Page 309 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

I stare at them for long seconds, minutes even, my brain scrambling to make sense of such an incongruous object. What the fuck is a men’s sized pair of sneakers doing tucked behind Marigold’s shrubs? My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I abandon idle speculation in favor of creeping around the side of the house.

I doubt Marigold’s the type of woman to stare dreamily out of her window at night, but I keep to the shadows as much as I can, anyway, only breaking into a run when I’m obscured by some of the pine trees lining the long drive down to her gates.

Addy left her headlamps on. They illuminate me when I’m a few yards away from the gate. When I press the key fob, I’m entirely convinced that the gates won’t open, that Marigold realized I’ve snuck out, and somehow locked them from inside her house.

But they do open for me.

Addy’s passenger door unlocks with a quietsnickwhen I get close. I fall into her seat with a sigh, my backpack bundled against my stomach.

I glance over at her with a smile, and then do a double-take.

“Holy crap, you look fucking stunning,” I blurt out.

Addison gives me a faint smile. “Thanks, lesbo.” Then she’s reversing, her attention on the rearview mirror.

I feel dirty and ruffled and all kinds of unsophisticated sitting beside her in this cute little sports car while she smells of strawberries and cream and I reek of snickerdoodles and despair.

Addy’s dashboard clock mocks me with its massive digits.

“It’s midnight,” I say quietly. “Should we even?—”

“What does your hair do when it’s wet?” Addy cuts in.

I stare at her. “Uh…?”

“Does it curl, frizz, what?”

“It curls. Like…a lot.”

“Good, because there won’t be time to straighten it.”

“I don’t think there’s any time for?—”

“Shut up so I can drive.”

I sink back in my seat, grinning like an idiot.

I’m going to a party. It almost feels like it’s too soon, but fuck it…

I’m going to a party, and I’ll be fucked if I don’t try and enjoy it even a little.

The inside of Addy’s house is as neat and contemporary as the exterior. Since I wouldn’t dare tell her that I was sucking face with Briar in her backyard, I do my best to ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ most convincingly when we pull up outside her duplex.

“Come on,” Addy says, hopping out of her car. “Lots to do, not nearly enough time to do it in.”

I follow her inside, but I stall in the living room.

There are boxes everywhere. The furniture’s been wrapped in plastic. The walls have faint outlines where framed photos or portraits used to hang, the bare nails jutting out like a child’s desiccated fingers.

“Addy?”

But she waves at me and trots up a pair of carpeted stairs without answering.

The house feels empty—where are her parents? But as soon as I step inside her room, the question doesn’t seem that important anymore. Most of the room is taken up by a baremattress, the rest by furniture that looks ready to be loaded into the back of a loading van.

She’s busy packing out her makeup right over the sheet of plastic covering her dressing table, almost as if she doesn’t see it.

“Addy.”

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