Page 72 of The Pawn

"She's in the garden apple bobbing last I checked." Sasha motions towards the back door. "You should go check it out. People are getting wild."

"Thanks." Glancing around at the tables, I frown. "Have you seen my purse?"

"We put it down here." Tricia reaches under the sink and grabs my purse, a nondescript brown pleather thing among its designer brethren. "Someone said they saw a boy rifling through them, so we figured we'd shove them somewhere harder to get to."

"Weird. Well, it's not like they stole anything from me."

Sasha makes a slashing motion in the air. "It was probably some pervert looking to get his rocks off. A few of the other girls put a change of clothes in their bags for after the haunted house is over. I bet he was sniffing panties."

"Gross," Tricia shoots back.

Checking my bag, I find nothing missing, so I throw it over my shoulder and head out back to look for Chrissy. She was right earlier when she mentioned the fact that we don't get together often. While I don't always miss her gossiping ways, I do miss her simple, bubbly personality. Out of everyone here, she understands my loathing of the Elites more than most—though I've never really found out what she did to deserve their derision in the first place.

Sasha was right about the party out back. There's loud music playing in the garden that stretches from Rosalind Hall to Lovelace Hall. Students are everywhere, wearing all kinds of costumes and masks, drinking things out of Solo cups that may or may not be alcoholic.

Mrs. Reynolds is somewhere, supposedly looking over the students with a small staff, but no one seems worried they'll be caught with any contraband. This is their playground, after all, and they're the rich kids who do what they want with it. They're fearless in a way that's foreign to me. The only comfort I have to make up for our differences in privilege is the fact that I have the power to take down any one of them who crosses the line—if not forever, then at least for long enough to make things uncomfortable.

It's easy enough to spot the apple bobbing basin in the middle of the garden courtyard. But there's a winding maze of foliage between here and there. The night air is cool and relaxing, so I take my time heading in that direction, not wanting to rush things. It smells like warm apple cider and fallen oak leaves out here, a hint of winter's coming cold on the air.

Making my way over to the apple bobbing area, I scan the figures around me for Chrissy. It's dark here, the path to the basin lit with just a few little UV lamps shoved into the ground. I don't see any sign of her—all the bubbly blonde heads I spot belong to others. For a moment, I consider looking for her further down in the garden, but a quick peek into the tall hedges reveals that the only things going on in the dark corners involve two people, not three. So I decide to wait for her here.

Three girls are gathered on one side of the basin, their hair tied into ponytails, hands behind their backs. A boy I don't recognize—he must be one of the senior year boys—has his phone in his hand, the stopwatch app out, three fingers in the air.

"One... two... go!"

The girls bend at the waist and shove their faces into the cool water, mouths open to try to grab the floating apples. Someone to my left makes a crude comment about the girl in the middle's gag reflex; he gets an "accidental" elbow to the waist for that and finds somewhere else to stand in the crowd. More and more students are gathering around the wide basin, which is at least ten feet across, watching the girls as they pull apples out one by one. The first to get five and drop them in the bucket by her feet will win—something. Bragging rights, maybe, or something else. It's unclear.

I'm up on my tip toes, watching as the two girls on either end fight their way to the fifth and final apple, when I smell something distinctive. Warmth, freshly baked goods, a kitchen full of light and laughter, sharp cinnamon. It's a scent I should associate with apple pie or my childhood home, but I know that's not what's coming up on the path behind me. Whirling around, I look for Cole.

I spot Holly first, headed my way.

Then someone yanks my purse off my shoulder and throws it to the ground. Before I can find the culprit, he's gone, disappearing into the crowd. Meanwhile all my things have have spilled out of the purse and are getting stepped on by the careless crowd. Diving for them, I grab my student ID first and hunt for my wallet, which had forty bucks in it from my last paycheck—money I can't afford to spare.

"Here, I'll help." Holly is by my side in an instant, hands reaching out and nabbing my things before they get broken or destroyed. "I swear all these kids are too tipsy to pay attention to where they're walking."

"Thanks. And yeah, they are."

"I was just coming out to tell you what a great job—"

She breaks off suddenly, staring at something in her hand. Cradling my phone and its cracked case in my hands, I look over at her, wondering what she was about to say.

Then I freeze.

In her grip, lit by the tiny lamps all over us, is a credit card with her name on it: Holly Schneider. It's one I recognize very well—because it paid for my recent highlights and makeup.

Based on the look of confusion on Holly's face, she doesn't recognize it at all. Of course she doesn't; she never even opened the application.

But slowly, second by second, she gets it. Understanding dawns.

And she turns to look at me.

Chapter 38

"Ican explain." Can I? No, I can't, not properly. Another lie, then. "It was..."

But I trail off in the middle of the sentence, because she's looking at me, everything she's feeling on her face.

When I imagined this moment, the moment I'll be exposed to her, it went a dozen different ways. Maybe Cole told her about my brother; maybe he explained I lied about my name. Or Tanner told her, or Blake, maybe even Lukas if he knew about it.

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