Page 13 of Even Beneath the Stars

Another thing about Maggie that's hard to ignore? Her eclectic wardrobe choices. Tonight it's a particularly memorable pairing of super baggy bright green pants with a yellow stripe down each leg with a cropped graphic print pastel pink tee, and several sparkly barrettes in her strawberry milkshake pink hair. She looks like someone put the Muppets in charge of a fashion line. And it kinda works.

She glances my way, and for a split second, our eyes meet—just as Piper’s hands slide up my abs to my chest, fingers curling into my T-shirt.

Maggie rolls her eyes and looks back at Jackie. And what the hell is her deal, anyway? No girl has ever reacted to me the way she does, and honestly, it irks me a little. Sets me on edge and makes me want to either piss her off or make her smile; I can't decide which.

I refocus, sinking the eight ball.

"Winner, winner, chicken dinner!" Finn squeals.

Piper’s grip falls away as I straighten and high-five my little bro.

"You wanna go again?" Mason asks, chalking his cue.

"You guys go ahead." I hand Piper my stick and lift Finn onto the table in front of Mason. "Here. Give Mace a few pointers—think he could use the help."

Mace flips me off, and I chuckle, grabbing my drink before weaving through the crowd. The cheerleaders are mid-routine on the makeshift dance floor, laughing their asses off. One hooks an arm around my shoulder, dragging me in. I go with it, sipping my drink with one hand, the other tucked in my pocket. The bass vibrates through the floor, the girls’ squeals ringing in my ears. Sensory overload—equal parts annoying and comfortingly familiar.

I finally break free from the dance floor and spot Maggie leaning against an ebony and gold claw-footed credenza, sipping soda. She doesn't look like she's uncomfortable being alone surrounded by a bunch of people who are most likely strangers to her.

This girl. Man, I don't know what to make of her. Think I'd find her kind of intriguing; maybe a refreshing brand of cool, if she didn't have such a crater-sized chip on her shoulder.

I take my chances and head over. She looks less ready to bite my head off than she did at the Kid's Club or the bonfire. I think.

"Question…" Figure I'll meet her halfway between small talk and mild antagonization. "Do they come in different colors, or just your run-of-the-mill khaki?"

I lean beside her, and her eyes narrow, like she's already figured out ten different ways this conversation could annoy her.

"What?"

"The lobster pants." I take a sip from my drink. "You know, the ones you were so disappointed I wasn't wearing that day at the Welsford."

Her lips twitch. "Ah, the lobster pants. They come in a range of tastefully obnoxious shades—mint green, pastel yellow…" She shrugs. "Royal blue for those really daring prep school types."

"Fascinating." I rake my teeth along my lower lip, weirdly pleased she’s playing along. "And here I’ve been slumming it in basic jeans like a common peasant."

"God, how embarrassing." She blows out a breath. "Especially since someone of your status could totally pull off the limited edition dark salmon version I hear is all the rage."

The bass drops, the crowd erupts, but Maggie stays locked in, watching me like I’m some puzzle she doesn’t want to solve but can’t help studying anyway. Her eyes flick to my lips, my cheekbones—maybe she just thinks I’m hot.

Which, yeah—most likely scenario. Ninety percent sure she still hates my entire personality. Or my life circumstances. Same thing, as far as she’s concerned. As far as a lot of people are concerned, I've learned over the years.

Suddenly, Finn rushes over, crashing into Maggie and squeezing both her legs with his scrawny arms. "Maggie!" he squeals, nearly knocking her drink over. "You're at my house!"

Oh!" Her eyes widen and she leans down to hug him. "Hey Finn!"

He zips over to me, tugging at my belt loop. "Look who's here! It's Maggie from Kid's Club!"

"Yeah, buddy, I see that."

"Did you know she can make alien puppets from socks?Realalien puppets! And she knows how to talk like a pirate!"

"Huh." I chew the inside of my cheek, setting down my drink. "Fluent in pirate. Impressive." I aim a grin at Maggie, but she’s only got eyes for Finn. Nothing like watching your five-year-old brother have more game than you.

He leans his back into me, reaching his arms back to wrap around my legs, clutching at my pants to hold himself up as he leans his body out and then back. Out and back. Always in motion. Dude's only still when he's sleeping.

He cranes his neck up at Maggie as he keeps rocking back and forth. "What are you doing here, Maggie?"

Funny how kids think their teachers or counselors don’t exist outside of school or camp or whatever. I remember being the same way—like,why is Mrs. Litman buying fingerling potatoes at Hannaford’s?Poof! Mind. Blown.

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