Page 51 of All These Beautiful Strangers

“What?” River asked, reaching for the carton of blueberries in Drew’s hands.

“I don’t eat GMOs,” Drew said. “Can you grab the organic ones for me? Please?”

River sighed. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

When she was gone, Drew picked up the People magazine next to the Star Enquirer and flipped through it casually.

“Another one bites the dust,” Drew said, clucking her tongue at some celebrity breakup. I didn’t see who it was—I was too busy trying to word the explanation calmly enough in my head so that she wouldn’t think I sounded crazy.

That photograph—the one of my mother on the cover—had been taken on a family vacation in St. Thomas when I was six. I knew this because I was the one who had taken that picture. My mother had put her hand up to block the shot because she had just woken up from a nap dozing in that beach chair, and I had startled her. I don’t know how the Star Enquirer got ahold of that picture, which family album they had raided, which family member had sold it to the highest bidder. But it wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

No, my father did not drive my mother off or kill her or whatever else the tabloids were saying. No, I didn’t want to talk about it.

But Drew didn’t ask. She didn’t give me a condescending smile or a pitying glance. She just placed the People magazine back in the rack, but this time over the Star Enquirer so the picture of my mother was completely covered, hidden from view, and went back to unloading the cart. That’s when I knew we would be best friends.

That was the closest I had ever come to talking to someone at Knollwood about my mother. I had wanted to keep that part of my life in the past, to move on. So, how did Yael know? How had I been so transparent?

“It’s Dalton, isn’t it?” Yael asked. “You’re totally dreading seeing him tonight.”

Dalton. In truth, I had forgotten all about him these last two days.

I stared back at Yael’s reflection. She was looking at me so earnestly—with so much concern. Maybe it would be nice to tell someone who wasn’t involved in any way in my family drama—someone who could just listen and offer a fresh perspective if I needed it. Maybe it would be nice not to be so alone in all of this. For a moment, I contemplated telling them everything. But then I realized, I would have to tell them everything. I would have to go back to the very beginning of all of it, which felt overwhelming. And what if—what if I did choose to trust them, and that came back to bite me in the ass, as it had in the past?

“Right,” I said after a moment. “It’s Dalton.”

“Don’t let him bum you out,” Drew said, coming over and giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Here, let me do your hair for you. I have an idea for an updo that would look killer on you. When Dalton sees you, he’ll forget all about that slut McKenna.”

“Sure,” I said, trying to give her a smile that I hoped she would think was genuine. “Thanks.”

String lights were draped overhead in the gymnasium and a live band was playing on the stage that the student council had set up. Stevie, Yael, and Drew were all out on the dance floor, gyrating in one big clump with most of the other students who had shown up to the dance, but I had made an excuse about needing something to drink half an hour ago and retreated to an empty table by myself. I’d been trying to be sociable and normal all night, but I was reaching my limit. After keeping up a steady stream of conversation at the dinner the school had catered for us on the front lawn, I’d done a solid hour of swaying and jumping up and down with my hands in the air with everyone else (which was no easy feat in four-inch Manolos). Now, I was contemplating my exit strategy even though it was still pretty early.

My phone vibrated and I pulled it out of my purse. To my surprise, I saw Greyson’s name come up on the screen with a text message.

Greyson: Nice Irish exit on Sunday.

His text made me smile. I typed back a quick reply.

Me: Sry I didn’t say goodbye.:/

Greyson: No worries. My mom filled me in. She’s worried about you, tho.

I bit my lip and put my phone down. I didn’t want to talk about how I felt or how worried Claire was. But then I remembered what Eugenia had said—how my mother had struggled with depression. If that were true, surely Claire would know. I picked up my phone and texted Greyson back.

Me: Did Claire ever say anything to you about my mom being depressed or having weird violent outbursts?

Greyson: No. Why? What’s up?

Me: My grandmother told me that my mom went through these weird moods and may have had some sort of chemical imbalance. Idk. Do you think that could be true?

Greyson: Idk.

“Who’s Greyson?”

I looked up to see Drew standing over me, slightly out of breath, a sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead.

“No one,” I said, and I lowered my phone beneath the table so she couldn’t see the screen. “Just an old friend.”

“A cute old friend?” Drew asked, raising an eyebrow at me.