The Boy Who Died

Chickening Out

Marcie

“I swear to god you look hot,” Heather says.

I adjust the miniscule dress she insisted on loaning me, looking at my reflection in her full-body mirror, and make a tepid attempt at believing her. The dress is charcoal-colored, rather than a full, show-stopping black. The mid-thigh hem does show off my legs. They’re not nearly as good as they were during my theater days—the dancing in musicals helped, but standing up for that long was a huge contributor too. I’m taller than the average woman at 5’8, so my whole life has been filled with comments about how long my legs are. I guess they’re decent. But the way the fabric clings just shows off how little I still have in the way of curves, and my hair looks like a wreck. No, Heather’s just trying to be nice.

Another screaming cavalcade of frat boys thunders by outside, and I struggle not to flinch. I should never have agreed to this party. The game finished an hour ago with our victory, apparently, and Heather has spent the whole time since then getting ready—and getting me ready. As the hands on the clock tick closer and closer to when we’re supposed to leave, I get more and more certain I’m not going.

“Heather—”

She turns around from where she’s sitting at a little white makeup table. One eye is covered in complex shadow, and the other has a bare sweep of red. “Marcie. Do not tell me you’re not going just because you’re stressing about the dress.”

“I’m not just stressing about the dress,” I mumble as I wrap my arms around myself.

Her phone vibrates, like it has about a billion times since she got home. Just another reminder that Heather is going to have a ton of friends at this party, and I’m going to have kind of her. There’s way, way more to stress about than the dress.

“Hey, are you actually freaking out?” She drops her usual high, fast tone, something like concern creeping into her voice.

My stomach turns. Great, now I’m the baby. “No. It’s fine. Whatever.”

She stands, crosses the room, and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Do you want to wear something else, or do you want me to tell you why you’re hot?”

My face flames. “Neither. I want to stay home.”

She shakes her head. “You’re my friend, right?”

I shrug. Stupid. We’re not in middle school anymore.

“You are,” she says insistently. “And friends don’t let friends turn into hermits when school gets tough. So, new dress or hotness?”

Her eyes scorch up into mine. Sometimes, I can really tell she used to be a cheerleader. She’s going to make me confident enough to walk out that door if it kills her. Knowing me, it just might. But I sigh and ask for whatever the hell “hotness” is.

She spins me around by the shoulders. “Okay, I don’t have to tell you your legs are crazy. But look how the straps show off your collarbone. And this color warms your skin right up so no one can tell you stayed inside all summer. And like, f**k, you might not be a perfect hourglass, but a fabric like this makes the absolute most of what you have. Add in the hair and makeup, and people will be falling all over themselves to meet the new girl.” She waggles her eyebrows.

I get a little caught in the undertow of her excitement. The thin straps do show off more of my chest than usual, and I guess my collarbone does look good. I do look a little more alive. The fabric might be working for me. I offer her a small smile.

“The new girl?”

“Well, come on.” She gestures at me. “Who’s going to recognize Marcie in this? Especially if you let me do your makeup.” She sticks out her lower lip pleadingly.

I look at myself one last time and heave a long sigh. “All right. My face is yours.”

Heather claps.

***

Music pouring out of the frat house Everett shares with his “brothers” hits my ears the second we turn onto the street. A few steps later, I recognize the crowd covering the lawn and spilling into the street. Someone sprints past us, shirtless, carrying a banner with a horrifying approximation of the alligator mascot and screaming wordlessly. I shrink out of their path into Heather. f**k, this is so much worse than I thought it was going to be. Memories of the weeks immediately after I arrived at Ardent batter at me, blurry with alcohol.

“You’re hot,” Heather reminds me. “Mysterious new girl, right?”

I try to push some hair out of my face, but it’s all up in what she called an “elegant sloppy bun,” knocking me off kilter. At least I convinced her not to paint my nails so I can chew on them without poisoning myself. The late-summer heat sticks to my skin, and I want to crawl home. Instead, I nod. I need to do something that’ll prove to Dana I can handle this semester, especially after the coffee shop incident.

“Good.” Heather squeezes my hand and drags me closer to my doom.

We trudge up the front steps to a party somehow already in full swing. The bass of some awful song pounds into my skull, and eight people touch me before we even reach the door. There, a muscular frat boy puts up a hand to stop us.

“By declaration of the quarterback king of all time, Everett Beck—”

Heather clears her throat, and the frat boy actually looks down at us.

“Oh, s**t!” he yells like we’re not right in front of him. “f*****g sorry, dudes. Go right inside. Drinks on the left.”

He shoves open the already mostly open door, letting loose another wave of sound, and gestures us inside.

“That’s Justin,” Heather shouts over the music as she pulls me inside. “Tight end, kind of a jackass, but he means well.”

I nod. If tonight goes well, I’ll never talk to Justin again.

“Oh my god!” Heather squeals, immediately letting go of my hand to run over to a small cluster of girls in equally tiny dresses.

My heart hammers as I trail after her. She swore she’d introduce me to some people. Maybe these are them?

“—I know, right?” Heather says as I walk up, somehow already embedded in conversation. “Oh, before I forget, this is my roomie, Marcie! Take good care of her tonight girls, seriously.”

I wave awkwardly.

“Intros, fuck.” Heather grabs one of the other girls’ cups and shoots whatever’s inside, then grimaces. “God, you’ve got bad taste, Jules. Okay, this is Jules, Steph, and Alex.”

The three of them wave. I’ve already forgotten which is which.

“Heather!” a voice booms across the party.

“Baby!” She turns with a grin.

Before I can even look for the source of the noise, Everett appears behind her and scoops her up. They spin for a second, kissing, and then he throws her over his shoulder.

“Sorry, ladies.” He bows dramatically. “I need her.”

As quick as he appeared, he disappears again, his hand on a squirming Heather’s ass. I blink a few times, then turn back to the women she introduced me to.

“So, uh…what are your majors?” I ask. I didn’t used to bother talking at these things.

“What?” One of them, I think Alex, cups her hand around her ear.

“Majors!” I yell.

“Yeah, they’re such a big deal,” another one gushes. “Can you imagine dating a guy like Everett?”

I nod and slowly back away. They don’t even notice. Not exactly my people. The beginning of a headache curls around my temples threateningly, and I spot a few folding tables end-to-end, covered in bottles of liquor. The drinks Justin mentioned. On my meds, I get drunk a lot faster than most people. One glass of wine with dinner is enough to knock me on my ass. But right now, being knocked on my ass would be a lot better than having a panic attack alone at a party. I walk over to the table.

Someone slams into my shoulder. I spin off course and turn, about to start shouting, but the f*****g guy just keeps walking. I stare after him for a few seconds. He’s bleach-pale, like he’s never seen the sun before, but he has long, shaggy black hair and wears a black tank top and baggy black pants.

“You look like a goddamn cartoon character!” I shout, my nerves already fried.

He flips me off over his shoulder. I turn back to my path to the drinks. Yeah, blurring the edges of this place will make it a lot more tolerable.