Limerence: Chapter 6

I don’t realize how consumed I’ve been by Mickey’s death until my mother calls Sunday night. Already in bed, I cringe when her name flashes across the screen and consider letting it go straight to voicemail, but I know she’ll just keep calling.

“Mom. Hey.”

There’s an exasperated sigh on the other end. “Well, look who finally picked up. I’ve tried calling you three times this week.” Her southern twang is particularly potent tonight – a sign that she’s less than happy with me.

“Yeah, sorry about that. The new semester has been really hectic.”

“You’re a thousand miles away from me, and I can’t even get a hold of you. How do you think that makes me feel, Poppy?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. She’s not even attempting to warm up before she pulls the guilt-trip card. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ve just had a lot going on. I had to give another scholarship presentation and –”

“A presentation? That’s why you’ve been missing my calls?”

“And someone died recently –”

“Someone died?” Surprise coats her voice. “Who died?”

“One of my classmates,” I explain. “He committed suicide two weeks ago. It’s been…hard.”

“Suicide? That’s awful.”

“Yeah, I –”

“Let’s not talk about this,” she sighs. “It’ll just make me sad, and I just got off back-to-back twelves.”

The dismissal stings but I grit my teeth and do as she requests. “Sounds like you’re working a lot of long hours. Rick still hasn’t found a job?”

The topic of Rick is always a landmine with Mom. I’m not sure why I keep stepping on it.

“Your stepfather –” I cringe at that word. “Does a lot for us.”

Incorrect. Rick has only ever done one thing for me, and it’s dislike my presence enough to convince Mom that letting me attend Lionswood was the right choice.

“And he is working,” she continues, “He’s helping a few buddies with contract work. Fixing up some old bikes. It’s under the table stuff.”

I roll my eyes. Rick hates an eight-hour workday with a stable income almost as much as he hates the government.

“Good for him,” I say. Only a little sarcasm drips through.

“So, school is going okay? You’re keeping up with your classes?”

“Oh, yeah. Senior year is a breeze. Just coasting till college applications go through,” I lie.

“That’s great, honey,” she replies.

It’s easier to lie.

Since the day I left for Lionswood, it feels like Mom’s been waiting for the day I return, tail tucked between my legs, as the failure who didn’t have the chops to make it out of Mobile.

“Speaking of college applications,” I start, already dreading the direction of this conversation. “I’ll need to submit those soon. Some of them – well, basically, all of them – cost money. I don’t know if there’s anyway you could…”

Her tone sharpens the way it always does when money comes up. “How much?”

I fidget with my navy comforter. “Like…fifty bucks each. Maybe a hundred, depending on the school.”

Her exhale is long and drawn out. “And that fussy private school of yours doesn’t cover these application fees? I mean, Poppy, this sounds ridiculous.”

“I know, but I don’t need that much. Only enough for Pratt and maybe one or two backups. A hundred-and-fifty should be –”

“A hundred-and-fifty dollars?” She scoffs softly. “Jesus, Poppy. Didn’t I tell you I just got off back-to-back twelves? We barely made rent this month, and you’re here asking me to pull a hundred bucks out of the couch cushions or somethin’. I’m not sure why you’d need so much if you’re sure you’re gonna get into that fancy art school next year.”

Guilt lays like a dumbbell on my chest. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry, Mom.” And then, because I’m still desperate, I ask something I know I will regret. “You said Rick is making some extra cash. I don’t know if he might be able to loan me –”

“I’m not asking Rick to pay for my daughter’s application fees,” she huffs like this is the most ridiculous idea she’s ever heard. “Honey, I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to come up with something else.”

Because Rick is only my step-dad when Mom needs to establish his authority over me. Not when I actually need him.

But I’m too tired to open that can of worms with her right now.

“Yeah, no. I get it. I’m sure I can figure something out. I just thought I’d ask,” I say, “Anyway…I’ve got some studying to do, but I’ll see you soon. For the holidays.”

We say our goodbyes, and I let out a massive sigh, flopping onto the comforter.

I am not looking forward to the holidays.

Phone conversations with mom are exhausting enough, but there’s no escape when we’re stuck in the trailer together. It’s like walking through a minefield, knowing one misstep might explode into a weeks-long pity party with blowback from Rick.

And as I’m mulling over the best way to tackle a holiday at home, I catch movement from the corner of my eye.

Someone has slid a piece of paper under my door.

I cross the small dorm room in a few strides, expecting to find a notice from the girls’ dorm advisor about sharpening my pencils too loudly or something, but it’s not.

It’s definitely not.

Confusion sparks as I blink down at the cream-colored invitation in my hands. I re-read it once, then twice, to make sure this is what I think it is – but the words are right there in handwritten black calligraphy:

You are formally invited to an Autumn Bash

Hosted by Adrian Ellis

Friday, October 3rd

Details to Follow

This must be a mistake.

Or a prank.

Four years at Lionswood Prep and I have never been invited to a student party – and certainly not one of Adrian’s, whose invitations might as well be as exclusive as dinner at the White House.

And legendary too.

People will talk about who got black out drunk and streaked naked across campus or who fucked who on October 3rd for the rest of the year.

I’m almost positive the party was supposed to take place a week ago, but in light of Mickey’s death, Adrian rescheduled.

I stare down at the invitation like it’ll start spilling its secrets to me – or maybe just how it ended up under my door.

In light of recent events, the invitation could be a gateway to an in-person confrontation. Adrian’s way of cornering me outside of class about going to the cops.

Or an old-fashioned mistake. Maybe the freshman tasked with delivering these forgot to double-check dorm numbers, and mixed mine up with someone else’s.

I’m not jumping for joy about either of these explanations.

Any other year and I would be. I’d use this happy accident to shirk the invisibility cloak that’s covered me for the past four years…but this is not the time to test my luck with Adrian Ellis.

Absolutely not.

I fling the invitation on my desk just as an idea nudges its way into my head.

Well, maybe I won’t use the invitation to get into the party, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be of use to me.

***

I make my move after history class.

To no surprise, Adrian’s re-scheduled party is about all anyone wants to talk about, the lucky students brandishing their invites like golden tickets.

Which leaves the unlucky ones to grapple with the fact that they didn’t make Adrian’s short list. Most of them quietly stomach their disappointment with a few sour looks, but others are more vocal.

Freddy Rook falls into the latter category.

He sits in front of me in history, flanked by two other lacrosse teammates, so I get a front-row seat to his bitterness.

“No way Locke got one, and I didn’t,” he grumbles to his friends. “Adrian and I are close.”

“Well, Locke did used to be on the swim team,” Connor Gibbs says, nursing an icepack to the back of his head. “And you know Adrian always takes care of his team.”

Connor’s had at least two concussions on the field this year already, but another hospital visit clearly isn’t going to keep him from Adrian’s party.

“I’m, like, the only lacrosse player who didn’t get one,” Freddy mutters. “It’s bullshit.”

After the bell rings, I hang back and follow Freddy to his top locker in Harkin hall. It’s certainly one of the more isolated parts of the school. Tall, half-moon windows framed in iron overlook the quad, and despite every single one of my footsteps echoing off the worn stone floors, Freddy doesn’t seem to hear my approach.

“Freddy?”

He doesn’t hear me, so I have to reach out and tap one of his letterman jacket-covered shoulders. He’s more stocky than tall, and as far as I know, the only lacrosse player to wear his letterman outside of game days.

He closes the locker door and stares down at me, thick eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

I think the look on his face is supposed to intimidate me, but after the unsettling weight of Adrian’s empty gaze, Freddy’s doesn’t even come close.

Plus, Freddy is gorgeous.

His shaved head and the ocean blue eyes that pop against his brown skin have made him popular amongst the female population – and now that I’m within spitting distance, I can see why.

“I know you didn’t get an invitation to Adrian Ellis’ party,” I blurt out. Not my smoothest introduction, by any means.

“And why’s that your business?” He crosses his arms, his tree trunk-sized biceps straining against the jacket.

I fidget with the sleeve of my backpack. “Because I can help with that,” I say. “I have an invitation. It’s yours if you want it.”

The hostility drains from his demeanor instantly, his eyes widening. “Wait. You have an invitation to Adrian’s party?” I already know that you does not refer to you as in Poppy Davis – but you as in nameless, invisible girl.

“I do.”

It’s currently sitting in my backpack, jammed between a chemistry textbook and some required reading for English.

Freddy gives me a once-over. “You new or something?”

It takes some effort to avoid rolling my eyes. “No, I’m not new. I’m a senior too. We have history together…all four years, actually.”

He blinks at me. “Oh.”

“So…the invitation. Are you interested?” Just to prove I’m not lying, I swing my backpack around and dig the card out.

It feels almost reassuring to show it to someone else. If Freddy’s able to see the same scripted calligraphy I can, at least I can be sure I haven’t accidentally hallucinated an empty index card into a party invitation.

His jaw drops. “Shit. You’ve really got one. I’m definitely interested.”

“Good. How much are you willing to pay for it?”

Freddy curses under his breath and sighs. “Oh, well, the thing is…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I can’t pay you. At least, not with money. I went way over my credit card limit last month, so my dad’s cutting me off till I learn my lesson.”

I shrug and drop the card back into my backpack. “I understand. I can find someone el –”

“No.” A large hand wraps around my wrist, desperation swimming in his eyes. “I want the invitation. I can trade you for it.”

“Trade what?”

He nods to my bookbag; the edges frayed and one of the straps taped together. “It looks like you could use a new backpack. My mom’s an executive at Burberry. One call and I could replace that for you.”

I weigh his offer.

I had planned to exchange the invitation for cash, something I could stuff into my savings. Use for college applications. A designer backpack is impractical, I know that.

But the thought of being able to walk through these halls with something that didn’t come from a clearance rack…

“Tell you what,” I counter, “You can have the invite for the bag and two hundred bucks.”

He shakes his head. “I just told you. I don’t have any money. I’m broke till my dad decides otherwise.”

Fortunately, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that Lionswood kids have a different definition of “broke” than the rest of the world.

To them, broke’s a two-thousand dollar allowance each month. A credit card with an actual limit on it. A five-year wait till their trust fund comes in.

Which is why I have no problem raising one eyebrow and saying, “Well, if you’re that broke, I guess I’ll just have to go see –”

“Okay, okay, fine. I’ll take it. You wore me down.” Freddy slumps against his locker, defeated, and pulls out his wallet.

***

True to his word, I’m the proud owner of a stunning Burberry backpack and two hundred more dollars before the day is over.

It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned.

I can’t stop skimming my fingers over the checkered canvas material. This bag retails for two-grand, which, in the grand scheme of things, means nothing to kids who drop that on Friday night dinners.

But it means something to me.

This bag is the first thing in four years that’s put me on equal footing with my classmates. The first thing in four years I’ll be able to wear with pride here.

As I admire the backpack strung over my desk chair, there’s some muffled rustling from the hall that makes my ears perk up.

I glance toward the door and my stomach drops straight to the hardwood when I see what’s been slid past the threshold.

In a millisecond, I’ve crossed the cramped room and flung the door open – but the hallway is empty. The messenger is gone.

My jaw ticks as I turn back to my dorm room floor, an identical cream-colored invitation lying in wait.

What the fuck?

Sure enough, when I pick it up, it’s the same calligraphy promising details for Adrian’s Autumn Bash.

But then I turn it over, and the blood drains from my face.

I look forward to seeing you, Poppy

Adrian