Page 59 of The Pawn

I'm just glad that they've mostly left me alone ever since Georgia gave up on getting Tanner back and decided to go all-in on her new beau Ferdinand Von Hassell, also known as Hass, heir to a San Francisco real estate fortune. She seems to have decided to pretend as if our feud never existed—new boyfriend, new enemies.

I turn towards Holly to answer her question. "I've recruited four girls so far. I'm working on a fifth, but I might need your help with that."

"Oh?" She cocks her head to the side. "Sasha has her five. I was expecting you to have yours as well by now."

Wincing a little at her rebuke, I lick my lips and tentatively try to explain. "The thing is, I wanted someone really good at special effects makeup on our team. And I found someone. But she doesn't live in Rosalind Hall."

The girls perk up at this. Piper asks, "Do you mean Mariana Marks?"

Sasha gushes, "She does thebestfake wounds. They're all over her Instagram."

"Exactly!" Turning to Holly, I observe, "She'd be absolutely perfect for my scare team. I have a fallback girl if she doesn't say yes, of course, but I was hoping maybe you could talk to her. Aren't you two friends?"

"We are," she concedes. "I can get her to meet with you in our room today after classes, and you can try to recruit her to your team. Shewouldbe a great asset. Well done, Brenna."

It's a relief to have Holly approve of my choice. She's been tense about this party, even more than the Blind Ball at the end of the semester, which is the traditional big affair every year. I chalked the tenseness up to the fact that she's living in her sister's shadow, but after overhearing a few of her phone conversations when the music in my bluetooth earbuds wasn't loud enough to block them out, I've realized that she's been fighting with Cole.

If Fate were to smile on me and turn his girlfriend against him, it would be the best thing possible.

Especially now that enough time has passed this semester that I'm running low on fancy makeup and fresh highlights. I'm due for another shopping trip to town, but this time I don't have Georgia's credit card to sponsor me—a card she's complained was canceled after her father found the charges I wracked up on it and didn't buy her excuse that it wasn't her who spent that money.

I need to find another way to keep up my new looks, fast.

Or I won't be a member of the inner circle for much longer.

* * *

It's not something I go looking for.

I don't even have to move anything on top of her desk.

I hurried back to our room after class, so I could have time to reapply my makeup before Mariana shows up, and now I'm standing in front of Holly's desk, staring at her mail. Unlike me, she gets a lot of it, most junk.

This particular envelope is a credit card offer.

Heart pounding, telling myself I'm being a bad person—and an idiot on top of it—I reach out and snag the envelope. It trembles in my fingers as I run them across it, feeling for the telltale shape inside.

There's a card already in it. One no doubt tied to whatever bank accounts she shares with her parents. It's not hard to open up the envelope and discover the offer inside, complete with instructions on how to instantly activate it.

I feel sick just looking at it, but I can't seem to put it down—and I don't want to get caught with it in my hands. So I hurry to the bathroom, shut the door, and flip on the overhead fan just in case Holly comes home early.

This is something I shouldn't do. The sort of line that can't be crossed. It was one thing to pick up Georgia's credit card off the floor and get revenge for her catty comments by charging a few things to her account. Holly has been so nice to me; she's done nothing to deserve this.

But at the same time, it's not like it'll hurt her. She can just call and cancel the card when the first bill comes in. Her parents have the money and then some. They won't go into financial ruin—not like my mom, who's working two part-time jobs a week and barely has time to speak to me on the phone anymore. Our calls are full of long, pregnant silences as she closes her tired eyes and rests for the brief moments she gets.

She doesn't even have a credit card. With her lack of credit and employment history, she can't get one—and wouldn't be able to pay more than the minimums if she did have one.

Hollydidtell me to get new makeup. She's complimented me on how much nicer my skin looks: refreshed, glowing, without dry spots and clogged pores from the cheap stuff I was using. She raved about my makeover. It's like she wanted to pay for it.

I know what I'm doing is wrong. I'm not even supposed to know the last four digits of Holly's social security number. I just saw them in the records office when I was fetching something for Mrs. Reynolds and remembered them because they're the same as the birthday I used to share with Silas: 1108.

There's something poetic about that, almost like it's fate.

I could make a thousand excuses.

The truth is that I want to have a life like those other girls, carefree and beautiful, with boys who want me, who fight over me. I've had a taste for it and I can't go back. It fills a hollow space inside me I didn't even know existed until I saw my reflection in the mirror of that salon.

So I pull my cell phone out of my pocket, dial the number on the card, push the right digits into my keypad, and listen to the robotic voice congratulate Holly on her new card, complete with a two thousand dollar limit.

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