The Initial Insult - Mindy McGinnis Page 0,14

not to be such a puppy.

I don’t mind. I like puppies.

“Ribbit,” I say, making my way over to them. “You made it.”

I say that like he isn’t at every party, isn’t always trying to do anything he can to please everyone else. He’ll grab drinks and find lost earrings. He even made a tampon run one time. Last month he spent most of the night in the woods because Gretchen’s dog ran out there in a panic after Hugh tried to crowd-surf and there wasn’t enough crowd for his bulk. The resulting crash had made William Wilson bolt for the door, and while everyone else made a joke out of running through the woods and calling for him, Ribbit had wandered, borrowing phones when his battery died, until he found the dog, wet and muddy, but not exactly grateful. He’d scratched the crap out of Ribbit when he tried to pick him up—more evidence to log into Hugh’s instinct file, I guess.

Although Ribbit did score one successful pickup that night—Gretchen’s thanks had come in the form of more than just words. And good for him; Gretchen hands it out like candy at Halloween and there’s no reason he shouldn’t be in on it with the other trick-or-treaters.

“Like my lights?” Ribbit asks, motioning overhead.

“You did this?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He nods, a blush spreading. “I thought everyone might like it. Last night, and all.”

I think everyone does, but I’m not quite able to fake enthusiasm, and Ribbit’s face falls.

“You don’t like it?”

“I . . .” How do I explain the way the exposed studs make me feel? The little mouse prints and the faded, falling wallpaper? “I guess it just makes me sad,” I say. “This used to be a really nice place, once.”

Tress nods in agreement, surprising me. “Something to nothing,” she says.

Then I remember that Ribbit himself lives in a place just as crumbly as this one—stone, not brick—but still. And he actually lives there, whereas we only hit this place every few weeks.

“But it’s cool,” I say quickly, putting my hand on his arm. Somebody bumps into me, and I’m pushed forward, fully into him, my chest and belly flat against his.

“Whoops,” he says, grabbing both my elbows, and I’m suddenly, weirdly, flustered.

“Sorry,” we both say at the same time, then laugh at each other.

“I got some beer on you,” I say, brushing at the front of his shirt where the foam landed.

“Oh, it’s . . . fine . . .” Ribbit’s voice trails off, strangled when I touch him.

“You didn’t wear a costume,” I say, flicking the beer off my fingers.

Ribbit looks down at his T-shirt and jeans, almost apologetically. “No, I . . . it took longer than I thought to get all the lights strung. I was going to go back and change. I still can? I mean . . .”

He’s offering to leave the party and change his clothes because I sounded slightly disappointed. That’s Ribbit Usher for you. Kinda cute. Very pathetic.

“You look perfect,” he blusters on.

“Yep,” Tress agrees. “Perfect.”

But the way she says it isn’t a compliment. It comes out the same way I said neat to the sophomores with the clock. She’d been tacitly ignoring whatever weird flirtation was going on between me and her cousin, but now I’ve got her attention.

“You look . . .” I don’t know what she looks like, or if it’s even supposed to be a costume. She’s got on all black, and her hoodie is pulled up loosely around her face, shadowing her eyes.

“Like death,” Ribbit says. “I mean, I don’t know if it’s on purpose or not, but Tress looks like death.”

Tress sighs then, eyes going back to the crowd. “You need anything?” she asks quietly.

“Yeah,” I say, dropping my voice, too.

“Okay.” She swigs from a red Solo cup, still not looking at me. “Through the kitchen, there’s a door down to the cellar. Five minutes. I’ll meet you.”

I nod, then look back at Ribbit. He smiles immediately, like he’s a character in a video game that is programmed for one thing only. “Get me a drink?” I ask.

I only have to ask once.

Chapter 9

Tress

Ribbit comes back with two beers and hands one off to Felicity, who takes it with a smile and then disappears—obviously not the reaction he was hoping for.

“What did you expect?” I ask him, as he stares into his own cup. “You really thought she was going to hang out with you?”

He shrugs and takes a swig, seeming to forget that