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Aria hid a smirk. She would have thought Razor scooter–obsessed Phi would be sensitive about making fun of others.
“If James keeps looking at her, I’m going to kick her ass,” Lanie continued through her teeth, spearing a sausage and plopping it on her plate. James Freed was her new boyfriend.
Someone tapped Aria on the shoulder and she turned. Klaudia was right behind her, staring at Aria with her large, blue eyes. “Hallo, Aria,” she said. “I eat you?”
At first, Aria thought she was serious—it was just the thing a fairy-tale villainess might say. Then Klaudia peered nervously into the crowd. “So many people, and I only you know!”
“What a lovely idea!” Mrs. Kahn appeared from out of nowhere and clapped a hand on Aria’s shoulder. “You two should definitely eat together! You’ll love Aria, Klaudia.”
“Oh.” Aria fiddled with the bat-wing sleeve of her silk blouse. Wouldn’t Klaudia rather eat with her male entourage? But it wasn’t like she could say no with Mrs. Kahn standing there.
After spooning a few more bites of vegetarian goulash on her plate, Aria led Klaudia to the bay window seat. They were quiet for a moment, taking in the party. The popular girls from Rosewood Day had moved to the long table in the breakfast nook, still giving Klaudia—and Aria, by association—the evil eye. A nearby cluster of adults Aria didn’t recognize were out-boasting one another about where their kids had gotten into college. Through the archway to the living room, Aria caught sight of Spencer and a boy she didn’t recognize, but she knew better than to wave.
The postcard haunted her. Today, she was sure she felt someone watching her—even in classes where she sat in the last row of the room, even when alone in a stall in the girls’ bathroom. She kept whipping around, heart in her throat, but no one was ever there. During study hall, she’d listened to two meditation tapes in a row, but they’d only gotten her more riled up. Even sitting here, in Noel’s kitchen, she kept peeking at her cell phone, terrified of a new text.
Could A seriously be back? What if A really knew the horrible thing she’d done?
Aria turned to Klaudia, trying to shake the awful thoughts from her mind. “So how do you like Rosewood Day?”
Klaudia dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “So big. I get much lost! And people give directions, and I’m like . . . oof!” She pretended to wipe sweat off her brow. “My old school in Helsinki? Six rooms! Thirty people in our class! Nothing like this!”
The corners of her mouth turned down as she spoke. She finished the tirade with a shaky titter. Was Klaudia . . . scared? It had never occurred to Aria that such a gorgeous, confident creature could be intimidated by anything. Perhaps she was actually human.
“I know what you mean.” Aria swallowed bite of beet and turnip mash. “The high school I went to in Reykjavik only had about a hundred students. I knew everyone within a couple of weeks.”
Klaudia lowered her fork. “You did school in Reykjavik?”
“Yeah.” Didn’t Noel tell Klaudia anything about her? “I lived there for almost three years. I loved it.”
“I go there!” Klaudia’s smile broadened. “For the Iceland Airwaves festival!”
“I went to that, too!” The Iceland Airwaves festival was the first concert Aria had gone to. She’d felt so adult traipsing onto the grounds, passing the hippie tents selling temporary tattoos and dream catchers, and inhaling the smells of exotic vegetarian cuisine and hookah pipes. During one of the many Icelandic bands’ sets, she’d met three boys: Asbjorn, Gunnar, and Jonas, and Jonas had kissed her during the encore. That was when Aria knew moving to Iceland was the best thing that could’ve ever happened to her.
Klaudia nodded excitedly, her blond hair bouncing. “So much music! My favorite was Metric.”
“I saw them in Copenhagen!” Aria said. She would have never pegged Klaudia for a Metric girl. Music was one of those things Aria hadn’t been able to talk about with anyone here the way she had in Iceland—all the Typical Rosewoods, as she called them, never ventured to listened to anything not on the iTunes Most Downloaded list.
“I loved! So much—tanssi!” She squinted, trying to think of the English word, and then bobbed her head back and forth as though she were dancing.
Then, setting her paper plate on the windowsill, Klaudia pulled out her iPhone and flipped through pictures. “This is Tanja.” She pointed at a foxlike Sofia Coppola look-alike. “Best friends. We go to Reykjavik concert together. I miss so much. We text every night.”
Klaudia flipped through more photos of her friends, mostly blond girls; her family, a gaunt, makeup-free mother, a tall, rumpled father who she said was an engineer, and a younger brother who had messy hair; her house, a modern box that reminded Aria of the house they rented in Reykjavik; and her cat, Mika, which she cradled like a baby in the same way Aria cradled her own cat, Polo. “I miss my Mee-mee so much!” she cried, bringing the picture to her lips and giving the cat a kiss.
Aria giggled. In these pictures, Klaudia didn’t look slutty or conniving—she seemed normal. Cool, even. It was possible Aria had judged Klaudia unfairly. Maybe she was overly touchy-feely with Noel because she was uncomfortable in her new surroundings. And maybe she dressed sluttily because she thought all Americans did—if you went by American television, you’d certainly think so. Really, Aria and Klaudia had more in common than Aria originally thought—the Typical Rosewood Girls shunned Klaudia, just like they did Aria. They always blacklisted things they didn’t immediately understand.
