Rebel Belle (13 page)

“I’m pregnant.”
“Huh?” Looking up from the pair of shoes I’d been pretending to study, I turned to face Bee. “What did you say?”
“Finally!” Bee said, tossing her head back with an exaggerated eye roll. “I said your name three times already, and when that didn’t grab your attention, I decided to go dramatic.” Smiling, I tossed one of those little stockings you get to try on shoes at her. “Well, it clearly worked. I take it you are not actually carrying Brandon’s spawn, then?”
Bee snorted and lifted one foot, turning her ankle so that I could admire the shoe from all angles. “No, thank God. My mama would kill me. Now what do you think of these?” We were at the Pine Grove Galleria, our typical Saturdayafternoon destination. Today’s trip was especially importantsince we were picking out our shoes for Cotillion. Or Bee was. I hadn’t worked up the nerve to tell her I’d quit Cotillion yet, but since we were already on our third store, I was going to have to do it soon. I just wasn’t sure how to break it to her in the middle of Well Heeled. The store was relatively deserted and I didn’t see anyone we knew; the only other customers were a little girl, who was probably around ten, and her mom. Still, I was beginning to wish I’d just said something in the car on the way here. Dutifully, I continued to inspect the white high heel she’d slipped on. “Pretty,” I told her.
Bee frowned. “But not perfect.”
“I . . . don’t you think they’re a little high?”
Sighing, Bee slid her foot out of the shoe and put it back in the box. “Probably. I’m good in heels, but I don’t want to pull a Mary Beth.”
Next to us, the little girl was trying to talk her mom into buying her a pair of red sparkly ballet flats, but the mom was holding her ground. “We’re picking out
church shoes
, Kenley,” she said,
exasperated, and I had to hide a smile.
Bee stood up and reached out, picking up a strappy sandal.
She ran her fingers over the jeweled straps. “This is pretty. It would look good with your dress. Doesn’t it have sparkles?” I tried to keep from sighing longingly. Yes, my dress had sparkles. Subtle ones, but sparkles nonetheless. And a little bustle and a short train, and about a hundred silk-covered buttons . . . and I would never wear it.
I’d been trying to work up the nerve to tell Bee all afternoon.
First, I’d sworn I’d say something on the ride to the mall. And when we’d walked inside, I had been all set to say, “Actually, Bee, I’ve decided not to do Cotillion this year.”
Now we were on our third store, and I knew it was now or never.
I took the shoe from Bee’s hand and set it back on the shelf. “It would look good, but . . . I’m, um, not doing Cotillion after all.” Bee’s mouth dropped open a bit, but no sound came out.
Turning away from her, I moved over to a display of scarves. I’d never worn a scarf in my life, but I made a big show of pulling one out and examining the pattern.
“Why not?” Bee asked from behind me.
I put the first scarf back and pulled out another, and once again thought about telling Bee the truth.
I can’t do Cotillion because I have superpowers, but they suck. Because something is going to
happen there that night that I don’t want to be involved with.
But I couldn’t say any of that. So instead, I played the one card I’d promised myself I would never, ever play. “Leigh-Anne,” I said. “It’s . . . too hard. Thinking about the year
she
did it . . .” Bee didn’t say anything for a long time, and I wasn’t sure I had ever felt worse than I did at that moment. Damn it, I’d given up the whole Paladin thing. So why was it still messing up my life? Bee appeared at my elbow. “Okay,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Then I won’t go either.”
I dropped the scarf. “Bee, you can’t—”
“I can,” she said, even as she threw one last lusting look at the shoes. “We always said we were going to do Cotillion together.” Bee may have been the only person on earth more excited for Cotillion than I was, but she gave me a brave if entirely fake smile. “It’ll be fine. We’ll do, like, one of those anti-prom proms, only it’ll be an anti-Cotillion Cotillion. We’ll wear black dresses
and hang out at my house watching bad movies and drinking bad punch.”
“It’ll be hard to find worse punch than my Aunt Jewel’s,” I said, and Bee’s smile got a little more real.
“We’ll manage,” she said. Then she stopped to pick up the scarf, placing it back on its shelf. “Now let’s go to the food court and eat our weight in Cinnabon.”
“You are the bestest best friend in all the world,” I said, looping my arm through hers.
“I know,” she said, squeezing my arm against her side. “And you in no way deserve me.”
I didn’t. Not even a little bit, and the truth of that lodged in my throat so that all I could do was squeak, “Yup.”
As we made our way through the mall, Bee and I chatted about Ryan and Brandon, and it could have been any other Saturday, if it weren’t for the constant gnawing of guilt. Staying away from the Starks was the best thing to do, which meant staying away from Cotillion. I didn’t want to ruin that for Bee, but it wasn’t like I’d asked her to give it up.
Suddenly, Bee came to a stop, pulling me up short, too. “Oh.” “What?” I asked, following her gaze. And when I saw what she was looking at . . .
“Oh,” I echoed.
Mary Beth was standing in front of the Starbucks in the food court, sipping an iced coffee and smiling up at Ryan. He was leaning against the wall, hands in his back pockets, and he was smiling down at her. There was even . . . head-tilting. My boyfriend was leaning and head-tilting at another girl. And not any girl. Mary Beth Riley, who practically had a neon sign flashing “TAKE ME NOW, RYAN BRADSHAW!” over her head. “Is she chewing on her straw?” Bee asked quietly, and I narrowed my eyes. She was. She was
totally
chewing on her straw
and smiling and head-tilting and—
Before I could think it through, I was walking over to the Starbucks, Bee trailing a few steps behind. “Ryan!” I called, smiling broadly.
He swiveled his head at the sound of my voice, but there was no guilt in his face. Mary Beth, however, jumped a little. “Are you following me?” I asked him, coming in close to slide my arm around his waist. “I told him Bee and I were doing some shoe shopping today,” I informed Mary Beth, who gave me a sickly smile.
“Actually, no. I was here to pick up my tux. Check me out, renting a full six weeks early.”
“You’re a good boyfriend,” I conceded. And he was, which was why I couldn’t stand idly by and let other girls chew straws at him. A thought occurred to me. Ryan said he was picking up his
tux for Cotillion. Ryan was supposed to escort me to Cotillion, and while the night wasn’t such a big deal for guys as it was for girls, I knew Mrs. Bradshaw was on the committee at Magnolia
House. She expected her son to go. And if I wouldn’t go with him . . . Bee must have been thinking something similar, because she turned to Mary Beth. “Do you have an escort for Cotillion?” A sullen flush spread up Mary Beth’s neck. “Not yet,” she answered, and I saw her gaze flit to Ryan. I moved in a little closer to him. Okay, this Paladin thing had already derailed my life enough. Turning Saylor Stark down was supposed to mean getting my life back, not ruining Cotillion for my best friend and handing my boyfriend over to Mary Beth Riley.
Bee glanced over at me, a little smile tugging the corner of her lips. “Bummer. I mean, it seems like all the decent guys at school are taken, and really, what are the chances of someone suddenly becoming available?”
The great thing about best friends is that they know you really well. And the terrible thing about best friends is that . . .they know you
really
well. Bee knew that the thought of Ryan taking Mary Beth to Cotillion was killing me. And what better way to get me to change my mind about Cotillion than to dangle that possibility?
I met Bee’s eyes. “You know what? After we grab some food, why don’t we go back to the store and get those shoes? The more I think about it, the more I think they
would
be perfect with my dress.”
Bee grinned. “I think that sounds like an excellent idea.” I watched Mary Beth watch Ryan, longing all over her face.
And I remembered that while Ryan might not have seemed guilty, he had been leaning. Exactly the way he used to lean against my locker door back in ninth grade. No, there was no way I was letting this happen. Operation Get My You–KnowWhat Together was starting now.
So I smiled at Bee, hugged my boyfriend, and said, “Me too.”

That Monday, I found myself back at Magnolia House. Saylor’s eyes had widened a little when I’d walked through the door, but she hadn’t said anything, other than, “Good afternoon, Harper. I trust you’ll be ready to take over the prayer again?”

I had, and it had gone well. Unfortunately, the rest of the practice was going less smoothly.
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Miss Riley!” Saylor snapped yet again.
As Mary Beth stammered out apologies, I rubbed my ankle and tried not to grimace.
Cotillion practice had only started half an hour ago, and this was Mary Beth’s third fall. The first one had been before we’d even put on our heels, and the second one had nearly taken out the potted fern by the bay window, but this third one had been on me.
As usual.
Normally, I stuck up for Mary Beth when she stumbled, but after the stuff at the mall with Ryan, I was feeling less than charitable.
I was also feeling slightly unsettled. David was currently slumped in one of the tiny velvet chairs in the sitting room, his legs out and crossed at the ankle. Even though I couldn’t see his face behind the Kurt Vonnegut paperback he was holding, I had a feeling his expression was somewhere between boredom and disdain. It was the first time I’d been this close to him since that night at Saylor’s, and even though I was doing my best to ignore it, it was almost like I could feel this thread stretching between us.
“Ladies,” Saylor said, clapping her hands. “I realize you’re all very busy and preoccupied, but Cotillion is one of the most important nights of your life. It’s when you present to the world both the kind of woman you are and the kind of woman you would like to be.”
“I am the kind of woman who would like to be done with this shit,” Mary Beth muttered. She’d taken off her heels and they dangled from her fingers, bumping my shoulder blades. I rolled my back irritably, hoping she’d move them away. And stop talking. That also would’ve been nice.
Saylor didn’t give any indication she’d heard Mary Beth. I’m pretty sure if she had, we would have seen Magnolia House’s first murder. Instead, she clasped her hands in front of her and turned her gaze on me. “For example, Miss Price. What kind of woman do you want to be?”
The question threw me, and I suddenly realized that this was a test. Apparently, walking away from Paladin-dom wasn’t going to be that easy.
I knew the things I wanted to
do
—make my school better, go to college, become the second female governor of the state of Alabama—but I had a feeling that wasn’t what Saylor was looking for. “I . . . I want to be a good woman,” I said finally. “One who does the right thing, not only for her community, but for herself. Who follows her heart even if it’s not the most popular thing to do.”
There were a few giggles behind me. I knew how lame that answer had sounded, but it was true. Doing the right thing didn’t seem like all that much, but look at Leigh-Anne. Look at what doing one wrong thing had cost her. Lame or no, that was  my answer. And I hoped Saylor heard what I was really saying.
Across the room, I caught a little glare of light. I realized David had lowered his book, and was watching me, his lips pressed in a thin line. I wondered if he thought I was talking about him.
“That was a lovely answer, Miss Price,” Saylor said. Her voice sounded . . . different. A little lower, and without those clipped tones she usually used. Then she gave a little shake of her head and clapped again.
“All right, now we’re going to practice descending the staircase accompanied. On the actual night, your father will lead you down these stairs and to the gentleman you’ve brought as your escort. There is a trick to walking gracefully on the arm of a man, and luckily, my nephew David has graciously volunteered to assist us.”
“If by ‘graciously volunteered,’ you mean ‘was threatened and coerced,’ then yes, I did,” David said, unfolding himself from that tiny chair.
A muscle twitched in Saylor’s jaw, but she let the remark pass. “Go ahead and line up at the top of the staircase,” she said, pulling that little blue pot of lip balm out of her pocket. “Oh, and Mary Beth, if you could come down here for a moment.”
“Ugh, what now?” Mary Beth sighed, but she went.
“Remember, girls,” Saylor called as David loped up the stairs, passing Mary Beth. “You are to lay your hand gently on the forearm, not loop your arm through his. This is Cotillion, not a square dance.”
“I actually think square dances are less shameful than this,” David muttered at the top of the stairs. Still, he held his arm out gallantly to Elizabeth Adams, keeping his spine straight and shoulders back. As they made their way down the staircase, I watched Saylor and Mary Beth. They had gone into the alcove by the front door, and Saylor was talking to her while holding her hands and looking into her eyes.
Once Elizabeth was at the bottom of the staircase, David jogged back up to take Abigail Foster’s arm, then, once she was done, Amanda’s, then Bee’s. There was only one other girl between me and Amanda: Lindsay Harris. According to The Aunts, every girl in town had done Cotillion when they were young, but now, fewer and fewer girls did it every year. It was becoming one of those traditions that some people thought was a little too old-fashioned, a little embarrassing.
Once Lindsay was safely at the bottom of the stairs, David came up to me, crooking his elbow. “Shall we?”
But before I could rest my hand on his forearm, Saylor called, “Actually David, I’d like for Miss Riley to go first.”
“Sure,” David said, shrugging and raising his eyebrows.
I was left to hover there awkwardly as Mary Beth walked back up the velvet-covered stairs, her white heels still hanging from her hands. When she reached the top, she took a deep breath, slid the heels on, and took David’s arm.
David made his way down the steps as carefully as if she’d been made of glass, but he shouldn’t have bothered. Mary Beth didn’t just walk. She floated. She glided. She practically levitated down those stairs.
As she passed me, I got a hint of rose, and then they were there at the bottom of the steps. With a little squeal, Mary Beth clapped her hands and bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. Even David seemed impressed.
Magic. Whatever Saylor had done to the lady who’d run Cotillion before, or the former head of the Pine Grove Betterment Society, she’d done it to Mary Beth, too. If you asked me, it seemed like kind of a waste of something so super powerful, but if it kept me from being trampled, I guess it was all for the good.
No reason to feel bad about ditching my Paladin duties, then. What would it matter if the occasional guy broke through Saylor’s wards? Maybe she’d already made them stronger.
Now that Mary Beth had finally made her first successful run down the stairs, it was my turn again. David offered his arm, and I laid my palm as lightly as I could on his sleeve.
“We need to talk,” he said in a low voice as we started to descend.
“We don’t,” I replied through clenched teeth.
I could feel his forearm tense under my hand. “Except that we
do
.”
From her position at the bottom of the staircase, Saylor watched the two of us. Anyone observing would’ve thought she was making sure we were moving at the right pace while using the appropriate posture. But I knew better.
So when David turned to me again once we were done, I hurried off to the little powder room off the main foyer.
Like everything else in Magnolia House, it was done all in shades of burgundy and green. A tiny wicker table by the door held a basket of scented lotions and a small bowl of potpourri, and there were tiny framed pictures of Magnolia House throughout the years on the walls. It wasn’t actually an antebellum house—they’d built the place in the 30s—but it was still a pretty exact replica of the big places that had once filled Pine Grove. They even kept antique furniture in the bedrooms upstairs.
I was studying one of the pictures when I realized what else was covering the walls—dark green wallpaper with a familiar pattern. My vision swam with skinny golden figure eights. My hands started shaking as I turned on the little gold faucet shaped like a swan. I splashed my face with cold water and was taking a deep breath when the door suddenly opened and David was standing there.
He went to shut the door, but I pushed past him before he could. Or at least I tried to. Even though my hands only shoved against the air half a foot from him, David still got out of the way, letting me into the hallway.
“No more skulking,” I hissed, shooting a glance back at the main foyer. This corridor was nearly blocked by the main staircase, so David and I were partially hidden. “We don’t have anything to talk about. Not anymore.”
David made a move toward me. I thought he was going to grab my arm, but then he seemed to think better of it. “I need to talk to someone about this,” he said, and there was almost something pleading in his voice.
Since I’d never heard David Stark plead for anything ever, I hesitated. Then I remembered how desperate I’d been to tell someone, anyone, about what had happened with Dr. DuPont.
So I stepped back a little further into the shadows. “What is it?”
Sighing, David tugged at his hair before reaching into the pocket of his jeans. “This.” He handed me a crumpled piece of paper, and I saw that it was an e-mail.
“This is the third one of these I’ve gotten this month.”
From the foyer, I could hear Saylor announcing the next rehearsal, and I knew I didn’t have much longer before I’d be missed. As quickly as I could, I scanned the e-mail.

Dear Mr. Stark: We here at the University of West Alabama are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for our Distinguished Student Scholarship. Recipients of this scholarship must first submit to an in-person interview with a representative from the university. We would be happy to schedule this interview at any time that is most convenient for you. Kindly contact us so that we might set up a time as soon as possible.

Underneath that there was a phone number and a name, Blythe Collier.
Handing him the paper, I glanced over my shoulder. “Okay, what’s so weird about that? That’s a legit scholarship. I’ve heard of it.”
David leaned close enough for me to see my reflection in his glasses. “Yeah, it’s legit, but you have to
apply
for it, Pres. They don’t
offer
it to you. And there’s no interview for it.”
I flexed my fingers. “So someone might be trying to lure you out of town.”
“Maybe.” He was a little sheepish as he shoved the paper back into his pocket. “I know it sounds stupid—”
“David, you’re really going to have to stop saying that. And look, I admit, maybe this is a bit fishy, but why tell me? Why not tell Saylor?”
Snorting, David tugged at his hair. “Can you blame me for not trusting her right now, Pres? She’s lied to me my entire life. She’s not even my actual aunt.”
His voice rose on the last word, and I touched his arm. “Shhh. I know. But . . . she’s in this with you. I’m not.”
David looked down at me. “I’m not asking you to go full Paladin on this. But I . . .” He broke off and sighed. “God, I might actually choke on these next words. I trust you. And I wanna check this out, but I’m not stupid enough to go check it out myself, and I think I might . . . need you.”
No. No. Tell him no. You are not his Paladin and this is not your issue anymore.

But I watched David chew a thumbnail, his skin pale. His other hand, shoved in his pocket, jangled change nervously, and he looked more freaked out than I’d seen him yet. That had to be the only reason I heard myself say, “E-mail her. Make an appointment. And I’ll . . . I’ll go with you.”