Page 59 of The Social Affair (New Hope 1)

He’s studying me intently trying to place my face. “I’m Izzy,” I say extending my hand. He’s Grant, only younger. We shake on it. He’s polite. Maybe all kids aren’t as bad as I’ve made them out to be. Maybe it won’t be as hard as I think to accept this kind of baggage. “I’m here to give Avery her dance lesson.”

He raises his brow and removes an earbud from his ear. He wasn’t even listening. I could be anyone. They’re those new cordless kind; I hardly noticed. “Avery’s out back,” he tells me, stepping aside. I guess he reads lips. He points. “In the studio.”

“Ah,” I say following him in. “I guess she got a head start.”

I follow him through the house to the back door. I could probably find my way if I wanted to. I know it from Instalook, I know every room. I’ve studied it. Designed the layout in my mind. I wasn’t far off. Except the kitchen—it’s bigger than I thought. I have lived and breathed these rooms. I have imagined myself sitting, loving, sleeping beneath this roof, and now here I am. I follow him onto the patio.

He points. “In there.”

“Thanks,” I say. I take a deep breath in and let it out. Gosh. This is so much easier than I thought. All you have to do is act like you belong. Like you’re meant to be. So long as you look and act the part they want you to play, people are much more accepting than you imagine. This is why I’m wearing the workout gear I’m wearing. It’s why I got eyelash extensions and a blow out. I maxed out my credit card. But here I am, standing in the center of the Dunns’ world. Who knew it would be as simple as that?

She sits cross-legged on the floor with headphones over her ears. I watch as she bobs her head to the beat. She looks different in her own environment. More sure of herself when she doesn’t know anyone’s watching. Most of us are. You could be my step-child.

I lean against the wall, placing one foot up behind me. She senses movement and she looks up. Unlike her brother, she knows my face. She lifts the headphones. I watch as she places them on the floor. There’s something in her expression that reminds me of Josie. I can’t place exactly what that something is. “Did you forget?” I ask, checking my new watch. It’s the kind everyone is posting on Instalook. It’s expensive and edgy. Seems like something a girl like her would appreciate.

She shrugs. “My mom probably forgot to tell me.”

I roll my eyes. “Moms.”

She almost snickers, and her youth shows. We talk about dance stuff for a bit and then I work with her on technique. Once we’re both properly sweating, me more than her, I go in for the kill. “So—” I say, careful to choose the right words. Kids are better than adults at picking up on deception. That’s why I don’t like them. “What exactly happened with the dance team? You seem pretty good. It doesn’t make sense why they would cut you.”

She looks away.

When she doesn’t answer, I plop down on the hardwood floor. I don’t really know anything about dance. I lied. My mom never owned a studio. What I do know is how the click of a few tabs on the internet can open up whole new worlds. “Show me your latest routine.”

After several moments she complies.

“Yeah,” I say again. “It makes no sense why they’d cut you. At my school—with your talent—you would have been captain.”

“Exactly,” she says rolling her eyes. “Someone wanted the lead. I guess that someone found a way to get it…”

“That happens sometimes.”

She looks at me then as though she and I share a secret, some unspoken portal into the workings of the universe.

She stops after practicing several turns. “They expelled me over it.”

My eyes grow wide. I hadn’t realized that part. Maybe I should cut Grant some slack. His kid is a delinquent. “Like kicked out of school—expelled?”

“Yeah, for something I didn’t even do.”

I lean back on my palms and scan the room. Then I look at her directly. “Wow…”

She studies herself in the mirror. I can tell she doesn’t like what she sees. Girls her age never do. “What should I do about it?”

“What does your mom say?”

She scoffs. “My mom. I haven’t told her.”

“Surely, she knows you were expelled?”

“Oh, she knows.”

“Really.”

She moves closer to the mirror and studies her face. “Yeah, she knows about that. But the rest of it—” she says, picking at something she’d be better off leaving alone. I would tell her, but sometimes it’s nice to hold back. People rarely listen to warnings anyway. “She doesn’t know about the rest of it.”

“Oh.” I consider what to say next. I can’t tell her I know about the messages, even if I do. I especially can’t tell her it was me who sent them. I chew at my bottom lip trying to find a way around it.

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