I don’t look at her, but I can feel her glare on my cheek.
“And soon you’re going to know I’m right.”
I block her out, and after a few minutes she flounces back to her friends. Just what the hell is going on?
Taylor’s gaze rests briefly on Aspen’s empty seat, and then he starts the lecture. Huh. Bet he knows something.
After the class, I walk up to him. “Professor Taylor.”
“Ah, yes, Grant.” He smiles like a sycophant. But then, he’s probably harboring the hopeless dream of seeing “Twenty-Seven.” “What can I help you with?”
“Do you know what’s up with Aspen?”
“Why? Did she do something?”
Why the hell is he assuming she did something wrong? “I borrowed some money from her, and I need to pay her back. But I can’t get in touch with her.”
He laughs. “Oh, she can be odd about such inconsequential things. But I’m afraid she won’t be on campus for a while.”
“Why not?”
“Some sort of personal issue. I’m sure she’ll be back when she has it sorted out,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “By the way—”
“I have to go.” I’m not wasting any more time in his smarmy presence. It’s suffocating, and I need space to process what he said.
The relief that she’s okay is short-lived. Now that I know she’s okay, I’m pretty fucking irritated that she hasn’t spared a second to text me back. Doesn’t she know I was worried sick?
–Me: I heard from Taylor you have something to sort out. Hope it’s nothing serious. By the way, I’d love to talk to you. Text or call when you get a chance.
But she still doesn’t reply.
By Sunday, I’m beyond irritated and worried. Just what the hell kind of problem could keep her away from her phone for so long? It doesn’t take long to text back a few words! Did I do something? Or are her problems more serious than Taylor made them sound?
My play on the polo field is shit. George asks if everything’s okay, and I tell him yeah. He can’t do anything about Aspen.
I mull my options over in the shower after the game. I should find her grandparents’ number and give them a call. I have no idea how many Kenny Hugheses are in L.A., but once I cross-reference the name with somebody who owns a dance studio, I should be able to find him. I know it’s going to make me furious and relieved, but I hope she’s okay. And maybe she couldn’t call me back for some reason as silly as her phone breaking and she hasn’t replaced it yet—
My phone rings. I dash out of the shower, water flying, and snatch the phone from the top of my locker, where I left so I don’t miss Aspen’s call—and swipe the green button.
“Aspen?”
“Ah, no. This is Marketta.”
“Oh.” My whole body deflates like a popped balloon. I rest a hand against the locker to keep myself upright. “Hey.”
“I wanted to call in case you didn’t know.”
Her tone of voice is uncharacteristically somber. “What?”
“I don’t know how to put this delicately, but I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Is this about Mom?”
“Your mother’s fine. It’s that girl you brought to Malibu.”
I stand straight up. “You know something about Aspen?”
Marketta lets out a soft sigh. “Everything you bought for her is on an auction site. Along with the bag your mother gave her.”
