with him, Georgia,” she tells me in the sober tones of a Sunday school teacher. “I mean, don’t you wonder why he got kicked out of Pemberley?”
“No, I can honestly say that I don’t.” Which isn’t true, exactly, but still. She doesn’t need to know this.
She smiles, but her blue-grey eyes narrow slightly.
“It was a violation of the Honor Code. He cheated on a history test.”
I say nothing. I just stand there trying to figure out why Willow has bothered to find me to impart this warning. It makes no sense. If Willow is dealing with the loss of Trey as a potential boyfriend by taunting me—why? And if she has set her sights on Michael instead of Trey, why warn me away from her man? It’s not like I am interested in him, or like I would be any competition for her if I was. It seems to me she should sharpen her claws on Darien Drake instead.
“I just thought that something like that would matter to someone like you,” she continues. “You know, since your dad’s a college professor.”
“Well, thanks,” I say as I reach the sidewalk and turn toward home. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
With that, Willow turns on her sharp boot heel—she is the only person I have ever actually seen perform this maneuver—and walks away.
At home, when I should be doing my homework or working on my article, I log on to Facebook and look at the inevitable suggestions for People I Might Know, which include Willow and Darien and Trey and Michael Endicott. I click on Michael’s name and see that his Friends List is disturbingly small. Either everyone else finds him equally repellant or he is really choosy about even virtual friends. Shondra’s name comes up, too, and I send her a Friend Request, then send them to Dave and Gary, too, and a message to Allison, whose profile picture is now a penguin in a ski hat. She used to joke that I was the only person in the state of Colorado who didn’t ski. I tell her all about Willow’s party and how annoying Michael is before I have to go down to dinner.
It’s one of those nights where we’re actually all home at dinner time, so Mom makes a big deal of our all sitting down at the table together. I know she read somewhere that this helps children to learn the fine art of conversation, but she is oblivious to the fact that Cassie always monopolizes the discussion with her tedious exploits as Longbourne’s prima JV cheerleader. And tonight she adds a new strain to the ongoing monologue with a dissertation on the phenomenal physique of her new favorite football player, Rick “Brick” Brickwell, who she is pretty sure is going to ask her out after the Big Away Game this weekend. Mom is super thrilled. I feel like I am going to gag on my tofu pad thai.
Then Leigh says that she will miss the game Saturday—as if she would go anyway—because she is going to sing at the church coffeehouse with this boy, the minister’s son, who plays guitar. She’s so excited about it that’s she’s actually willing to wrestle Cassie for talk time, and that makes me happy enough to be generous.
“That sounds really great, Leigh,” I tell her.
“His name—the guitar player—is Alistair,” she says as her cheeks turn pink. “He’s from England and his parents were missionaries in China when he was a little kid. There’s a Youth Group Mixer at the church next Saturday, and I think he might ask me to go with him.”
Mom literally claps her hands with glee and pats Leigh’s shoulder. As revolting as a youth group mixer sounds, I feel a stab of envy. All of my sisters are finding romance of a sort, and, even if they are finding it in odious forms, I can’t help but feel it would be nice to have someone think I am pretty awesome, too.
“Did you hear that, Dick?” she asks my dad, as if he were in another country and not at the other end of the table. “Isn’t it wonderful seeing the girls so happy?”
I swallow my bite of noodles and put down my fork. I no longer feel like eating. It is taking all of my energy and concentration to not think that one of their girls (namely, me) is not that happy. To not think about how my sisters’ sudden romantic flowering leaves me as the only boyless