said.
“Really?” Jessica said. “Someone, who?”
Posey’s legs started shaking. “Rick. Rick Balin.” Her voice was barely audible to her own ears.
“You’re here with Rick Balin,” Jessica repeated, as if for clarification. Two of her cheerleading friends had joined her, and all of them glared at Posey. “You sure?”
“Yes,” Posey whispered, looking at the floor.
“Then why was his tongue in my mouth, like, five seconds ago?” Jessica said. Her minions snickered, and then Rick came up, glanced dismissively at Posey, and slung his arm around Jessica, his fingers caressing the top of her exposed breast. “Babe. You ready?”
“So ready,” Jessica said, and with that, she turned and kissed Rick, an open-mouthed, sloppy kiss that seemed to last forever. When she finally tore her lips off of Rick’s, she gave Posey a demeaning once-over. “Padded bra, Anne Frank?” she asked, and her evil handmaidens howled with laughter.
Posey abandoned any thoughts of clinging to her dignity. Instead, she fled for the bathroom. Thank the Lord, it was empty. She ran to the stall furthest from the door, snapped the lock and clenched her arms over her stomach, her breath jerking in and out in sharp little gasps. What was she going to do? How could she get out of here? Her parents would be devastated.
The bathroom door opened. “Posey?”
It was Emma, stupid, well-meaning, oblivious Emma, her voice soft with concern and sympathy. “Posey? Are you okay?”
For a second, Posey hated her. Then she stood up straight, took a deep breath, and opened the stall door. “Oh, Emma, I’m so sorry, but I have to go home. I have a wicked bad migraine. I feel horrible. I was hoping it’d get better, but it’s not.”
It was, perhaps, the first time she’d ever lied.
Emma wrung her hands. “Um…Posey, I just saw Rick—”
“I know,” Posey said. “I feel rotten standing him up at the prom, but guess what? I think he and Jessica might be getting back together, don’t you? To be honest, I kind of hope so, because you were so sweet to go to all this trouble, but I’m not gonna be able to stay, this headache, wow, it’s really bad, and I don’t want to leave Rick in the lurch, but the thing is, Emma, he’s not really my type anyway. You know?”
Her voice was tight and fast, and her words didn’t fool Emma.
“He’s an idiot,” she whispered.
He’s just following your boyfriend’s lead, Posey thought viciously, and again, the wave of shock and heartache threatened to crash. “I have to go, Emma,” she said, her voice shaking but acceptable. “My ride should be here any sec. I’m really sorry. Thanks for everything. You have fun, okay?”
“You want me to walk you out?” Emma asked.
“No! No. Just…go have fun. Bet you’ll be prom queen.” Posey forced a smile. “Bye! See you soon.”
After a little more hand-wringing, Emma finally left, and Posey sagged with the effort of lying. Stupid, naive, perfect Emma Tate. No one would stand her up at the prom, you could bet on that. Liam Murphy loved her; he’d kill the guy who hurt her feelings, who drove her into the bathroom to hide. The hypocrite.
The door opened again, and without thinking, Posey dashed into the stall once more, sat on the toilet and pulled up her feet, wrapping her arms around her legs so her dress wouldn’t show.
“Did you hear about Rick and Jessica?” one of them said. Of course.
“What? Are they back together?” the other asked.
“Totally. But Rick brought—get this—Posey Osterhagen as his date.”“Who’s that?”
“You know. Everyone calls her Anne Frank? Kinda weird-looking, looks like she’s in fifth grade. Her parents own that grubby German restaurant?”
“Are you kidding? Her? Why?”
“No clue. Hey, do you have any hairspray? I love your earrings, by the way.”
It was the comment about Guten Tag that started the tears. Her parents’ restaurant was not grubby. It was immaculate. Did those twits know how hard it was to clean that place? Did they have any clue how many hours Stacia put into the restaurant, because of course a cleaning service wasn’t enough, and the Osterhagens themselves polished those steins, scoured the bathrooms, dusted the Hummel figurines and the broken antler on the mounted moose head she’d named Glubby when she was three?
Well, she wasn’t about to give the mean girls—or Rick—or Liam—the satisfaction of seeing her picked up in front of the Whitfield Mansion. The bathrooms were directly across from the kitchen, and she slipped in through the doors, ignoring the looks from the staff, and simply walked out the back.
It was raining. It might’ve been May, but the temperature was in the low fifties, and before long, her teeth started to chatter. The mansion’s long driveway was bordered by woods thick with dripping pines. Dreading the idea that people coming to the prom would see her, soaked, dress ruined, hair and makeup a joke, Posey chose the woods. Her shoes—her first pair of heels—sank into the muddy ground, and she twisted her ankle more than once. The now-sodden gown flopped around her legs like a dying bird, making her skin raw. How much had her parents spent on this night? Four hundred dollars, maybe, for her gown and shoes and special-order bra, her hair, the necklace and bracelet her dad had given her just last night? They’d been so proud, so excited…and now look.
A car turned into the mansion driveway, and without further thought, Posey leaped behind a tree and crouched down, hating herself for doing it, unable not to. Hiding in the woods in a ruined prom dress, all because Rick Balin had dumped her.
And Rick, she knew with absolute certainty, would never have done that without Liam Murphy first planting the idea.
Nothing but a bag of bones. Built like a ten-year-old boy.
There was a 7-11 on the main road, about a mile from Whitfield Mansion’s entrance. By the time she reached the store, she was shuddering with cold. She fished a quarter out of her purse and deposited it in the pay phone outside and called her brother.
“Henry?” she whispered when he answered. “Don’t tell Mom and Dad, but I need you to come get me. And can you bring me some dry clothes?” Then she started to cry in earnest.
She hid in the potato chip section, dripping onto the floor, until Henry came. Then she changed in the 7-11 bathroom, and her brother took her out to a diner two towns over, and she sobbed out the whole story over a hamburger club with extra fries, from her love for Liam to the comment about Guten Tag’s cleanliness. For once, Henry’s lack of conversational skills was a blessing.
“I’m sorry, Posey,” was all he said. But he reminded the waitress that she’d need extra mayo on the side and didn’t protest when she told him they needed to stay out till past eleven, knowing that Max and Stacia wouldn’t be able to stay awake that long no matter what.
“You can’t tell Mom and Dad, okay?” Posey asked as they pulled in front of their house. Their parents’ windows were dark.
“Okay,” he said. Then he hugged her—such a rare event—and waited till she was showered and in bed before going to bed himself, just in case she needed anything. The next morning, she told her parents she’d had a great time, but ended up with a headache, and called Henry to come get her just before the end of the night. They bought it.
Emma called that same day. “I told everyone I was really disappointed you’d gotten sick,” she said, her voice horribly kind. “I told them what a great friend you’ve been, and it was just crappy luck that you got one of your migraines. But also that you were totally cool about Rick and Jess. You were only in it for the dress anyway, right?”
Posey understood. Emma was using her popularity as a shield, and if anyone was going to make fun of Posey, they’d suffer her disapproval. Not that anyone would really believe the story. But back at school, no one openly made fun of Posey, and though she’d been dreading hearing echoes of Liam’s words, she wasn’t subjected to them again. She stopped going to Sweetie Sue’s for ice cream, because she just didn’t want to see the pity in Emma’s eyes.
She didn’t see Liam until five days after the prom, at the restaurant, where for the first time ever, he initiated conversation. “Heard you got sick at the prom.”
Why would he talk to her now? “Yeah.”
“You okay now?”
“I’m fine.” Her voice was calm and cool.
Then she packed her books, told her parents she’d see them at home. For the last month of her sophomore year, she told her mom she was better able to do her homework back at the house. She found herself studying harder, raising her hand more often, walking through the halls with an edge she hadn’t had before. She barely saw Liam, and that August, he left for California.
That moment when she’d crouched behind the tree…it did something to her, something that made her grow up and toughen up. But one question throbbed in her brain for a long, long time. Why? Why would Liam say something so hateful? How could he—who had tamed a stray and starving cat—be so cruel to a girl who had only ever wanted to be his friend?
CHAPTER SIX
“A LOT OF US REMEMBER Liam from way back, of course.” The president of the chamber of commerce stretched her lips in a smile so insincere that Liam actually winced. Maya Chu. Yep. He’d slept with her—or came close, he couldn’t quite remember—back in the day. “So we’re thrilled—thrilled, I tell you—that he’s back. Yeah. Super to have a new business in this building. So, best of luck and all that, Liam. Here’s to the success of Granite Motorcycle Garage or whatever.”
Grand openings were just not his thing in general, but being introduced by a woman who clearly wanted to stick a pin in his eye—or some other soft part—kind of put a damper on things. But the garage looked great—all the machinery set up and gleaming, a few cool bike designs, matted and framed, hanging on the wall. In the far bay was the big Chevy truck and trailer he used to pick up and deliver bikes, his logo stenciled on the side. And there, right in the middle of the garage, currently being fawned over by a dozen or so people, were two custom bikes he’d built in California and his own special-edition Triumph.
But Nicole was supposed to have come right after school, and she wasn’t here. And wasn’t answering her phone. As he shook hands and accepted congratulations, he mentally reviewed her schedule. Lacrosse practice on Monday and Tuesday, debate team on Thursday…nothing on Friday. So where was she?
“Hi, I’m Bruce. Bruce Schmottlach. I met you at Guten Tag the other night, remember? I also taught band at the high school, though I don’t think I had you. You played guitar, right?”
“Right,” Liam said, surprised. “Thanks for coming.”
“So, I was out for a run the other day,” Bruce said, “maybe six, seven miles out of town on Cemetery Road, and some future organ donor flew past me on a Harley, must’ve been doing over a hundred miles an hour, no helmet. That wasn’t you, was it?”