I sat in my kitchen, watching Bree cook some chicken and mushroom risotto while waiting for Jake to pick me up for Charity's birthday bash. He wasn't late—not yet, at least; I was just too early.
"Why do you think he said yes?" I wondered.
Bree flicked her eyes to me. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Jake. When I asked him to be my fake date yesterday, he just said yes. I mean, yeah, I might've rambled about Charity and her stupid TweetyTube video, and he probably felt sorry for me or something, but he didn't ask me a single question. He just said, 'Okay. What time should I pick you up?'" I paused. "Don't you think it's weird?"
She studied me for a moment, her hand stirring the risotto in the pot. "Why did you say yes when he asked you to be his fake girlfriend?"
"Because he wouldn't have helped me with my investigation if I didn't."
"That's it?" She arched an eyebrow. "You're telling me that over these past few weeks, you haven't felt anything toward him?"
I hadn't told Bree about how my heart had skipped a beat—or a few—when Jake and I had been taking those couple photographs for his grandma. Or how butterflies had danced like crazy in my stomach when he'd flashed me that sweet-as-a-cotton-candy smile at Food Truck Friday. Or how one simple compliment from him made me want to sing that stupid Bestie song last night.
No. I wasn't planning on telling her any of that.
"Well, if you're talking about annoyance, frustration, and I-want-to-smack-him-on-the-head-with-a-baguette kind of anger, then yeah. Of course, I've felt all of those things toward him. Who wouldn't?" I shrugged.
"You know that's not what I'm talking about."
I should've known better than to lie to Bree. She always knew when I was lying, and this time was no different.
"Okay, maybe I feel a tiiiny bit attracted to him," I admitted. "But it has to be my TweetyGram fever talking, right?"
The way she furrowed her brow told me she had no clue what TweetyGram fever was, but I wasn't in the mood to explain.
"Besides, we're the Darlings. We suck at love. We should stay far, far away from romantic relationships, or else we'd end up like Mom." As Bree opened her mouth to argue, I continued, "And it doesn't matter how I feel about him because it's obvious he doesn't feel the same about me."
Bree folded her arms over her chest and gave me an are-you-stupid look.
"What?" I frowned.
The knock on the door interrupted our conversation. My heart picked up its pace, my skin turned ice-cold, and every muscle in my body tensed.
"Alright, alright. It's time." I picked up my clutch, stood up, and shook my arms to loosen my muscles. Inhaling a deep breath, I prepared to take a step forward. Yet my legs wouldn't move. It was almost as if they were glued to the ground.
Oh, come on, Lindsey. What is wrong with you? You've spent hundreds of dollars to look pretty for tonight and now you can't even move your darn legs?
I'd spent hours going in and out of department stores, scouring rack after rack of clothes for an evening gown that had a pair of long sleeves and wouldn't make me look like an 80-year-old. Luckily, I found one. The gold dress I was wearing fit me like a glove. Although its underlayer stopped mid-thigh, the lace overlay flowed to the floor, covering the scars on my legs. Even so, I took the time to apply some makeup on them, in case a certain enemy of mine—who seemed to possess superhuman vision—wanted to scrutinize me.
Although I usually didn't wear any jewelry or accessories, I borrowed Bree's pearl hairpin, and gold dangle earrings for tonight. To perfect the look, I wore my hair in a relaxed low bun, leaving a few curls to shape my face.
The dress was gorgeous, the hairpin was gorgeous, and the earrings were gorgeous.
I just wasn't sure I was.
I spun to face Bree. "How do I look?"
"Stunning." Truth rang in her voice, easing my anxiety a little.
I straightened my back, inhaled a deep breath, and exhaled it in a whoosh. "I'm going to be home late. Don't wait up."
"Oh? You're going to spend the night at Jake's?"
I almost tripped over my feet. Growling, I shot Bree a death glare, but she didn't even flinch. "Ugh!" My stilettos clicked against the floor as I stomped toward the door. I took another deep breath before I opened the door.
Jake stood outside in a classic, black tuxedo, looking like an A-lister ready to hit the red carpet. The tailored cut of his outfit emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and the way the expensive fabric hugged his superhero physique so perfectly made me wish I was a tuxedo.
Geez, Lindsey. You need a trip to a shrink.
"Wow." His gaze swept over me from head to toe. "You look like a Maccheronian princess."
I choked back a laugh. "You have got to come up with something original for once."
He shrugged, smiling. "Ready to go?"
"Yeah," I replied, closing the door.
"So, anything I should know before I meet your friends?"
"Well . . . I might've told them you had a crazy ex-girlfriend."
He snorted. "A crazy ex-girlfriend, huh? How crazy are we talking about?"
As we rode the elevator down, I brought him up to speed on the lies I'd told my friends. How his crazy ex supposedly stalked him, sent me a bloodied Raggedy Ann doll with a knife stuck in its chest, and threatened to skin me alive. By the time we reached the ground floor, he couldn't stop laughing.
"Oh, Shrimp." He held one hand on his stomach and wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes with the other, his six-foot-something frame shaking with mirth. "Don't get me wrong. I'm flattered my name was the first thing that came up in your mind when you chose a fake boyfriend, but don't you think it's better to tell your friends the truth?"
"First of all, Charity is not my friend. Second, I just . . . I don't know."
He offered a comforting smile. "Don't think too much about that stupid TweetyTube video, Shrimp. No one knows they were talking about you anyway."
"Are you kidding me? Charity specifically named the so-called TweetyFox Ginger. Everyone I went to school with must've known she was talking about me. And even if they hadn't connected the dots yet, the fact that she chose Eleanor Clarke for the skit makes it crystal clear because let's just admit it. She's like a cooler, more glamorous version of me."
Jake let out a tiny, amused chuckle. "Why do you care so much about what your old classmates think anyway? You haven't even seen them in years, and you probably won't see them ever again either."
I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out of my mouth. Strangely, I didn't have an answer to his question. As I turned to the aisle where I'd parked my car, I asked myself the same thing.
I shouldn't care about what my old classmates thought. Sure, they'd probably gossip about me and look down on me even more, but it wasn't like I would lose anything by being the talk of the town. Except for my reputation, which was already non-existent anyway.
"Hey, where are you going?" Jake asked.
"To my car?" I stopped and pointed to my 15-year-old sedan. "You're not suggesting we take your bike, are you? Because in case you don't notice, I'm wearing a full-on, floor-length dress."
He chuckled. "No offense, but I have something a little bit better than your car. Come on."
Curiosity filled me as I reluctantly followed him. He pulled out a key fob from his pocket and clicked the button. A sharp double beep reverberated through the parking lot. My eyes almost popped out of my head when I realized the sound came from a polished, yellow Lamborghini.
"I . . . I thought you were broke," I stuttered.
"I am."
"Then what's that?" I pointed at the Lamborghini. "Don't tell me you bought a brand new sports car just for tonight because as your financial advisor—"
To my annoyance, he broke into a guffaw. "Oh, Shrimp. Of course, I didn't buy a car for a freaking party. I just borrowed it from my cousin."
"Oh." I pressed my lips together as the heat of embarrassment spread across my cheeks.
Once his laughter subsided, he circled the car and opened the door to the passenger seat for me. "So, are you ready to party?"
***
"You're saying an eighteen-year-old girl is the Malibu Wolf?" Jake asked as the car took a right turn off the main street.
"I'm not saying Almond is the Malibu Wolf. I'm just saying she has the best motive for wolfing Trish. I mean, you've seen a glimpse of what that girl's like. If I'd gone to school with her, I'd probably do the same," I answered. "Plus, I did some digging, and as it turned out, Almond attended TweetyFluencer Camp at the same time Trish did. No one wanted to tell me what happened between those two, and Olivia pretended she didn't recognize Almond when I showed her Almond's photo, but I could tell she was lying. I wouldn't be surprised if Trish did something nasty to Almond, who is seventeen, by the way. Not eighteen."
"Okay," he replied, a note of skepticism in his voice. "But do you really think a seventeen-year-old can pull off an elaborate scam like that?"
"You'd be surprised what teenagers can do these days. Besides, Almond's smart. She had more honor cords than any other students I know. And speaking of honor cords, I checked what every one of her honor cords represents, and guess what?" I gave a dramatic pause. "One of them is awarded to members of the Computer Science Society."
"Ooh! The blue cord, right? I got that one too." The innocent pride in his voice drew a chuckle from me. "So what's your plan?"
"Well, the Wolf and I have been chatting about that book To All the Boys I've Hated Before, and they're clearly excited about the upcoming sequel. That's why I'm going to lure them out by promising to give them an autographed copy of the book."
"Oh. Just like she tricked that rich girl, right?"
"Yep. It's about time someone gives the Wolf a taste of their own medicine."
He nodded his approval. "Smart."
"Thanks." I grinned.
As the car sped up the hill, I spotted a lavish Spanish-style mansion perched at the top. Colorful neon lights danced over its bright stucco walls and arched windows to the beat of loud electronic music.
"Is that it? The TweetyMansion?" I asked.
"According to the GPS, yes," Jake answered, glancing at the phone clipped to the holder on the dashboard.
The massive two-story building was a place one would expect an A-lister or a one-percenter to call home. Majestic, extravagant, unaffordable. Even if I worked for a million years, I wouldn't be able to afford to live in a place like that.
The thought that Charity actually lived in a mansion as big as Justice Beaver's awakened Medusa Lindsey from her slumber.
No, no, no. Stop it. Just because she lives in an over-the-top mansion doesn't mean she has a perfect life. Besides, who needs a house that big anyway? It'd be a nightmare to clean a house that big!
As I fought the hideous creature in my head, Jake pulled up in front of the mansion's huge metal gate. A bald, burly man in a dark suit asked for our identification. After checking our names against the list in his hand, he stepped inside the security booth and pressed a button. The gate slid open, revealing a beautifully landscaped circular driveway with a grand water fountain at the center.
My fingers tightened around my clutch as the car started moving.
"Nervous?" Jake asked.
"A little," I admitted. "Charity's planning something terrible, I'm sure of it. Why else would she invite me to her birthday party?"
"Well, if she is, just remember that she's doing it because she's jealous of you."
I let out a skeptical laugh. "Charity? Jealous of me? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? She's the one who has the perfect Hollywood life."
"Oh, come on, Shrimp. You don't really believe that, do you? If Charity's life is so perfect, then why would she feel the need to spread lies about someone she hadn't met in years?"
"I don't know. Because she's the devil?"
He chuckled. "Just because she lives in a mansion doesn't mean her life is perfect. Hell, I used to live in a place bigger than this, and I'm happier living in my small apartment now than when I lived in my parents' house. I mean, I don't have to clean my room if I don't want to, I have a smaller place to search around if I ever lose my stuff, and the best part is I don't have to listen to dear old dad's speech about how I'm throwing my life away for a bunch of cats."
Suppressing a smile, I joked, "At least you have a dad."
His eyes widened with guilt. "Shoot. I'm so, so sorry, Linds. I didn't mean to—"
"No, no, it's fine," I reassured him. "Sure, I don't know who my dad is, or if he's still alive, or if he even knows I exist, but it's no big deal. Honestly, I kinda like the mystery. I can make him up to be whoever I want him to be."
We pulled up behind several luxury cars and limos lining up to drop off guests in front of the mansion's entrance. I was lucky Jake had made the initiative to borrow his cousin's sports car, or else we'd stuck out like a sore thumb in my old sedan.
From afar, I spotted Charity greeting guests at the door. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the devil herself."
Charity was dressed in an avant-garde, red-and-white ball gown with a billowing, feathered train and glittery gloves, a chunky diamond necklace sparkling around her neck. Her costume was the last thing I'd imagined anyone to be wearing tonight since the party's theme was Hollywood Glam. But if her goal was to stand out from the crowd—which I bet it was—then she'd definitely succeeded.
She looked like a strawberry sundae in a pool of caviar.
"Don't let her get to you, Linds," Jake said, his voice soothing.
"Don't worry. I won't."
Our car stopped in front of the grand steps that led up to the front door. A red-vested valet came forward to take the car and gave Jake a ticket in return, while another parking attendant opened the door for me. As I stepped out of the car, Charity's gaze met mine. Her eyes widened, and her crimson lips twitched. It was almost as if she was . . . jealous.
Hmm. Maybe Jake is on to something.
"Are you ready?" Jake stopped beside me and offered his arm.
I looped my arm through his and smirked. "This is going to be one hell of a night."
Author's Note:
The party's about to start! What do you think Charity has in mind? 👀
Thanks for reading! :)