Or perhaps that’s just me.
You can’t expect ogres like Pippag Thomzeg to understand digital technology.
Speaking of batteries, mine starts to drain, but the show must carry on. At least Marlow insists it must by the way she encourages me to tell the Pippa Pig Pen story. “Come on. It’s hilarious.”
“This isn’t comedy hour. We were talking about candles.” Always a winning topic of conversation. One that Abigail, Olivia, Chelsea, and Samantha seem genuinely interested in.
“Come on. You can’t leave them hanging,” Marlow says.
I click my tongue dismissively. “It’s in the past. I haven’t been to London for months after moving to Concordia for work. Any new coffee shops or bakeries I should try before I leave tomorrow?” Turning to the girls, Phoebe would applaud me for the swift change of subject.
“So, you grew up in London?” Abigail asks.
“We went to boarding school together,” Marlow says as though making one last pitch for the Pippa Pig Pen story.
Mercifully, the conversation detours as everyone swaps the names of the schools they went to and makes connections over mutual teachers, friends, and events we have in common.
“Wait, you went to Hinnifin Hall?” a woman with auburn hair asks. “Me too. I’m Lilly Cameron. Lovely to meet you.”
She’s new to our conversation circle, but I don’t quite remember her from high school.
“If you were a few years ahead of me, you must have known Chase Collins,” Lilly says.
I imagine that the smile I wear at the mention of his name can only be described as misshapen, mutant, ogre-like. It feels like my eyes are two different sizes, my lips ripple instead of lift, and the apples of my cheeks consist of melted wax beads tinted crimson. I know, weird, but I blame being around Marlow and repeatedly being reminded of The (unrequited) Crush List.
The other women in the group go silent at the mention of the infamous Chase Collins. I don’t blame them. The guy was a legend—a high school American football hero with a jawline that could double as a sword. The kind of flirty, dimpled smile that slayed and eyes that sparkled with what felt like a secret between him and the girl he gazed upon.
Okay, I’ll slow my roll.
“Every freshman girl had a major crush on him,” Lilly says.
And a senior as well. Namely, me.
“His parents are here somewhere.” Abigail glances around the room. No surprise that she knows everybody, considering this is her parents’ party.
“And he’s on the Boston Bruisers now,” Lilly adds with stars in her eyes.
The women erupt into a hen fest, exclaiming how handsome Chase Collins is. They may as well have a stats sheet on him with the way they highlight his height, build, eye color, and good looks. Of course, I, too, have this information documented and in dry storage.
It’s like we’re in high school all over again, by the way their voices rise in pitch as they flutter and giggle over the quarterback. I keep the fact that he’s Freddie’s best friend to myself because then they’ll want me to make introductions.
Chase has made it clear that he doesn’t want to come within twenty feet of Pippag Thomzeg—don’t worry, he didn’t put a restraining order on me. I may be hapless, flakey, and accident-prone, but I’m not dangerous. Then again, there was that time I caught a cupcake on fire. Don’t ask.
It’s more like Freddie treated me, his twin, like his pesky little sister whom he tried to avoid at all costs, so Chase took that as permission to do the same.
“Did you hear about moon-gate?” Samantha asks in a hush.
I roll my eyes. New pranks, different day. Thankfully, I wasn’t the target this time. No doubt, he and Freddie were behind some of the ones that struck me back in the day.
The girls gather around someone’s cell phone and scroll through a social media feeding frenzy with the tag #BruiserButt.
From what I heard earlier and what I gather now, four of the Boston Bruisers football team players took it upon themselvesto show the world their backsides. Or prank one of their fellow teammates, depending on whose story you believe.
Unfortunately, the team commissioner, his daughter, and some other important people were caught in the crossfire.
“Do you think they’ll get kicked off the team?” Chelsea asks.
“I don’t know how American football works, but they’ll probably just have to pay a fine.” Olivia, who I learn is dating a Brazilian soccer star, shrugs like it’s no big deal and happens every day among the rowdy footie players.
