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But she lays it anyway.

Chapter 19

Tress

Felicity is not catching on quickly.

She needs a minute after I put down the second row of bricks, so I go upstairs, listening again at the door for noises in the kitchen. There aren’t any, and when I open it even the couple from the corner is gone. The music is still on, the single speaker belting out a tune for no one and nothing. The running hum of the party is gone, too. I’m tense, listening, poised like I’ve seen the cat do when he doesn’t like something he hears.

Or doesn’t hear.

Then it comes, a wall of sound—laughter, actually—rolling from the entrance hall. I relax, square my shoulders, flick some wet mortar off my hands, and pull my hood back up before following the sound. The party isn’t over; it’s just relocated. Hugh is holding court at the top of the staircase, admirers fanned out across the steps below him as he holds a phone up to capture . . . Ribbit?

“What the fuck?” I whisper to myself, slipping behind a group of freshmen who weren’t lucky enough to score a spot on the steps. They’ve got their phones out, too, and Ribbit is neatly squared in their sights.

“Now,” Hugh says loudly, positioning his chair—a ridiculously overstuffed thing someone must have pulled from in front of the fireplace—so that he’s at an angle to Ribbit, whose chair is smaller. He sways in it, the legs wobbling with his attempts to sit straight.

“Let’s get a volunteer from the audience,” Hugh says.

“What’s going on?” I ask, tugging on a girl’s elbow.

She half shrugs, eyes red-rimmed and fever spots on her cheeks. “Dunno. They’re doing, like, a talk show kind of thing, I guess? This guy, I swear, it doesn’t even matter what you ask him, he answers it. It’s hilarious.”

Oh, shit. I’ve seen this before. Get one drink in Ribbit and he’ll do anything for you. Get two and he’ll answer anything you ask him with total, absolute, 100 percent honesty. No filter. No holds barred.

“A volunteer?” Hugh says again, and a girl stands, her arms pinwheeling wildly around her when she almost loses her balance on the stairs. It’s Maddie Anho, the principal’s daughter. Hugh gets up and comes down to her, reaching out for her fingertips and leading her the rest of the way like they’re on the Oscars or something.

Maddie faces Ribbit at the top of the stairs, her body outlined by the massive clock. The pendulum is swinging, flashing on either side of her as it does, playing peekaboo with the crowd. Those guys must have managed to fix it. It chimes quietly, an abbreviated song for the quarter hour. I rise on tiptoes, squinting to get a good look.

“Well, they kind of fixed it,” I say to myself.

“Go ahead, ask him anything,” Hugh encourages Maddie.

“Huh?” the girl next to me asks, her jaws chewing away on a wad of gum. Underneath the peppermint, I can smell the faint stench of puke.

“The clock,” I tell her, my eyes following the smaller hand as it slides upward from the large, embossed number three. “It’s running backward.” It goes on like that for a full minute, then seems to change its mind and run forward again.

“Scale of one to five, how hot am I?” Maddie asks Ribbit, posing with her hands on her hips for optimum illustration of her curves and the princess costume she’s wearing.

More phones come out.

Ribbit doesn’t seem impressed. He holds his hand out flat, then wiggles it. Maddie’s face falls, and everyone bursts out laughing. I relax a little; at least it’s directed at her and not him.

“I mean, I’d bang you,” Ribbit says quickly. “But you’re not really my type. Your mom, however . . . I would totally do your mom.”

Everyone dies. Almost literally. A kid sitting next to my feet is laughing so hard that he chokes, a spurt of vomit coming out one side of his mouth as he collapses, still giggling as he passes out, warm and heavy against my shins.

“Oh my God.” The girl next to me turns to her friend. “Did you get that? He just said he wants to bang the principal.”

The other freshman nods, her focus still tight on her phone, her arm high above the crowd as she zooms in on Ribbit’s face. She pulls up Instagram and starts a new story, using hashtags #HonestUsher and #TrueLoser. I’m about to stop her, my hand frozen in midair, when Ribbit adds:

“I’d bang the history teacher, too.”

The noise rises again, loud with fresh laughter. Everyone is here. Everyone is invested. No one is looking for Felicity Turnado.

I turn, and go back down to the basement.

Chapter 20