Page 79 of Nobody in Particular

She stops mid-step to look at me. “Why not?” she asks, sounding wounded. “Don’t you adore me?”

Adore.That might be the word I was looking for a few seconds ago.

“You’re fine, I guess.”

“That’s the spirit. Though you really could have waited until there were cameras on us to switch on the nonchalance.”

“There could be cameras anywhere,” I say.

“Quite right. That level of vigilance and paranoia will take you far in my life. William would be so proud.”

We turn onto Florence’s street. “Danni,” Rose says in a serious voice that’s really unlike her. “If you need me, though. Just find me. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“No, promise me.”

She’s honestly starting to weird me out at this point. “I promise,” I say, and she falls back.

“Okay. You go in first. I’ll see you later.”

I want to hang back and ask Rose why she’s acting like this—like there’s some sort of terrible prophecy that’s meant to take place tonight or something—but we’re already on Florence’s street, so I can’t. All it takes is a photograph of us talking alone in the dark, and we risk the internet blowing up again.

They barely even need photo evidence at this point, these faceless strangers. If we don’t give them material, they just make it up.

For example, a few days ago I stumbled across someone online who’d found a post I made two years ago on Rose’s birthday. It was a photo of two steaming cups of tea in cute, rose-petal cups. Mom was going through a phase at the time where she bought a new flavor of tea at the nearby specialty shop every chance she got, and I had to be her taste tester then. Not only the common flavors like peppermint and chamomile, but real fancy shit like “orange pekoe” and “crème brûlée” and “fruit-basket explosion.” I drank so much tea during those months I’m pretty sure it started leaking out of my pores.

It just so happens that Rose was celebrating her fifteenth birthday in London that year. So far, so unrelated, you would think. Butof course, you would be wrong—at least, according to this poster. Becausethisposter has us all figured out. According to them, my tea post was actually a coded way for me to wish Rose a happy birthday—and that I wished I was in London celebrating with her. BecauseapparentlyRose and I started dating years and years ago, and the proof is clear if you just pay attention to our posts over the years.

Basically, any photos are risky, no matter how innocent. And if we’re gambling with Rose’s future, it’s not up to me to roll the dice. It’s fine, anyway. It’s not like I’m lost without Rose. I have… Eleanor, for example, who’s already making a beeline for me the second she sees me come through the front door.

“Danni,” she cries, grabbing my upper arm. “You are gonna be so proud of me. I’ve decided something.”

“What have you decided?” I ask. She’s already past tipsy, and she’s leaning most of her weight on me.

“I have decided—why don’t you have a drink? Let’s get you a drink.” She yanks me by the arm through the crowd of kids. Most of the party has gathered in the living room, where the sofa has been shoved to one side to make space for a kind of dance floor. In a regular house it would have felt ridiculously cramped—half of Bramppath seems to be here. Luckily, Florence’s “rental” is a mansion by another name, so it’s basically like being in a club. At least, I think it is, if the movies are anything to go by. She’s even hired a DJ, who’s set up his spin table right next to the sprawling archway that connects the kitchen to the lounge room.

The kitchen is where Eleanor drags me. “I’ve stashed a bottle in here,” she yells over the music. “You good with vodka?”

“I think I might just stick with soda,” I say. “The warning on that permission slip rattled me a little.”

Eleanor blows a raspberry. “What, the zero-tolerance thing?” she asks. “Everyone in this house is drinking. What are they gonna do, expel all of us?”

Well, she has a good point. Safety in numbers, right? So, I shrug, and she grabs one of about a dozen half-empty Coke bottles littered over the counter and pours some vodka in a red plastic cup for me. “I’ve decided I’m over Santi,” she says as she mixes my drink.

“What? Why?”

She gives me a funny smile. “Because he doesn’t like me. Obviously.”

Well, I thought the last time I saw them together he seemed kind of interested. And she’s always coming back from play rehearsal with little stories about him saying hi to her, or picking up something she dropped. But if Eleanor has a gut feeling, who am I to argue? Maybe the guy has no taste. His loss.

She passes me the cup, and I try it. It’s too strong for me, but that sad, bitter feeling from earlier hasn’t really gone away, and if I’m going to have to avoid Rose all night, I’d rather not be sober for it. So, bottoms up. “Screw him,” I tell Eleanor. “He’s not meant for you.”

“Agreed,” Eleanor says, raising her own cup.

“This is good! Now you’re making space for The One to come along.”

“I don’t want anyone to come along,” she says. “From now on, my priority is my friends. I don’t need a boy in my life to be happy.”

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