"You don't owe me anything. I just noticed, that's all."
"Noticed?" She crosses her arms. "Or were you obsessively watching the door like some kind of creep?"
"Can't it be both?"
The corner of her mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly, but I catch it. I always catch it.
"You're insufferable," she says.
"And yet, here you are." I hold out my hand, nodding toward the dance floor. "Dance with me?"
"Absolutely not."
"Afraid you'll enjoy it?"
Her eyes flash, and for a split second, I believe my words are spot on, but then her mask is firmly slipped back into place, and the murderous look she had stomping across the room is replaced with a devilish one that promises calculated revenge.
"Dancing requires touching, and the thought repulses me."
The words sting more than they should, but before I can respond, her smile sharpens into something truly dangerous.
"Besides, while you were busynot finishingthe dance hall last night..." She pauses, letting that particular failure sink in while I internally scold myself. She came after she said she wouldn't, and I was too damn tired. "I put together a surprise fundraising auction to help raise more money for the charity this year's dance is sponsoring."
"What kind of auction?"
"Oh, you know. The usual. Donated items, experiences, that sort of thing." Her voice is pure innocence, but her eyes aregleaming with malicious delight. "I may have included a few special lots. Very exclusive. Very...personal."
The way she says "personal" makes my blood run cold.
"Asha, what did you do?"
"You'll see." She pats my chest with false sympathy. "Don't worry. It's all for charity. You're not the type to back out of helping a good cause, are you?" she says before waltzing up to the stage and heading straight to the DJ. Leaning in close, she says something in his ear, and he hands her the microphone, looking all too amused.
The music fades, and conversations die down as people start to notice the change in volume and look toward the stage where Asha stands in that dark-green dress, poised and confident, every inch the girl who's spent her life commanding rooms full of people twice her age, at her dad’s galas or at show-jumping competitions. She's in her element.
"Good evening, everyone!" Her voice rings out across the dance hall. "I hope you're all having the best time at homecoming."
There’s applause and a few whistles, and her smile never wavers as she waits for them to simmer.
"As you all know, Homecoming at Ridgewood has a long-standing tradition of raising money for the local shelters as we head into the winter months." She pauses, letting the weight of that settle. "This year, instead of betting onstuff, we're betting ontime. It's our most valuable resource and the gift that keeps on giving."
What in the actual hell is she talking about? It was her idea to pull the auction this year, instead choosing to raise the price of a ticket, arguing that attending homecoming in general was the money grab. None of these trust-fund babies cared to bid on things their parents could buy them with one call home, so why waste time on silent auction tables? However, they wouldwillingly pay whatever price we put on a ticket just to ensure they attended.
In her words,the higher the price tag, the more exclusive the dance becomes.The cost itself transformed homecoming from just another school event into something elite, a velvet rope only the wealthy could cross. She'd actually said it made themwant it more, that charging five hundred dollars per ticket did more for the dance's prestige than any decorations or DJ ever could. The price wasn't just admission. It was a status symbol, proof you belonged to the inner circle that could afford not to flinch at the cost. I couldn't disagree, and though you'd never catch me paying that ticket price to attend a dance, I didn't object because, as class president, I don't have to pay admission.
Hollis appears at my elbow. "Why does it look like you didn't know about this?"
"Because I didn't," I mutter, unable to look away from her.
Suddenly, there are cards in her hand. I'm not sure if they were there before she took the stage, all I know is they are there now, and my heart is pounding as I wait with bated breath for her words.
"Our opening bid is for something money usually can't buy: total control over the winter formal. Pick any theme you want, any venue the budget allows, curate the playlist, and design the whole experience. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to throw the party everyone will remember. Bidding starts at one hundred dollars."
My eyes narrow as my knuckles rub against my jaw.What is she doing?Of all the words I expected to hear leaving her lips, those weren't them. Multiple hands shoot up, and I listen as the bidding quickly ticks up from interest.
"One thousand. Do I hear eleven hundred?" Her eyes scan the room, looking for more takers, until she says, "One thousand…and sold to Emma Morrison."
I cross my arms, believing I know exactly where this is going, until she announces the next item.
