course, we’re missing one.” She snorts softly, as if she’s amused by the irony. “Number one.”
The complete lack of sadness in those words—so different from the tears in the junior lot today—creeps me out and slows my step.
“Let’s go. I’ve been waiting for you,” she says, tugging my arm.
So I follow her across the vast lawn toward a dense forested area that’s more or less the everyday scenery in this part of Vienna. Nacht Woods is made up of miles of pine-filled paths, creeks, and cliffs. The woods are a haven for hikers and even hunters, as beautiful as any state park, but not a place I’d venture into at night.
Yet I’m venturing right along with my new friend, Chloe. Leaves crunch under my sneakers and the light grows dimmer as we get farther away from the Colliers’ house.
“You party, right?”
I just look at her, clueless at how to answer because the truth will be … uncool. I’ve never had a drink in my life.
“I mean you drink, right?”
No way I’m copping to my total geekiness, not at my first party with this crowd. “Once in a while,” I reply with a shrug.
“Well, this is once in a while, Kenzie.” She still has me by the arm and gives me another squeeze, pulling me along.
After an awkward silence, I say, “It’s so sad about Olivia.”
“Yeah, jeez. What an idiot.”
I hesitate again, and not only because we’ve reached the tree line and I don’t see anyone nearby. How far are we going into these woods? “Why would you say that?” I ask. “You were just singing her funeral dirge this afternoon.”
“And I meant it, I’m sad. But come on. Who does that? Drunk boys from West Virginia jump off cliffs, not normal girls like Olivia Thayne. But I guess I’m like the leader since now I’m at the, well, top.” Her voice trails off as we round a thick group of evergreens, the needles scraping my jacket as she guides me in. “We’re at Meesha Mound.” She leans closer and lowers her voice. “Indian burial ground, you know. Cool, huh?”
“Very.”
She misses my sarcasm and takes me down a dark path. Almost instantly, I see the lights of a few cell phones and make out a small circle of girls sitting in a clearing at the foot of a hill.
“Guys, I got her,” Chloe says. “Number five.”
It’s weird to be introduced that way, but I fold down in the place Chloe indicates, right between Amanda and Dena, who are numbers four and six.
“Welcome, Five,” Dena says with a soft giggle, the smell of beer oozing off her breath.
“All right, we’re all here,” Chloe says, sitting down across from me. “The Sisters of the List.”
I can’t help snorting a laugh, figuring this has to be a joke.
But eight pairs of pretty damn serious eyes look back at me.
“Is that the name we picked?” Amanda asks.
“We picked a name?” I blurt out.
Chloe sighs as if she has to explain something to a child. “Every year, the list girls give themselves their own name. You know, like our secret club.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. How does she know that happens every year?
“I like Sisters of the List,” Kylie Leff says, leaning into Amanda. “We’ve been blood sisters since kindergarten.” She holds up a single knuckle and Amanda meets it with one of her own in the most feminine and lackluster knuckle tap in history. “So it’s perfect.”
“Should we vote on the name?” Shannon Dill, number seven, asks.
“We don’t need to vote,” Chloe says. “I decided.”
Dena sputters. “Who died and left you in charge?”
Two girls gasp at the question; the rest of us stare slack-jawed at Dena. She throws both hands over her mouth and lets out a little cry. “Oh my God, I didn’t mean that.”
After a beat, someone laughs nervously. “It’s okay, Dena. We know you didn’t.”
Chloe produces a frosted bottle from a handbag behind her and holds it high. “We don’t need to vote,” she says again, ignoring Dena’s faux pas. “Tradition says you drink on it. And our tradition is now”—she turns to read the bottle—“Three Olives grape-flavored vodka, thanks to my sister’s boyfriend.” She unscrews the top and sniffs. “Thank God I’m allergic to peanuts and not grapes. Girls, you’re gonna like this tradition.”
“Tradition?” I say, unable to keep the derision out of my voice. “Why would there be a tradition?”
“I’m second generation,” Chloe says proudly, like that explains anything at all.
“You mean your mother was on the list?” Bree asks.