Читать книгу Elegy - Tara Hudson, Tara Hudson - Страница 8

Chapter THREE

Cramped into Jillian’s tiny car and listening to yet another generic hip-hop song, I couldn’t quite believe I’d left my gorgeous boyfriend sitting on an equally gorgeous bed . . . for this.

Before leaving the Mayhews’ house, Jillian had forced me to try on about a hundred different outfits until I looked presentable. It was ridiculous, considering the fact that most items in my wardrobe once (and sort of still) belonged to the most famous actress in America. Next came an inch-thick layer of makeup, something I’d stopped wearing the day Gaby disappeared. Worst of all, Jillian spent most of our drive lecturing me on how to behave once we reached Kaylen’s house. Which made me wonder—yet again—why I’d been invited in the first place.

“And another thing,” Jillian continued, “you need to treat Kaylen’s mom with a lot of respect. Like, a lot.”

I turned away from my open window, back toward the interior of the car so that Jillian could see my exasperation.

“What do you think I’m going to do, Jill, run naked through her living room?”

Jillian laughed, but she began to drum her fingers nervously against the steering wheel. “It’s not that I think you’re going to do something stupid. It’s just that I’m trying to, you know, prepare you.”

“For what, the Miss Wilburton pageant?”

“Something like that,” Jillian muttered.

Before I could ask her what she meant, Kaylen’s house came into view, and I was momentarily struck speechless.

The home was absolutely enormous—at least three stories tall, maybe four. But the building’s most striking quality wasn’t its size. Its façade boasted every imaginable architectural element: columns, balconies, copper awnings, weather vanes. Best of all, two life-sized statues of lions flanked the double front doors. It was a triumph of wealth and excess.

“Whoa,” I eventually managed. “It kind of looks like Better Homes and Gardens threw up all over this place.”

“Yeah,” Jillian said, pulling her car onto the circular driveway. “This is what we call a McMansion.”

I let out a low whistle and stared up at the house while Jillian parked alongside several other cars. We kept quiet, almost reverential as we removed our overnight bags from the trunk and made the long walk to the front porch.

Finally, standing between the stone lions and waiting for someone to answer the doorbell, Jillian broke our silence with a torrent of words.

“Okay, so Mr. Patton is an oil guy and a state senator,” Jillian hissed in a rushed whisper. “So he’s gone, like, all the time. That leaves Mrs. Patton alone a lot with Kaylen and all this money. And, well, Mrs. Patton is a former Miss Oklahoma, which should mean that she’s super nice. But in Mrs. Patton’s case—”

At that moment, the front door swung open to reveal Kaylen, unbelievably glammed up and looking regal in the marble-tiled foyer. Except the person standing in the doorway wasn’t Kaylen. She was at least six inches taller, not counting her five-inch stilettos. That also left out the four inches of gravity-defying hair, which had been sprayed into some complicated blond sculpture. All that height made her look superhuman, like some sort of suburban goddess.

“Jillian, sweetie, don’t you look pretty,” she cooed, pointing to Jillian’s block-print dress and wedge heels. Then Mrs. Patton raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow and assessed me coolly, before breaking into a high-wattage smile.

“You must be Jillian’s little friend,” she said, offering me a handshake full of bedazzled fingernails. I took an instinctive step back to avoid the nontouch, and her smile dropped.

“Sorry,” I offered lamely. “I, um, have a cold.”

I offered a weak cough as evidence, using my shaking hand to cover it. Then I waved that hand as if to say, See? Germ-ridden.

Mrs. Patton’s upper lip curled in disgust and she, too, took a step backward. Then she composed that lip curl into something that was only slightly less repulsed.

“You poor thing. Why don’t y’all just come on inside?”

She waved us into the entryway, gestured vaguely to a grand, curving staircase, and told us that the other girls were in the theater room on the third floor. Then she hurried away on her ridiculous heels, fleeing what she clearly assumed was the black death.

Now I realized why Jillian had demanded a fashion show before we left. And why we were wearing designer labels to a party that should have been filled with sweatpants and junk food.

I snorted as Jillian and I started up the stairs. “You have to admit, this explains so much about Kaylen.”

“Doesn’t it though?” Jillian murmured. “I told you, Kaylen is an okay person—she’s just a little . . . skewed.”

“I can see why. She’s living with a grade-A pageant mom.”

“Aw, who’s afraid of tiaras and mascara? We’ve fought demons.”

“I’ve fought demons,” I corrected. “You fought a crazed psycho killer with some serious girl issues.”

“To-may-to, to-mah-to.” Jillian waved her hand dismissively.

After what felt like a thousand miles of stairs and hallway, Jillian paused outside a set of red double doors. She’d just reached for one of the handles when both doors swung open and Kaylen came bounding out into the hall.

“Jill!” she squealed, enveloping her friend in a bear hug to which Jillian responded with an awkward back pat.

I’d always thought of Kaylen as something of a princess. But tonight, in stark contrast to her mother, she appeared in a set of comfortable-looking pajamas.

“So, Jill, I got those hot Cheetos you like even though they make everyone else want to puke.” She abruptly shifted her attention to me. “And you’re Amelia, right? Josh’s secret new girlfriend?”

Now that took me aback. All I could do was stutter, “Uh . . . y-yeah. I guess I am.”

I thought I’d have to dance around this issue for hours—maybe suffer a few sly, catty comments in the process. But Kaylen just came right out and addressed the elephant in the room.

“Not so secret anymore,” she noted, before I could say anything else. “Anyway, come on in—the other girls are already here.”

She started to wave us inside, grinning.

“You got all done up for Mom, right?” Kaylen asked. “Don’t worry: you can go ahead and change into your comfies in the powder bath.”

“Thanks,” Jillian breathed, immediately slipping her feet out of her tall wedges. Then she and I hefted up our bags and followed Kaylen inside.

The theater room matched the house perfectly: overdone, with heavy red drapes and gold tassels everywhere. The only difference was that this room looked a little friendlier with the addition of a rom-com on the big screen and a few pajama-clad girls gathered beneath it.

I’d seen them before, following Kaylen and Jillian around Wilburton High. One of them—a strawberry blonde with a sharp nose and pale green eyes—hung back in the semicircle of theater chairs and arranged bowls of junk food on a low table. The other two girls approached us, both sporting messy sets of pigtails. Slumber-party couture, I guess.

“Nice dress, Jill,” one teased, flipping an ashy brown pigtail. “Are you going to a fancy horse race?”

“Are you running in one?” Jillian shot back, but she grinned warmly and gave her friend a playful shove. Then she moved toward the bathroom, apparently to change. Without looking back, Jillian wiggled her fingers over her shoulder. “I’m going to go un-Derby myself. See you in a sec.”

As soon as the door clicked shut, the third girl moved closer to me. Too close, actually, almost like a shark. Her smirk wasn’t necessarily hostile—in fact, it looked sort of pretty against her deeply tanned skin—but it made me uncomfortable. Deeply uncomfortable.

“So,” she said archly. “You’re Amelia?”

It was as if those three words were some kind of signal. All at once, the entire room seemed to focus on me. Each girl moved in concert, angling herself toward me like a missile seeking its target.

After a long, uncertain pause, I nodded and cleared my throat. “And all of you are . . . ?”

“Chelsea Qualls,” the ashy brunette offered, and then pointed behind her to the redhead. “That’s Elyse Richards.”

“And I’m Mya Homma.”

The girl with the deeply tanned skin and black hair waved at me, a gesture that I wasn’t sure whether to read as snarky or friendly. For lack of anything better to do, I waved back.

“Hi. I’m Amelia Ashley. I’m dating Joshua Mayhew. I enjoy competitive figure skating and long walks on the beach.”

The other girls laughed, relaxing by separate degrees. One by one, they each shifted away from me. Sensing that the attack was over, I smiled at them as genuinely as I could and reminded myself that I’d faced far scarier things than a roomful of teenage girls in judgment mode.

Still, when Jillian exited the powder bath, I took the opportunity to excuse myself to change—and breathe easier for the first time since we’d entered the room. Maybe even the house.