Page 266 of Mad Girl

“She isn’t well, Casey,” he said. “What’s going on?”

You took my chin, tilting my face up to yours and gazing deep into my eyes. “You’ve been into Nic’s scotch again, haven’t you?”

“What do you care?” I snapped, slapping your hand away.

Still wobbly, I shoved past you two and headed for the dining room, then plopped down next to Bree, who immediately leaned back, startled by my appearance.

“Get up,” Michael told her, rushing to my side again. “Switch places with me today. I need to sit by Elliot.”

Bree obeyed, moving to Michael’s seat—the one between yours and John’s—without a word. You studied me as you joined us at the table, sporting a deep wrinkle of concern between your eyebrows. When the adults filtered in, Nic’s gaze shot directly to me.

“Here,” said Michael, snatching bacon, scones, and anything else he could reach, and placing it all on my plate. “You should eat something.”

“What’s going on, Michael?” Nic asked, taking his seat.

Michael paused. “Um—nothing, Nic. Everything’s fine.” He sat back and grabbed his water glass. “Elliot looks like…she really needs to eat. That’s all.”

“As she should,” you muttered. “Hasn’t eaten in nearly two days.”

But everyone had become so used to this behavior from me that they loaded up their plates without comment.

Eleanor wrinkled her nose at my disheveled appearance. “Shall we make a toast before we begin?” she said to the table, picking up her flute of champagne, its golden bubbles rising to the top. “To our dearest new mayor?”

All the adults beamed, holding up their glasses. Us kids, too. Together, we all said, “To Libby.”

But when I went to drink mine, Michael pushed down on my arm. And my dad, of course, noticed. “Okay, what’s going on?” he demanded. “What are you doing over there, Michael?”

Michael blinked at him. “Nothing.”

“Michael,” said John. “Spit it out.”

“Elliot’s already been drinking,” Michael said. “So she probably shouldn’t have any.”

Nic drew back, saying, “Is that true, Elliot?”

I didn’t answer, but I did veer sideways in my chair a little. Which was an answer in and of itself.

Nic sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Take her upstairs, Michael. We’ll send food and water up.”

Michael tried taking my arm, but I shrugged him off.

“I want to stay,” I said—or maybe slurred. “I want to apologize to Libby.”

Nic shook his head. “Absolutely not. This isn’t the time.” He nodded at Michael. “Take her.”

I snatched my arm from Michael again, leaning past him to address Libby. “Libby, I’m so sorry I publicly humiliated you,” I said, tripping over the words. Turns out publicly and humiliated are challenging words to pronounce while drunk. “Casey over here”—I gestured to you with one finger, elbow lazily propped on the table—“thinks I should’ve asked you guys to sit down for a chat rather than punish you for lying. That I should’ve nicely pointed out what a fraud you are to your face rather than, you know, writing it on a sign.”

“Ah, okay,” you said, holding both hands up. “That’s—um—that’s not exactly how I put it.”

“So let’s do that,” I said with a grin. “Let’s all have a little chat.” Libby stared back at me, her expertly made-up face set into a scowl, one of her recently waxed eyebrows twitching. She looked pretty irritated already, which was fine by me, because it made that next part really fun to say: “Say, Lib, when was the last time you fucked my dad?”

If I was going out, I figured…

I might as well go out with a bang.

Eleanor gasped. Libby’s blue eyes bulged—Bree’s, too. Michael grabbed my hand, squeezing it tight. Nic and John, at the head of the table, gaped at me. As for you, Casey, you clutched your forehead, muttering, “Oh, dear God.”

“So,” I said, leaning over the table. “Are we talking back in high school? College? Last summer? Last week?”