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Noah: Send me the date and time so I don’t forget, then.
For a moment, I stare at my phone uncomprehendingly.
Rose: You’re coming to the gala?
His reply is just a thumbs-up emoji.
I stare at my phone for ages, filled with a confusing mixture of triumph, annoyance, worry, surprise and admiration.
Noah isn’t just a secret game-player.
He’s anexpertgame-player.
OnThursday,Iskipclasses and dedicate my entire day to planning my outfit, bathing, exfoliating, waxing, moisturising and repainting my nails and toenails. Dusk has just fallen outside by the time I emerge from the bathroom in a fluffy pink bathrobe and take a seat at my dressing table to get started on my hair.
Camille comes in when I’m halfway through my hair routine—more like a ritual—with a pile of textbooks under her arm. She enters without knocking, as she usually does, and stops as soon as she sees me. Her eyes narrow with suspicion.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
“You’ve skipped classes all day and you’re glowing like you’ve spent all day in a spa. You’re definitely going somewhere.”
“I’m not,” I lie.
She flops onto my bed and opens her mouth wide.
“Oh. My. God. Rose. You’re going back to Mr Morton’s house. Aren’t you?”
“Shut up, I’m not going to Mr Morton’s house!” I flap my hand at her. “You’re so stupid. I’m meeting Noah.”
“Who the fuck is Noah? You’re actually making this shit up, Rose, I swear, because how do I even know this guy is real?”
“Jesus, Cammie, why would I lie?” I grab my phone, turning off the music playing on it. “Here!”
I shove Noah’s profile picture in her face and she grabs my phone, staring at the screen. Her eyes widen and her mouth falls open as if I’ve just shown her the most scandalous photograph ever taken. I don’t see why, because Noah’s picture is small and blurry, a simple selfie of him smiling. Cammie looks between me and the photo.
“That’s him?”
“Yes! I told you it wasn’t Mr Morton.”
I snatch my phone from her. Her eyes narrow.
“Well?” she asks imperiously, crossing her arms. “So what, then? Have you two fucked? You argued with your dad and now you’re fucking the help?”
Her school shirt is unbuttoned, and tiny crimson hickeys pepper her collarbones underneath the gold chain of her cross. To think this boy-obsessed hickey-riddled slut is trying to Catholic-guiltmeis laughable.
“I’m not fucking the help,” I snap at her. “You’re so judgemental.”
“I just don’t want you to make a mistake,” she says in a gentler tone.
“I’m not, okay? I know exactly what I’m doing. The gala is in a couple of months, and Noah’s agreed to come with me. Once my father sees us, he’ll be so furious he’ll do anything to make me break up with him.”
Cammie nods slowly, but there’s a dubious pout on her mouth.
I roll my eyes. “Ugh. What?”
“Well, if he’s already agreed to go to the gala with you, then why are you going to see him?”
