Abigail gasps. “Someone put an unwrapped chocolate bar in the back pocket of your skirt?”
The three other women—Olivia, Chelsea, and Samantha—tilt their heads as though unsure why that’s funny.
“Go on. That’s not even the best part,” Marlow coaxes.
Dr. Gundry would be very upset if he saw me grinding my teeth right now. “It was a lovely spring day and our class took a trip to the Royal Botanic Garden during Heritage Week.”
“It was hot in the greenhouse and the chocolate melted in her back pocket and looked—” Marlow can no longer contain her forced laughter. At least, I think it’s forced, because I don’t understand why she’d think it’s so hilarious after all this time.
The other four women wrinkle their noses to varying degrees.
Marlow snorts and all but slaps her thigh with a guffaw. “You can imagine what it looked like. From then on, everyone called her Poo-pa.”
“You were the one who called me Poo-pa, Marlow.” My tone is tight.
“That’s awful,” Abigail says.
“But why would you keep an unwrapped piece of chocolate in your pocket?” Marlow asks.
“I didn’t. I don’t even eat chocolate. I’m allergic.”
In unison, the women make a woeful sound as though that’s the real tragedy.
I agree, ladies. I agree.
“She walked around like that all day.” Marlow titters.
I cock my head. “Considering you were my partner for the project Mrs. Constantino assigned, you could have told me.”
“I didn’t notice.” Marlow shrugs and wipes away a fake tear of laughter. “Oh, and there was the time you got locked in that pigpen on the farm we visited. See? Poo-pa.” She hoots.
“Right.” I huff. “Anyway, ironically, I’ve been obsessed with scents ever since and make my own candles.” I go on to tell them about my candle side hustle.
“But you know who did notice what a mess she was?” Marlow interrupts my description of my new biscuit-scented candle idea.
“And that is where the woeful tale of Poo-pa ends.” I shake my head, not wanting to relive the mortifying moment that followed.
As if on cue, my phone vibrates in my sparkly clutch. I glance to see that it’s a text from Phoebe. She sends several more in rapid succession before I have a chance to read the first.
Phoebe: Abort the mission.
Phoebe: Clear out while you can.
Phoebe: Seriously, Pippa. LEAVE NOW!
Phoebe: Text when you’ve reached safety. This message will self-destruct in five seconds.
By studying in the library, my sister must mean she’s watching old Mission Impossible reruns. She lives for spy and espionage films, especially the ones involving fancy technology.
I glance up, bewildered by what she could mean, but all I see are my new friends in the foreground and my parents in the background, talking animatedly to a man with his back to me. He wears a dark blue suit. I use Marlow for cover because if Mum is chatting up Mr. Marriage, I can’t let her see me over here.
Phoebe must’ve gotten intel on who our mother has in mind, and it’s time for me to scram.
8
PIPPA
Thumbs hovering over my cell phone’s digital keyboard, I’m about to reply to my sister’s text, but as if on cue—because remember, this is me we’re talking about—my phone screen goes dark. Maybe it really did self-destruct. Either that or the battery died, which is more likely the case. I cannot be bothered to charge the thing, let alone tote it around with me everywhere. Even though I’m a modern woman, I prefer regular cameras, my news in print, and a phone conversation on dial-up rather than a disjointed video call where we inevitably talk over each other. I’m awkward enough as it is. The cell phone seems to demand attention and divide the attention of the user from whoever they’re interacting with.
