Page 27 of Mad Girl

Unlike my closet full of curated innocence and well-behaved pastels, this dress drew attention. Made people look twice. And that’s the last thing my dad wanted when it came to me.

Better if I faded into the background.

Better if none of those innocent moths at my school were ever drawn to the flame.

Tinsley and I tiptoed downstairs, holding our shoes, pausing outside your room. You’d left the door cracked open just wide enough for us to catch the soft click-clack of your keyboard. We exchanged a look, then slipped down in silence.

Willoughby waited out back with a group of kids who filtered inside quietly, like he’d instructed them, thrumming with excitement. They were in awe of my house, in awe of me.

It’s like I told you that time after brunch: I’d become something of a legend among my classmates. I was the girl who’d stabbed Michael Harris at her birthday party and my dungeon-like house marked the scene of the crime. They loved being there, loved the chance to act it out and reminisce—Look! There’s where it happened!—but mostly they loved gawking at me outside of school. And, boy, did they all, watching me strut through the house in that little black dress, bereft of my messy side-braid for once, loose curls falling down my shoulders and framing my face.

Willoughby gawked especially hard, stepping back as I approached him. “Damn, Elliot. You’re a hot girl. Who knew?”

I rolled my eyes. “If I get handsy with you tonight, are you okay with that?”

“Is this a trick question?” Willoughby asked, huffing out a laugh. Then he leaned close, slipped an arm around my waist, and murmured close to my ear, “You can touch me anywhere you want.”

This, Casey. This is what I liked about Willoughby. He treated me like a normal person while everyone else at school treated me like a freak. The previous year, when Michael was a senior and we’d hang out in the library or walk down the hall together, they’d yell out things like, “Careful, man! She might stab you again!”

Still, they worshipped Michael.

But me? I was ignored or outright feared, given a wide berth in the halls, chosen last for group projects, and avoided in the girls’ restroom. Most people could barely make eye contact with me.

But Willoughby always did, offering me a friendly smile, too.

Granted, Willoughby had only lived in Boston for a few years. So for him, the stabbing had always been some crazy story he’d heard and not something he witnessed for himself like many of the others had. But still.

Willoughby looked over my shoulder while I pulled up a playlist on my phone, chose one of my favorite rap songs, and played it over the speaker system downstairs, cranking the volume up slowly until the base thumped at full blast. Everyone had already started to drink, and then some of them started to dance.

I hopped on the kitchen island, swiping the bottle of whiskey I’d stolen from Michael’s apartment off the counter and bringing it to my lap. With Willoughby standing next to me, I crossed my legs and waited for the music to draw you out of your room.

Less than two minutes later, you appeared, flustered and angry, your dark gaze frantically searching the crowd. When you spotted me, I cocked my head, shot you a devilish smirk, and lifted that bottle of whiskey to my lips. You gave me this stern look, Casey. It said, You better not.

But of course I fucking did.

The whiskey burned my throat going down, and I liked that. Didn’t even flinch.

You weaved through the kids in my kitchen. “What’s going on here?” you said over the music, gaze briefly dropping to my bare legs. You jabbed your thumb in Willoughby’s direction. “And who the hell is this?”

“My friend Willoughby. I asked him to bring his party to my house.” I patted Willoughby’s arm. “See what I mean? Cardigan.”

While Willoughby and I looked you over, you looked down at yourself—faded blue cable-knit cardigan, another recent purchase, definitely not Michael’s—then lifted your gaze back to mine. Your expression said, What’s that supposed to mean?

“You need to tell these kids to leave,” you told Willoughby.

“Hey, man. I just do what she tells me.”

“I’m telling you to make them leave.”

Willoughby shrugged. “Sorry. Can’t do that. We have a deal.”

“Elliot,” you said with a laugh, puffing your chest out, definitely losing control, “so help me God, if you don’t get these people out of here right now, I’m ringing your father.”

“Please do,” I said, making my voice smooth like glass. “I dare you.”

You drew back in surprise, finally understanding what my intentions were.

But just in case you doubted me, I added, “My dad needs to understand that you being here isn’t such a great idea. That you can’t handle it. That you can’t handle me.”