For the next couple of days, Tara and I spend practically every waking moment together, either in person or via text. Once I got to know her, I realized she's actually a really cool person. Now, I understood why people were so instantly infatuated with her.

The student body at St. Addams has definitely taken notice of our newfound friendship. Honestly enjoy the attention I've been getting. All my life, I've been practically invisible, but things are different now. Better. The same people that have paid me no mind for 3 years now compliment me in passing, or say hi to me in the hallways. Somehow, it's like I've been catapulted into the elite realm of St. Addams overnight. Out of all the people Tara had wrapped around her pretty little finger, she chose me, and damn, does that make me feel special.

For the first time in my life, I feel powerful. Untouchable. Admired.

Admittedly, some of my moderate popularity was accompanied by my association with her has gotten into my head. Ever since me and Tara became friends, I've been dressing nicer and wearing more makeup. Small things, like lip tint or mascara or concealer. Growing up, I never really put effort in my appearance because I thought it didn't matter if no one really saw me. If there are going to be eyes on me, I might as well look good.

"Hey!" Tara exclaims, beaming while linking our arms together. Side by side, we push through a sea of bustling bodies. Her dainty gold jewelry is ice cold against my bare arm. Locks of her thick hair tumble down the crook of my elbow. I can smell the mint from the gum she's chewing. "Where are you headed?"

"My locker, dummy. Where else?" I answer, rolling my eyes, preparing to make a turn down this very turnpike, right after the bulletin boards with all the club fair information tacked on.

She smacks my arm playfully, scowling. "It was a rhetorical question. I was just trying to start a conversation."

"Wasn't working," I mutter, a smug expression overtaking my features. Her dewy makeup catches underneath the blinding LED bar lights.

"Anyways," she presses on, shaking her head, "like I was saying before I was rudely insulted by someone—"

"More like corrected instead of insulted, but go on."

She unhooks her arm around mine as a form of punishment for my snarky remarks, putting her hands on her hips instead. "Shut up, Leigha. Will you let me speak for 5 seconds without interrupting? Remember when I said my dad has a charity? On Saturday night they're having a gala to fundraise some money, and I need a plus one. Are you down to go?"

Wow, I've never thought the day where I'm cool enough to actually be invited to one of those fancy gatherings would come. If she's there with me, it could be fun, but most importantly, it sounds like a good opportunity to keep an eye on her dad. Slowly, I nod. "Yeah, but only because I don't have anything better to do."

"Don't say it like that, you should be honored I'm asking you," she scoffs, and the two of us halt in front of my locker, her leaning against the rows of doors.

"Anyone else from school gonna be there?" I ask nervously, masking my worry. I don't want to have to impress more people, especially when I don't know much of the etiquette. Being around such influential socialite strangers is nerve-wracking enough, but to think I'd have to see them every day after this party puts even more pressure on me not to mess anything up.

She takes a moment to deliberate, chewing on her glossy nude lip. "The D'Medicis are affiliated with the organization, but other than them, no one."

As relieved as I am to hear that, I'm still a little surprised. I didn't know she and Hunter were that closely affiliated. "Damn, really? Do your dads work together?"

She wrinkles her nose as if that thought of that is preposterous. "No. Wes D'Medici donates close to 10 million dollars every year. They're basically VIP members."

10 million dollars? Jesus, I'm pretty sure I have 4 dollars and 32 cents in my bank account right now. Even in a lifetime, my family and I would never be able to make that amount of money and to think that there are people out there that could treat it like excess. Must be one helluva organization to funnel this much funding into. "Where do all the proceeds go?"

She taps her forefinger on her chin, revealing her French manicured nails and sparkly diamond rings. "Small businesses run by people of color, mostly. Enough about the logistics, though. I'll pick you up tomorrow so we can go dress shopping."

From my periphery, I spot Faye tapping something furiously tapping on her phone. It's officially been 2 weeks since I've talked to her. For a brief second, we make eye contact—the crushing weight of her stare causing my stomach to flip—before she looks away as if she's disgusted by what she sees. Don't get me wrong, I do miss her, but I'm not going to force her to talk to me. A friendship is a two way street, and if she won't meet me halfway, then I won't waste my time.

Realizing class is starting in a couple of minutes, I twist open my locker, exchanging some of my textbooks. Fortunately, I have calculus next, and there are copies of textbooks for homework in the classroom, so I only have to grab my notebook. Something I don't recognize is sticking out from one of the pages. Gingerly, I remove the object stuck between the binding.

It's the moon tarot card from the reading Faye gave me earlier this month.

Her words echo in my head like a vivid memory: vulnerable, insecure, and susceptible to manipulation.

Looking around through the crowd, I notice Faye has left the spot in front of her locker. Angrily, I slam my locker shut, ripping the card into quarters, and shoving the shreds into my pocket.

I don't know what the hell she's trying to accomplish, but the message has certainly been received. For the record, I'm not susceptible to manipulation or insecure. I make choices based on my own accord. In fact, I don't think I've ever been more confident in my entire life.

This is so petty. She couldn't talk to me, like the mature adult she is? Should've known. She's had it out for Tara since day one.

She's just jealous that I'm doing so well without her.

"Leigha?" Tara asks with a frown, "something wrong?"

"Oh no," I lie, shaking those intrusive thoughts away from my head. "Meet you at 8?"

She beams. "Sounds perfect to me."

***

"Are you going to Drew's charity gala thing?" I ask Hunter as we're sitting on his bed, legs crossed while we try to figure out the passwords to some of Kassie's social media accounts. A bunch of her old notebooks are arranged around us in an organized mess. Grabbing a sparkly spiral one, I begin browsing through the pages. Even as a 5 year old, Kass had such neat handwriting. Her letters rarely (if ever) cross the faded blue guidelines—a jarring juxtaposition to her brother's, whose sprawled penmanship looks more like chicken scratch than actual English. Fits her archetype as a neat freak, I suppose.

"Yeah, I kinda have to. My whole family's forced to go," he responds, thumbing through one of Kass' really old journals. The black leather cover is practically falling apart in his hands.

"Tara invited me today," I pipe, using my finger as a bookmark.

"Great, I told her to," Hunter responds, nodding. "I was gonna ask you to be my date, but I ended up asking Sav instead."

He was going to ask me to be his date?

Trying to conceal the crimson creeping onto my cheeks, I cover my surprised expression with my hand. "Is this your way of coming out of the closet?"

He looks at me incredulously, taking a sip out of his can of Cola sitting on the nightstand behind him. "Very funny. Fortunately for you, I'm 100 percent straight."

"That's what they all say," I grumble under my breath.

"It's true!" he defends, the corner of his lip twitching ever so slightly. "The only reason why I asked him was because we need more eyes on Drew and Lulu."

"Sure," I drawl, flipping the page.

Taking a moment to study me, he looks up from her diary, a small smile playing on his lips. "You've changed."

Like deja vu, Faye's planted tarot card comes crashing back into my mind as quickly as a bad case of whiplash. He wouldn't agree with her, right?

"Really?" I ask, brows raised.

"Yeah, you're glowing now," he remarks, rubbing the nape of his neck.

"Ugh," I groan, shaking my head, "You're so corny, D'Medici. Can we please change the subject? Here's a suggestion: how about we talk about how fucking confusing both your sisters are?"

"Tell me about it," he mumbles in agreement, closing the notebook in frustration. This idea is a total bust. There are too many options and combinations to think of. Don't know why we thought it'd work. "I've tried everything I can think of trying to get into her accounts: her birthday, her favorite food, the name of her favorite teacher...still nothing. I'm still determined to crack one of them, though."

We continue to skim the rest of her notebooks in silence—the activity both soothing and infuriating. The deepest, most secretive inner workings of her brain are sprawled on the pages. Written in a navy blue pen are stories about her trips to France, her food adventures with her cousins, and her dreams and aspirations, much of which we share in common. Both of us want to visit Dubai and eventually publish a book. Perhaps in another lifetime, we would've been friends. From the tone of her writing, it really did seem like she was so happy and had a lot to hope for. A storm brews in the pits of my stomach. If she is a runaway, then she must've had a really compelling reason to leave behind a life full of luxury. I wonder what went wrong, and why it drove her to leave. Or if she was kidnapped, who did she accidentally piss off?

"Dad, I can't anymore. I don't know what to think. I just—" Halle's shaky voice drifts into the room through the slightly ajar door.

"You have to, Hals. There's no other way," another voice interrupts, presumably the dad. There's a forceful undertone to his words.

"What are they talking about?" I ask Hunter, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. I've never heard Halle this anxious.

Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose, the comma shaped scar on his lower lip rippling in the process. "Halle has kidney problems and she needs a transplant soon. My mom's gonna be the donor."

"Oh damn," I say, frowning, unable to think of anything more comforting, "should I go talk to her or something? She sounded pretty upset."

With a shrug, he gets up to throw his empty can of soda away in the trash. "She said she didn't want to talk to anyone about it."

I grimace, hopelessly throwing the spiral journal onto a sequined pillow. "Jeez, you're so dense. When a girl says that, it means she definitely wants you to talk to her."

Rolling his eyes, he claims a spot on the edge of the bed, failing at another password attempt, locking her Instagram account. In response, he tries unlocking her Facebook account with the same password, to no avail. Lightning doesn't strike the same place twice, and her birthday hasn't been able to log in to any other profiles. "Whatever, Lulu's gonna be with her soon anyway. Besides, the surgery isn't that bad."

I raise a brow quizzically. "How would you know?"

Laughing, he lifts up the hem of his shirt, showing me a jagged pink scar that trails down to his hip bone. "Got my own when I was her age too. My dad was my donor. It's a genetic disease."

Oh, so he speaks from experience. Still, from an outsider's perspective, that is a very dangerous procedure, and she has every right to be scared.

Suddenly, a knock on the door that steals our attention from the task at hand. Slowly, Wes D'Medici, dressed in a suit, appears on the other side of the threshold as it creaks open. He looks so much like his son—same conflicted eyes and dark brows.

Taking a moment to fully examine me, his dad's gaze drifts from my messy bun on the top of my head, to the round glasses slipping down my nose, and lands on my chest for a beat too long.

Is it my imagination, or is that a look of desire?

A coil pulls in my chest, and I feel uncomfortable.

The man leans against the door to keep it propped against the wall. "Hunter, next time you have a girl in your room make sure the door is all the way open."

His son sighes, ears pink from embarrassment. "Okay, dad. Why are you here?"

His dad crosses his arms, shifting from foot to foot. "You should go check in with your sister. She's crying, and you've been through what she has, so maybe you'll be able to comfort her better than I can."

Normally, I'd think that's a good idea, but what does he expect me to do while Hunter's gone? Talk to Halle as well? Or worse, stay put?

"Alright, alright. I got it," Hunter insists, the bed rising a little when he gets up.

Don't go, I want to say, don't leave me alone with him.

Of course, he's not a mind reader, so he's out of the room with a blink of my eye. Awkwardly clearing my throat, I decide it's probably best if I follow him, but before I can fully exit, his dad reaches an arm out, effectively blocking my path.

"Leighanna, right?" he asks, though it sounds more like a rhetorical question.

"Yeah. It's nice to meet you," I say a little too quickly, trying to think of the quickest way to leave. Jumping out the window doesn't sound like a feasible option.

"The pleasure's all mine," he replies, leaning in closer so I can smell the whisky off his breath. The red flags in my head are waving at full force.

What the fuck was that?

"I should go comfort Halle," I insist, my unease only growing stronger by the minute. Before he can protest, I duck under his arm, half-running, half briskly walking to somewhere safe. If I'm not mistaken, Halle's room is in the hallway closest to the main stairway, so that's where the adrenaline and my jello-y feet take me to. To my luck, I spot an area with pastel pink walls and beautiful, fully-bloomed roses.

Led by the loud sniffles, I'm able to navigate my way to Halle's room, which is only a left turn away from Hunter's. Inside, Lulu and Hunter are both beside her in bed, the former rubbing her back and whispering something in her ear while the latter holds out a box of tissues for her. A plate of uneaten fruit is beside her. Without a warning, I barge in, stepping around the mountains of clothing lying all over the floor and on her chairs. I join them on Halle's California king sized bed, which is surrounded by various stuffed animals, most of them being fluffy dogs. I swear, there are crumbs on her linen sheets. Out of all her siblings, she's the messiest. Clothes and ribbon hair ties are sprawled in crevices of her shelves, and there's a wide variety of half eaten candies laying on her desk.

"You'll be okay, darling," Lulu coos, brushing back a hair behind Halle's ear.

"It's not that—I just—I—" she hiccups, unwrapping a blue Jolly Rancher, and plopping it into her mouth. Nervously, she crumples the debris and throws it near her feet.

Her brother takes it upon himself to blot away the smudged mascara from her cheeks. "Seriously, Hals, it's not a big deal. Trust me, I know first-hand."

"Oh my God, for the last time it's not about that," Halle snaps, sinking into her fluffy white pillow. "I've had a shitty day, that's all. I'll be fine. I need to sleep it off."

Doesn't take a genius to tell she's lying. But that raises the question: if she's not reacting strongly to the surgery she's gonna have, then what is bothering her? And why is it so serious that she feels like she can't tell her family?

Or, maybe, more logically, she is lying so they won't worry about her.

The three of us exchange a look of confusion, but neither one of us chooses to question her. Exhaling, Lulu stands up, trash bag in hand, and starts to pick up around the room. Wordlessly, Hunter and I stay near Halle, offering her our company for comfort. Soon enough, her eyes are closed, chest rising and falling in even increments.