Page 7 of Nobody in Particular

I let out a laugh, thinking back to the conversation I had with Princess Rosemary at Molly’s party. She’s far from the meanest person I’ve ever met, but she wasn’t exactly warm, either.

I’m still not sure what I think about our interaction at the party. On the one hand, it was the first time that day I did anything except smile and answer questions politely and panic that I was making ashitty first impression. On the other, I think Rosemary might have just triggered my fight-or-flight response, which is definitely not the same thing as coming out of my shell.

So, what was that all about? Was it my gut instinct recognizing her as the same sort of bully that terrorized me last year? That’s sort of how Maddison and her gang functioned, after all. They’d make little comments that sounded friendly and innocent, like asking my opinion on something, or complimenting my appearance. But then if I took them at face value and answered normally, she and her friends would burst out laughing, like it was hilarious I could’ve thought they were being nice to me. The only safe way to reply to those girls was silence, or coldness. They couldn’t laugh at that. On the other hand, it made me look like a nasty person to anyone in earshot. I could never win, and they wanted it that way.

But that was last year, and there was no group of girls laughing at me at Molly’s party. So, I have to give Rosemary the benefit of the doubt for now, right? Just because she’s got a prickly sense of humor doesn’t necessarily mean I’ve met my new future-bully. I hope not, anyway.

Meanwhile, Molly has shifted. Her jaw and fists seem to be competing over which can clench the tightest. Her fists are winning, for the record.

I noticed the same tense body language when Molly spoke to Rosemary that day. So, while we’re talking about her, I decide to ask Molly the question that’s been bugging me since her party. “Hey, um, when we were at your house, people kept asking you about Rosemary.”

She nods and starts rolling her shoulders, stretching her neck as she does.

“It sort of sounded like everyone thinks you’re friends,” I say. “Like, good ones. But I don’t get that vibe from you.”

Molly pretends to look shocked. “Youdon’t?”

“I know, don’t freak out, I’m justsuperobservant,” I say dryly. I’m smiling at the joke, but also with relief. If Rose does turn out to be a piece of work, I’ll want to stay out of her way, which might be kind of tough if she’s best friends with my only friend.

“Yeah. It’s a long story. Rose and I were best friends, but now we’re… I don’t know.”

“Did something happen?” I ask. “Or is she just, like, a shitty person?”

I figure even as I’m asking it that it might be too personal, and Molly proves me right by shaking her head. “Yeah, look, some stuff happened, but it’s… a lot. I’ll tell you another time. If you don’t find… anyway. She’s not a shit person. She’s just… look. The thing you need to know about Rose is, she’s the princess, and everything comes second to that. And I mean everything. You can see how that might become toxic, yeah?”

“Sure.”

“We have a lot of friends in common, so I don’t want to start an all-out war or anything. I’m just trying to keep my distance a bit these days, you know?”

So when Molly said I’d be giving her a good excuse to avoid people at her party, she didn’t really mean people. She meant Rosemary.

“Anyway,” Molly says, perking up. “Can we get a quick moving-in photo for my story?”

Molly kneels beside me and I pose for the camera, and then she gets to work on editing the photo. “What’s your handle?” she asks. “I’ll tag you.”

A few seconds later my phone buzzes with the notification. I click on her profile, ready to add her as a friend, but I catch sight of her follower count and I’m so shocked I forget what I’m doing completely. For a second, I swear my eyes aren’t working right. There’s way too many digits.

“That’s why I prefer texting,” she says when she notices my face. “My DMs can get a little crowded.”

“Whoa. What are you, an influencer?” I ask, flipping through her profile. It doesn’t look like anything special. Just your run-of-the-mill mix of selfies, scenery, and activity photos. It all looks pretty unstructured and casual. Or maybe it’s carefully curated to look that way. It’s hard to tell.

“I hate that word,” she says. “If I ever call myself an influencerunironically, you have my permission to roast me until I screw my head back on.”

“But youareone,” I say, tipping my phone screen to her like she needs the evidence or something.

She shrugs reluctantly, her cheeks reddening. “My dad was the prime minister when I was a kid, and he used to take me to press conferences and stuff. He passed away before he finished his term—no, it was years ago, Danni, don’t look all sad for me, andpleasedon’t tell me you’re sorry. Anyway, the media got kind of obsessed with me in the fallout. I guess people know me from that; I don’t have any talents or anything.”

Well, Iamsorry to hear about Molly’s dad, but she asked me not to say so, so I breeze past it. “You obviously put a lot of work in,” I say instead. “I’ve made, like, twenty posts in my lifetime. I’m impressed.”

“Not really. Mostly I just post videos from my day, or giving my opinion on whatever I’m thinking about. I’m never going to be the type of person who has a proper setup or a brand or anything. Honestly, I only do it because it pays well and I don’t get a lot of pocket money.”

After half an hour or so of hanging out in my room, Molly offers to give me a tour of Dewitt. She tells me which shower stall to use in the bathroom (“The middle ones always get hot faster.”), the unofficial rule around door etiquette (“If you leave your door ajar it’s implying you’re open to people swinging past to chat.”), and the bulletin board by the entrance (“You play piano, right? You can sign up for performance evenings here.”).

I study the board, which is already filled with notices regarding clubs and camps. In its center is a giant drug-use PSA poster, statingLIFE’S HIGHS DON’T NEED CHEMICAL TIESwith a cringey illustration of a group of teenagers skipping away from a smoking joint in a field. “I remember seeing something about snow trips,” I say hopefully, searching for a possible sign-up sheet. Winter’s coming up, after all.

“That’s only for fourth and sixth years, unfortunately. Rose tried to drag me along with her last year, but it’s not my thing.” She says it with a laugh, but it vanishes as soon as she remembers whoshe’s talking about. Tucking shiny black hair behind her ear, Molly changes the subject. “I’ll come by and grab you for breakfast in the morning. You’ll need to be ready at ten past seven at the latest. It’s first in, best dressed, so if we get there too late we won’t get a seat with the rest of the girls.”

I say thank you, but the words don’t seem big enough for how freaking grateful I am. What would I be doing tomorrow morning if I hadn’t met her? Heading on over at 7:13 and awkwardly hanging out at the end of a table full of girls who’d grown up together, had never met me, and wouldn’t want me there?

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