And now here I was, an hour later, counting the cracks in my ceiling.
There were more than forty of them. Far too many to be safe. I was going to have to talk to housing about this tomorrow. Or that’s what I would have done, if I didn’t have to get a pass off campus, go into Easton, and commit petty theft. If life had been at all normal.
With a frustrated groan, I rolled onto my side and fished my phone out of my book bag, which hung from the back of my desk chair. I don’t know what I was hoping for. Some message that said, “Psych! We were just kidding! Your next assignment is to eat ten pancakes at breakfast!” No such luck. There were a bunch of new e-mails, but they were all crap from teachers and friends and Scott. Plus one of those stupid mother-daughter love poems my mom had started sending me lately.
Out of nowhere, a tear ran down my cheek. I felt like I was failing, but why? I’d already completed one task. I just had to figure out a way to complete the next. And the one after that. And the one after that. I’d never failed at something like this before—not when I’d been put through all those stupid tests to prove that I was worthy of getting into Billings, not when I’d had to scrounge for my own survival for days on a deserted island. What made me feel so desperate now? I lay flat on my back again, and suddenly tears began streaming from the corners of my eyes. They slid across my temples and wet my hair. My chest heaved with quiet sobs.
Were they watching me right now like they seemed to be at every other moment? Could they somehow see me breaking down? Were they out somewhere, just laughing at me? Laughing at what I’d become at their hands?
I was so tired. So very, very tired. Why couldn’t I just sleep? I knew I could think more clearly and handle all of this more soundly if I could just sleep.
Suddenly there was a light knock on the door. I s
at up straight and wiped my face with both palms. The door opened before I could even move, and Josh slid into the room.
“Hey,” he whispered.
“Hey,” I croaked.
Without another word, he shed his coat and kicked off his shoes. Then he crawled into bed with me, wrapping his arms around me and nudging me back down. He nuzzled against me from behind, pressing his ice-cold nose into my neck. He kissed me once, and then he just held me, his breath a perfect rhythm against my skin.
Slowly, I felt myself start to relax. Felt my muscles loosen. Felt my heart unclench. Felt my eyes flutter closed. Thank God for Josh. There was no way I would still be sane without him.
I let out a breath, cuddled deeper into his arms, and promptly, finally, fell asleep.
As I walked up Main Street in Easton on Tuesday, my heart pounded harder than I would have thought possible. I swallowed hard when I saw the small pink-and-white placard hanging above the door of Sweet Nothings, one of the Billings Girls’ favorite boutiques. Kiran had shoplifted a few things from this place last year, out of sheer boredom rather than necessity, and she’d never gotten caught once. If I was going to get away with this, Sweet Nothings was the place to be. All I had to do was walk inside, slip something into my pocket and walk out again. I had even dressed up like a person who could actually afford to buy something in the town’s most expensive boutique, figuring it would help me feel more comfortable and less conspicuous. I wore the cashmere Dior sweater Kiran had given me last year, and my one pair of diamond earrings, a gift from Walt Whittaker before he had become Constance’s one and only. It was the perfect “I’ve got cash to burn” costume.
I could do this. I could.
I walked right up to the door of Sweet Nothings … and then turned around and kept walking.
As I hustled by, I caught the shop owner’s quizzical eye through the plate-glass window. I ducked my head guiltily. Dammit. Damn. It. Could I have done anything more conspicuous? What the hell was wrong with me? I hadn’t even entered the store yet and already I was on her radar. I yanked my phone out of my bag and pretended to answer it, pausing in full view of the shop owner.
There. See? I just stopped because I was getting a call and I didn’t want to be one of those annoying people who have loud cell phone conversations in the middle of a tiny, exclusive shop. I just wanted to avoid irritating your upscale clientele. You should give me something for free just for being so damn considerate.
I turned my back to the window and breathed. Let her think I was gabbing away. I should have been sequestered in the library, working on the extra-credit project Mr. Barber had assigned me to make up for my D—yes, D—on yesterday’s test. I should have been stressed about my grades right now, not about fulfilling the sadistic requirements of the psycho who had kidnapped my best friend. But there was nothing I could do about it. This was my life. This was what I had to do. Noelle’s future depended on it.
“Okay. Right. Bye!” I said loudly into the phone. Then I pantomimed turning it off and shoved it back in my bag.
I am Angelina Jolie in Mr. & Mrs. Smith, I told myself as I walked inside. I am Sarah the superspy chick from Chuck. I am cool and gorgeous and wealthy and can get away with anything.
“Hey, Reed!”
My hand shot up to cover my heart. Ivy stood near the back of the shop, holding a red silk nightgown. Her dark hair was down around the shoulders of her white coat, and a rust-colored Birkin bag dangled from her forearm. She looked like she belonged in here.
But then … why was she here? She hadn’t mentioned anything about going shopping this afternoon. Wouldn’t a normal good friend have invited her good friend along?
Not that I’d invited her, but I had a reason. I was here to steal something.
The question was, did she already know that was why I was here? All the little hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as we faced off. Ivy couldn’t have something to do with this. Could she?
All of these thoughts passed through my mind in the space of about ten seconds. Ten heady seconds that left me feeling off kilter and completely played.
“What’re you doing here?” she asked, placing the hanger back on the rack. “Shopping for a hot date with my ex?”
I gulped against my dry throat. I wished she would stop bringing up Josh so often. As if I wasn’t tense enough already. But then, if her mission was to torture me …
My eyes darted to the woman behind the counter. She looked down her aquiline nose at me and sniffed, although her forehead was so overly botoxed her expression didn’t change one bit. Then she got back to hand-pricing a stack of cashmere sweaters piled up on the counter, her short, dark hair falling forward over her sharp cheekbones.