and jewelry from Paris Hilton a thousand years ago. The Kardashians have offered “no comment” yet, although Scott Disick did drunk-tweet “The Mexican chic is sizzlin’.”
Here’s what I think. I know it sounds crazy. But I’m sitting here trying to put the pieces together and I think this whole thing must be a setup. By Jinny Hutsall, our resident Christian zealot Crusader. And her father’s friend, Reverend Jagger Jonze.
Jinny Hutsall already loathed me for being Jew-y, and for being a heathen. Then I became a Category Five threat to that psycho Jesus freak. I know her secret, and I’m pretty sure she knows I know, which makes me think that she and Jagger Jonze planted the bomb at the ball tonight. And they have something to do with that thing that was found in my car in the Sacred Heart parking lot too. It has to be that. What else could it be? And Fee? She’s collateral damage, which slaughters me, because Fee doesn’t deserve any of this. I’m the atheist blogger with opinions. I’m the one who just couldn’t mind my own fucking business. Maybe this is my karma. Not that I believe in karma, but you still find yourself saying shit like that, don’t you? Like the way we heathens say “thank God.”
I’ve been staring at the pics of us all over the Net, of me and Fee and our best friends and families—pics I’ve never even seen before. This loop plays over in my head: Wait. What? Wait. What? Our friends? Bee? Zee? Dee? Our best friends in the world? They’ve turned on us. They’ve sided with Jinny Hutsall and joined the throngs of accusers calling for our capture. They’re tweeting at us to turn ourselves in! How could they do that? How could our best friends think Fee and I would plant a bomb, let alone participate in that other atrocious shit? I love those girls. Brooky, Zara, Delaney and Fee have been everything—my life, my family—especially since my dad…I believed in them. A few hours ago I would’ve said I trusted them with my life. It’s just such a betrayal.
We girls are more than neighbors. We’re sisters. We’ve lived on Oakwood Circle in Hidden Oaks of Calabasas since we were buzzing little Beelievers—in matching yellow-and-black-striped T-shirts—at Sacred Heart Nursery School, where we got our nickname, the Hive. Someone’s made a meme of us as an old-time-y United Colors of Benetton ad, which is not inaccurate. Brooklyn Leon, the beautiful, athletic black girl; Delaney Sharpe, the red-headed English rose; Feliza Lopez, the sexy Latina; Zara Rohanian, the smoky-eyed Armenian; and me, not exactly a category you could name. Real people who are not my parents sometimes say that I am striking. I take after my father’s side north of the neck—brown eyes, freckled face, dark, naturally fro-ish hair. South of the rib cage I’m mesomorph-y, the only physical trait I share with my blond, green-eyed mother.
All we know we girls have learned together behind the doors of our Mediterranean-style mansions, beside our blue infinity pools, under rows of date palms, in the heat of the big, boiling sun. We’re double-gaters. That means after you pass the first security booth with armed guards named Marcus and Dax, you have to go through another set of gates to get to our cul-de-sac. The Kardashians are Hidden Oaks triple-gaters. The whole clan lives at the top of the hill now, in this massive compound because safety. We see the paparazzi swarming one of their vehicles most days. We care about them like they’re our actual family, and have been KUWTK since, like, third grade, or at least we did, until Jinny Hutsall moved to Oakwood Circle. She called them Kar-douche-ians. We let her.
I keep hearing noises outside the shed. I tell myself, It’s just the wind, girl, nut up. But my heart won’t stop racing. I have to say, it would be tragically lame to die in a Holy War when I don’t even believe in God.
Fee’s breathing is shallow. When I shook her just now, she coughed a little and asked for water. She’s so dehydrated. I thought about going to Javier’s cabin to ask for more, but he told us not to leave the shed and I don’t wanna make him mad. I also thought about going outside to look around, but I’m scared of the eyes in the sky.
“Maybe there’s something in Javier’s truck. Water bottle. Juice box,” I say.