Beware That Girl (11 page)

Johnny shrugged and leaned into me. He smelled like freshly ground coffee. “Is that so? What do I look like to you?”

“Like trouble,” I said under my breath. I flounced off with a pounding heart and as much righteous indignation as I could muster. Even Rodarte knockoffs give good flounce.

There had to be fifty kids dancing, drinking and writhing on this level. Or maybe it was seventy, or a hundred. I sucked at judging that kind of thing. I finally spied Olivia cornered by a couple of publics. Johnny’s friends? It took me at least twenty minutes and a dance with Taylor Ward from St. Joseph before I could get close to her. Claire was working it hard on the dance floor with what looked to be another St. Joseph boy. I remembered that Morgan had teased her about her crush being there. I gave her a little congrats hug and kept trying to make it over to the corner. A guy was all over Olivia, but it looked like she was more than holding her own.

“Back off, sweetie—that was another time and another me.” She was laughing at him.

That’s my girl.

“There you are! God, Olivia, we are
so
late. Gotta go.”

“Thank you,” she mouthed.

I grabbed her arm and pulled her with me all the way up the stairs and through the throng. “Boys are ignorant and pathetic,” she yelled.

“I hear ya!” I yelled back.

We saluted the Wonders as we weaved our way to the front door. Johnny caught my eye just as we got to the vestibule. He raised his beer and nodded.

“Wait a minute! Seriously cute. Who is that?” shouted Olivia.

“Nobody,” I said.

Who the hell names their kid Johnny?

Olivia and Kate walked arm in arm to school. They were going to meet the other Wonders in the hall outside the Waverly boardroom. The Wonders had been instructed to wear their dress uniforms and wait for Mark Redkin to parade them around in front of the board members.

Olivia was still talking about the party on the way. “All I’m saying is he was gorgeous and he didn’t take his eyes off you.”

Kate hip-checked her. “Not interested. I won’t go near that kind of distraction. Not part of
the master plan.
My eye is only on the prize.”

“Yale?”

Kate nodded. “Yale, full ride. It’s always about Yale, Olivia.”

Olivia was in awe of Kate’s single-minded determination, and a bit envious of it. She intended to go to Yale too, but given her legacy status, her mother’s family history and her marks, she just assumed that barring a few hiccups, it was—like everything—pretty much a done deal.

What would it be like to
want
something so much?

Serena, Morgan and Claire were already stationed at their posts.

“Mr. Redkin popped out a second ago,” said Serena, who, truth be told, looked a little buzzed. “Same drill as what we went through yesterday, except the intro spiels start with Claire, then Morgan, then me. We linger a bit longer with our Waverly royalty, Olivia, and then end with Kate’s bit.”

And that’s how it went. Waverly’s boardroom was almost medieval in its decor. The ornately carved school heraldry was meant to awe and intimidate. No one in the room seemed intimidated. Olivia had at least a passing familiarity with each of the board members—and more than that with Mrs. Pearson, who was a managing partner at her father’s firm. These were her people. But her roommate probably had years of presenting to—and making her case in front of—rooms like this. Kate came off as compelling and sincerely enthusiastic. Again, Olivia’s admiration rose. She had selected well.

When Kate finished, Mr. Redkin stood beside her to explain that the girls would appear at the Winterfest Gala and the various fundraising dinners, each hosting her own table, and that they would be the “face” of Waverly on all the school’s online and paper promotional materials. He had that room.

But far more important, he had Olivia.

It caught her by surprise, but it was real. She knew this because as he delivered his spiel on the Wonders, Mark kept
almost
touching Kate. It was so natural, as if it were part of the presentation. Not remarkable in any way, really. What
was
remarkable was how much it bothered her. It was a straight-up feeling, and surprisingly intense.

Jealousy.

It forced Olivia to reevaluate, reappraise,
watch.
She paid close attention now. Mark Redkin was magnificent throughout the rest of his presentation. Confident and commanding, but not in love with the sound of his own voice like some of the others. Quick to smile but always on point. And so, so appealing. Mark bent the entire board to his will. Every one of his items was approved. By the time he was finished, Olivia was sure. Olivia
wanted.

As soon as they were all excused, she caught his attention. “Mark, a word?”

“Of course.” He drew her aside in the hallway. “That went beautifully, thank you. You were wonderful, Olivia.”

You were wonderful.
She wanted to melt into him against the wall.

“Olivia?”

His lashes were dark, unusual for a blond man. He was inches away from her. No scent of cologne, no aftershave. Mark Redkin just smelled like himself—like a man was supposed to—and it was…intoxicating. Olivia searched for her breath.

“My father called just before we came. You can go back in and tell everyone that he’s secured the new Whitney for the Winterfest Gala. I think Mrs. Sabre from the museum will call you about it tomorrow.”

He smiled at her. Of course he did. But as he did so, Mark Redkin locked on to Olivia as if he had never seen her before, not really, and now that he did, no one else mattered.
Men
did things like that. Men like Mark Redkin.

“That’s wonderful, Olivia. Let’s talk about it soon.”

As he thanked her, Mark grazed her arm. It was a nothing gesture, but one that electrified her, changed her.

“Yes, let’s.” Olivia didn’t allow herself to smile until she turned to walk away.

I’ve been itching since Monday, the kind of itch you can’t get at because it’s burrowed deep under your skin. Something was up.

Olivia was at her psychiatrist’s. Maybe I should go too.

Yeah, right.

There’s not a shrink on the planet I can’t scam. I’ve been to psychoanalysts, psychotherapists, social workers and Dudley Do-Rights of all shapes and stripes. The system vomits them on you. I can feign shock, horror, despair and grief, all served up with a cup of crocodile tears. I cough up whatever’s appropriate to the scenario, and I don’t trust any of them. Stay sharp. Stay hard. Stay smart. I’d have been buried alive in foster care had I not managed them at every single turn. Scholarships, education, boarding schools, rich-kid environments—I knew even then that was the only way through. My mom hammered it into me: “You keep your eye on the prize, Katie O’Brien.”

She didn’t, but I will.

No distractions allowed. Especially not the bakery boy. Claudette let me know that he’d been trolling around for my contact info. I told her that if she or any of her crew gave it out, I’d dismember them. We laughed, of course, but Claudette is just a little afraid of me. As she should be.

God, he was cute, though. Exactly my type. I didn’t even know I had a type until I saw him with that stupid beer in his hand.
Stop!
No one touches me. Not head, heart or body—not in
that
way. No one.

Which reminded me, Redkin had
almost
touched me a thousand times at the board meeting. But he drew back like he knew not to. Quick study? Too quick? Way too quick.

I was making too much of it. I get like that sometimes. It’s what comes from being on hyper high alert. I had to get out of my head, so I fired up my laptop. I’d promised to help Olivia with AP History when she got back.

At some point, Anka walked into my room. She does that. Not to Olivia, just to me. I don’t mind. I kind of like it. She spied me on the bed with the laptop and tsked as she flicked on the overhead light.

“Kate, no goot! You are blinding your eyes.”

She placed an unasked-for mug of green tea on the night table. Did I thank her? I was still in the dark, sliding back to when my father found us. Back to when he grabbed me, reeking of rye and Coke and Camels. Back to when he was convincing me that I was like him. Had he already won?

I was worse than him.

“You’re sure as hell not like your simpering mother. Uh-uh. Pulling a fast one on a nun. You’re all me, sweet cheeks. Daddy’s little con. Daddy’s little liar. Admit it, Katie.”

“No.”

But it was true. WAS. But no longer, no sir. From here on in, I was going to be good.

I tried to remember the Act of Contrition, but the prayer got tangled up in my head right after the “O my God, I am heartily sorry” part.

Okay, okay, forget that one.

Our Father, who art in heaven…

I would march right in on Monday morning and tell Sister Rose the whole thing. Come clean.

Hallowed be thy name…

About all of it.

Thy kingdom come…

Daddy didn’t move.

He was waiting.

I didn’t move.

I knew better.

Thy will be done…

There’d be major big-time penance.

Something, daily bread something…

That’s okay. I deserved penance. I could take it. But Sister would hate me. I couldn’t take that.

And forgive us our trespasses…

No, no, she wouldn’t.

As we forgive those who trespass against us…

Nuns take, like, a vow or something about that stuff.

And lead us not into temptation…

It’s got to do with lost sheep or something.

But deliver us from evil. And I would never, ever lie again. Amen.

“Admit it, Katie.” He clutched my hair tighter.

Suddenly I was indestructible. It was like I was all powered on and lit up from the inside.

“You’re Daddy’s little con. Girl, you are your father’s daughter.”

I am not! That would be a lie.

“Admit it. Admit you’re me through and through.” My father checked his watch. “I’ll tell ya what, sweetie—say it and I’m outta here. Gone. No picnic. I won’t screw up the little party you got going on. There’s an oil rig with my name on it in Alberta, and my Greyhound could leave at nine thirty. But give me that before I go, give me that one little thing.”

Gone? He’d really go? Just like that?

He let go of my hair, turned me toward him and crouched right down. “Katie, I gotta know I’m leaving a piece of me behind and I’m off.”

My father’s eyes were tearing up. He’d done that kind of thing before.

Mom started crying for real, though. Quietly. You wouldn’t even know if you didn’t know.

He put his hands on my shoulders, really gently. “Katie girl, you’re just like me, aren’t ya?”

I looked straight into his wet eyes.

Just…one…more…time.

“Yes, Daddy. I’m just like you.”

—

Did I lie then or was it the truth? Did he break me or make me? I don’t know. All I know is that night, my father got on the Greyhound.

I sold my soul for a bus ticket.