Page 25 of Mad Girl

“Listen,” Nic said, tossing his briefcase onto the counter, “I need to make a last-minute trip out of town, so I won’t be coming home tonight. Casey’s in charge. Have Tinsley over if you want, but everyone needs to get along. Don’t give him any trouble.” To you, he said, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

You nodded. “Of course.”

“Okay.” Nic gripped your shoulder, then walked over and kissed me on the forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” He pointed at me as he backed away. “I mean it, Elliot. Be good.”

Our eyes met over the island, Casey, before you dropped your gaze back to the sink. I hated what Nic had said to me in front of you: “Be good.” Like I was a kid. “Don’t give him any trouble.” Like you were there to watch me.

Enraged, I finished my cereal, then rounded the island and dropped the bowl into the sink, splattering milk all over your clothes.

Arms tossed out wide, you said, “What the⁠—?”

You couldn’t see, but I wore a satisfied grin on my face as I sauntered out of the room.

Later that morning, I stewed over the whole thing in class. Nic had made some infuriating choices over the years, but leaving some random hot guy, who couldn’t even make it off a college waitlist, in charge of me overnight? That topped the list.

When we got our quizzes back in Algebra 2, I heard Willoughby Asher, who sat next to me, talking to the guy next to him. “My dad’s gonna kill me over these grades, man.”

His friend—a boy named Rory Hamilton—flipped Willoughby’s quiz face-down. “So what, dude? Tonight, we’re going to party.”

Remember your good friend Willoughby, Casey? (Picture me laughing here.)

Willoughby Asher. Just your typical rich kid: absentee parents, big house, zero supervision. No one kept tabs on him. He threw wild parties while his parents were off skiing in Vermont or sailing the Mediterranean in their yacht. Tinsley had attended several over the last year while I remained locked in my gilded cage—no parties, no boys, no freedom for me.

As I listened to the boys discuss their party, an idea sparked. “Hey,” I said, sliding my chair closer to Willoughby’s the second Rory walked off.

Willoughby glanced around. “Are you talking to me?”

“No, I’m talking to that guy over there,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Of course I’m talking to you.”

“We’ve known each other a few years now,” Willoughby said, “and I can count on two hands the number of things you’ve ever said to me.”

While he eyed me suspiciously, I decided that Tinsley had been right: Willoughby was cute. Hot, even. Vaguely reminiscent of a young Zac Efron—back in his Disney days—only Willoughby’s eyes were a rich golden brown instead of blue.

“Well, today’s your lucky day,” I told him. “Listen, what if you move your party to my house?”

“What?” he asked, dark eyebrows shooting up. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“To Nic Bancroft’s house? I don’t think so. Your dad’s scary as shit.”

“He won’t be there. He’s out of town.”

“Still,” Willoughby said, swiping a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable putting my life in jeopardy like that. What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll tutor you in algebra. Help pull your grades back up.”

“Okay,” he said, drawing out the word. “And how will this party benefit you exactly?”

“My dad moved this total stranger into our house. He’s there to keep an eye on me and I want him gone.”

“Is this the hot British dude Tinsley’s always talking about?”

“Yes.”

“And he’ll be there tonight? At your house?”

“Yes.”