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Noelle talked about her parents' affairs like she was giving an oral report on the Industrial Revolution. As if
there were nothing in the world that could have been more mundane. Ariana fingered one of her aquamarine
drop earrings, envying how everything was so easy, so straightforward for her best friend.
"I can't imagine what that's like, worrying about when your parents are going to schedule in their 'face time'
with their sloppy sides." Daniel leaned back as the waiter delivered coffee cups and bowls of sugar to the
table. "That's gotta suck."
Ariana inhaled sharply. No one at this table needed a reminder about how happy and functional the Ryan
family unit was. Noelle's dark eyes smoldered at the dig.
"Well, Daniel, not everyone can have the perfect family, perfect grades, and the perfect girlfriend," Thomas
said wryly, teasing Ariana with his eyes.
"If we did, what would we tell our therapists about?" Dash joked.
"Or pop Xanax over," Thomas added with a short laugh.
"Like you need an excuse to pop anything," Noelle put in.
Thomas smiled. "Touche, Miss Lange." He snagged a sugar cube from the bowl and tossed it into his mouth.
"What about you, Ariana. Popped anything lately?"
Prickly heat assaulted Ariana's skin.
"Dude," Daniel admonished, sitting forward to glare at Thomas.
"What?" Thomas feigned innocence with upturned palms.
Ariana forced herself to glance at Thomas. He was looking directly at her with his searing blue eyes.
Just then a camera flashed, illuminating the beveled edges of her glass with sparks of light. Ariana flinched.
"Jesus," Noelle snapped, waving her napkin in the direction of the flash. "Sergei, enough with the stalkerazzi
act already. Find new muses."
Sergei Tretyakov stood just two feet from the table, a black Nikon
with a telephoto lens hanging from his neck. Sergei was a Latvian exchange student and an outsider at Easton.
He had dark, sloping brows, coal black eyes, and a slightly crooked nose. He could have been quirkily
attractive, but he was painfully shy and had a tendency to stare. Plus he always wore these old, dirty tennis
shoes no matter what else he had on. He was even wearing them tonight, to a formal event. Ariana could tell a
lot about a person from their choice of footwear, and Sergei's kicks screamed "street urchin." Still, she felt a
certain reluctant affinity for him. She was, after all, a fellow observer.
"Just one more," he said softly in his lilting Eastern European accent.
