“That's my girl,” Noelle said.

Then she made a point of slam­ming the door.

24

IN­SIDE THE IN­SIDE

“I like my pil­lows fluffed,” Cheyenne Mar­tin told me as she pinned her di­amond studs through her ears. Studs she had cho­sen from an im­pres­sive col­lec­tion of gor­geous, sparkling jew­els she had tucked away in a vel­vet box in­side her dress­er. She turned to­ward the mir­ror and smoothed down her per­fect­ly straight blond hair, giv­ing her­self an im­pe­ri­ous once-?over. Ev­er since I en­tered the suf­fo­cat­ing­ly flow­er-?scent­ed room she shared with Rose Sakowitz, she had been di­rect­ing me, yet she hadn't looked at me once. “And do the sheets nice and tight. I do not want to get in­to a wrinkly bed.”

I drew my hand over her raw silk com­forter, evening out the lumps. All I want­ed to do was fall in­to it. This was my four­teenth bed. Rose's would be num­ber fif­teen. My own, six­teen. Af­ter the vac­uum­ing. Un­for­tu­nate­ly, I had a feel­ing I would nev­er get to my bed as the vac­uum­ing would strike me dead of an aneurysm. Death by Dyson.

“Did you hear me, Glass-?lick­er?” she asked, grac­ing me with a cor­ner-?of-?the-?eye glance.

“Yes,” I told her in my new croaky voice. “Fluff the pil­lows. No wrin­kles.”

25

She turned to­ward me and took a deep breath. How any­one breathed deeply in the per­fumed air of this place was be­yond me. “Ex­act­ly. I told the girls you'd be good at this,” she said, pluck­ing at the cuffs on her pressed Ralph Lau­ren shirt. “You have that blue-?col­lar air about you.”

I stopped short, my hands grip­ping one of her pil­lows. I was so stunned, I couldn't even for­mu­late a co­her­ent thought. All I could think was . . . Kill. Kill. Kill.

“Cheyenne,” Rose scold­ed, lift­ing her large leather bag from her desk chair. Rose was a tiny, su­per­skin­ny girl with chin-?length red hair and an or­angey tan that was just now start­ing to fade. I had no idea how that big bag of hers didn't just pull her right down. “Don't lis­ten to her,” she told me.

I forced my­self to smile at Rose, then melt­ed Cheyenne's fourth lay­er of Es­tee Laud­er base with my eyes.

“What? I was just pay­ing her a com­pli­ment!” Cheyenne said. “You knew that, right, Glass-?lick­er?”

“Sure,” I said with a tight smile. “I'd rather have a blue col­lar than a sil­ver spoon up my ass,” I whis­pered un­der my breath.

Cheyenne's face cloud­ed over, but she quick­ly re­cov­ered. “Some­one has an at­ti­tude,” she said smooth­ly. “What­ev­er shall we do to teach her her place?”

She picked up a big pot of pink blush beads and turned them over on the white-?and-?green flow­ered area rug in the cen­ter of the hard­wood floor. “Oh! Oops!”

“Cheyenne!” Rose cried.

She re­spond­ed by lift­ing her heel and grind­ing the lit­tle pel­lets

26

in­to the thick weave. Part of me want­ed to grab her by her per­fect hair and grind her face in there as well. But of course I did not.

“You can clean that up when you're done, Glass-?lick­er,” Cheyenne said. “Un­less you want me to tell Noelle how clever you are.”

She turned and walked out. Rose sighed and hes­itat­ed by the door.

“You don't have to wor­ry about that now. There's al­ways tonight,” she said. “And don't take too much time on my bed. Just throw the cov­ers over it in case Noelle checks.”

“She checks?” I asked.

Rose looked at me pity­ing­ly. Clear­ly I was too naive for words. “Good luck.”

She closed the door qui­et­ly be­hind her, and I lis­tened as her foot­steps dis­ap­peared down the hall. The dorm was silent as night now. I glanced at the clock. Half an hour to vac­uum, show­er, get dressed, and get to break­fast. Not that break­fast ap­pealed, but I had to make an ap­pear­ance or Noelle might put me on toi­let du­ty lat­er. I would have to for­go some­thing to fin­ish in time. Prob­ably the show­er.

With a sigh, I moved to Rose's bed. She'd been nice, so I'd do bet­ter than just flip­ping the cov­ers up. I straight­ened the sheets and com­forter and then lift­ed the pil­lows. There was some­thing jammed be­tween the cor­ner of the bed and the wall. I placed my knee in the cen­ter of the mat­tress and took a clos­er look. What­ev­er it was was kind of crum­ply and green and--“Oh, my God.”

27

My hand flew over my mouth. It was a piece of a muf­fin. An old, moldy corn muf­fin and its wrap­per that Rose had ob­vi­ous­ly stuffed there af­ter snack­ing on it one night. One night in ear­ly Septem­ber from the looks of it. Ap­par­ent­ly even the creme de la creme could be slobs. I turned around, stum­bled in­to their bath­room, and slammed my kneecaps against the linoleum as I dou­bled over.

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