Ellie is Cool Now

Chapter 12

Winding Ridge Estates is a new development of mini-mansions that backs up to one of Stonybrook's many golf courses. It's the sexier version of the neighborhood Brock grew up in with his mother the mayor and his father the pervert. I never met his dad, but I heard stories about him walking in on girls changing in their pool house during their who's who of Stonybrook summer barbeques. I imagine Stonybrook will be the last town in the country to join the Me Too movement.

For some reason, I did not imagine that Brock Crawley would have grown up to become his mother, in taste and occupation. But he definitely did.

I hitch a ride to the party with Mark and Liz. Liz asks me polite but boring questions about my life, my interests, my weirdest celebrity encounter. I want to hate her because if she is awful, a troll, or whatever, then she'll be easier to dismiss. It was my go-to tactic in high school: assume the worst, never be disappointed.

But everything about her feels genuine and easy. Open. She's not like my friends in LA, not like Roxy, or me, and there's something refreshing about her. She's happy. Content. This suburban life — it suits her.

It makes me hate Mark a little bit for lying to her. It makes it easier to understand why he would lie to her. Liz isn't thinking beyond Stonybrook, but Mark is. He wants out. He wants more.

He must, or he wouldn't be helping me with the list.

Mark flicks on his blinker to turn through the gate into Winding Ridge Estates, and his eyes find mine in the rearview mirror. We briefly hold each other's gaze before his eyes slide back to the road. Mine trail to the window, watching massive houses pass in a blur.

I need to get focused. Mark's problems aren't my problems. I didn't come here to hook up with my high school crush — actually, I came here to hook up with the Prom King. The thought makes my stomach turn a little. But, as we established at the bar back in LA, I just have to kiss him. That's it. And, I mean, no one said it had to involve tongue. It will absolutely not involve tongue. I will bite Kyle Temple's tongue in half before I willingly allow it to enter my mouth.

Oh, God. I'm going to throw up just thinking about it.

Mark parks the car and I unbuckle, shoot from the door, slam it closed.

My goal is to avoid Mark as long as possible. That goal was so much easier when we weren't on speaking terms, or sharing secrets, and when I hadn't remembered why I liked him in the first place. I click up the sidewalk to Brock's house. The door is open a crack, the universal "We're having a party, come on in" sign. I push inside. We're somehow not the first ones here. Even though Brock and Crest 3D Whitestrips Christine left only minutes before us, there's already a handful of my high school classmates here. Women I vaguely recognize thanks to Brie's reunion badges. Dudes I only sort of recall.

I wind through the den and into the kitchen. It's palatial. Gray marble counters. Recessed lighting. Copper sink. Designer range. There are velvet upholstered bar stools tucked under the island where, right now, a staff of caterers are putting the final touches on a fancy spread. They don't look up at me.

"Fuck," Roxy says from behind me. "I should've hooked up with Brock." I can feel her eyes melting the back of my head. I ignore her, convince myself she's not worth my time. Something pings inside me. Not true, not true. Shut up, ping.

There's a drink station at the far side of the kitchen where a breakfast table would normally be. They've set up a bar and hired a bartender. I bet it's not a cash bar, either. This whole thing is a show. A big, shining spotlight on Brock and Christine's success. Brock didn't have a hard climb, we all know it.