The Initial Insult - Mindy McGinnis Page 0,64

correct answer.

“Chilling out,” I say. “Needed some space. Too much going on.”

“Tell me about it,” Hugh says, and I hear Ribbit in the background.

“Who is it? What do they want? Are they calling about me?” Ribbit asks. That last question is desperate, high-pitched, hopeful.

“Let me talk to my cousin,” I say, and there’s the sound of the phone being handed over. “Ribbit?”

“Tress?” There, always, under my name I still hear the slightest hint of worship. “Tress, are you watching? Did you see? I’ve got like four thousand new Twitter followers, and a shit ton of friend requests.”

“They’re not your friends,” I say. My words are sharp and distinct, biting down on the ends of his blurry, wandering syllables. “Do you hear me? Nothing that’s going on right now is okay.”

“Brynn Whitaker is bringing me beers. That’s more than okay.”

I think of Brynn, crying in the kitchen, empty water bottles and beer cans littering the counter. “Brynn might be the only friend you have right now.”

“I’ll take it,” Ribbit says. “Listen, I gotta go.”

Downstairs I hear shuffling, the crowd moving back into their places.

“People are coming back for round two of Ribbit. Oh, and something, like, ate Gretchen’s dog,” Ribbit says, followed by a hiccup.

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “I’m upstairs sitting across from a loose panther.”

“Cool,” Ribbit says, and I know he isn’t listening. “Maddie got her calmed down, took her outside.” There’s a pause, some muttering. “Look, my man Hugh needs his phone.”

Hugh’s voice comes on, loose and shaky, but not as blurred with drink as Ribbit’s. “Don’t hate me.”

“Give me a reason not to,” I say.

“Look . . .” His voice drops, low and whispering. “The guys are just waiting to kick his ass, and I mean, like, in a brutal way. He said something about David’s mom earlier—I mean, what’s with him and moms, anyway?”

“I have no idea,” I say. “And I don’t hate you because . . . ?”

“Because as long as the show is going, there are cameras on him,” Hugh says.

“And he’s safe,” I finish for him. I think of thousands of people on a livestream, friend requests, new followers, hundreds of unread messages pouring in from around the world. David and the other guys won’t attack him with that many eyeballs on them. An assault conviction would certainly put a dent in their high school football careers, and an assault conviction against an Usher would land their asses in jail, minors or not. You don’t get to spill old blood in Amontillado.

“Okay,” I say reluctantly.

“Hey, do you know where Felicity is?” Hugh asks, his voice back to normal. “I haven’t seen her since . . . I don’t know. I just haven’t seen her.”

“Yeah, I know where she is,” I say.

“Okay, cool. Just checking on her. I look out for her, you know.”

He does. The same way I look out for Ribbit. “Yeah, I get it,” I tell him.

I think of the basement, the naked bulb above my chair, the mortar pail, the pile of bricks, and Felicity, a trail of blood leaking from behind her ear. Tonight, we switched responsibilities, and it is not turning out so well.

I hang up. In the corner of my phone the livestream continues. My messages app is nothing like Hugh’s. I have only one notification. One I sent to myself from Brynn’s phone. I exhale, my breath foul from a long night, still far from over.

Despite the cat, only inches from me, I hang my head, and I cry.

Chapter 47

Cat

There is pain in the girl,

but no injury.

I lean forwad, sniffing

for the scent of

blood and hurt and skin split and hair torn and teeth broken

and bones splintered and tendons severed and muscles snapping

all the things that can happen.

And the girl lifts her head,

the salt smell of pain in her eyes,

and reaches for me

—like a cousin—

to touch.

But her hand is not a paw

her blood, not like mine.

And I

am not tame.

I smack, to remind.

A touch that would roll a cousin, expose their belly, tell them,

I am alpha.

But the girl is not a cousin

only a human.

And easily opened.

Chapter 48

Felicity

Annabelle, that’s the first thing, easy to remember.

Tress looks like her, so it’s not hard to conjure my friend’s face, then smooth out some of the sharper edges—the permanent worry line above her nose, the way she holds her body like she’s always ready to fight. It didn’t use to be that way. Her face used to be open, ready to laugh, her body more likely to erupt into dance than a