Page 163 of Swallow Your Sorries

“And weren’t they together on social media recently?” I ask, recalling the photo Ms Trix was looking at the night I chased after Rin. “Seems like they’re getting pretty serious.”

Ms Trix clears her throat and pulls out her phone, her thumbs swiping furiously over the screen, ready to begin another bout of cyberstalking. “Elle, you have another package under the staircase,” she says without sparing us another glance as she darts down the hall.

The box is bigger this time, and pewter, with a big silver bow tied on top.

When I open it, there are dozens of leotards and tights, all in the colours I need for the upcoming semesters. There are three pairs of pointe shoes and enough bandages and blue jelly pads to last me until Christmas. I push them aside to uncover shampoos and conditioners and even a deep treatment, under which I find a new school uniform wrapped in a separate bag. All the things I told Mum I needed. All the things I’d put on my wishlist to make it easier for her. I didn’t expect her to get me everything. If she’d bought me even a quarter of it, I would’ve been over the moon.

I am over the moon.

Or at least I should be.

“You don’t have to feel guilty anytime someone gives you something, you know,” Stassi says, pulling me out of my thoughts and reading my expression. “You deserve treats, too. Everyone does. You’re not hurting anyone but yourself by refusing to use them and hiding them under your bed.”

So she’d noticed Gant’s black box of panties I’d have yet to wear. Because I’m almost always in leotards, he hasn’t noticed that I haven’t been following his orders yet.

I shoot Mum a quick thank you text with a promise to call her later.

In our room, Aria’s already laid out the bottles and cups on her bookshelf like a makeshift bar. She’d pulled Stassi’s desk in front of it and placed both their desk chairs on the opposite side.

When she returns from her check-in with Ms Trix, her eyes are red as is her nose, but Stassi has the good sense not to ask once I throw her a warning look.

Together, Stassi and I push Stassi’s dresser in front of the door. The last thing we need is a surprise appearance from Ms Trix or any of the other girls who are still keen to get me into trouble.

“Okay,” Aria says, not meeting our gazes and busying herself with theTop Ordered Drinks in Barslist again on her laptop. “Since we have no idea who Libeuelle’s target audience is yet, let’s start with the classics and work our way to the trendier drinks later. How about a whiskey sour?”

It looks like she could use one.

Or two.

Or ten.

Elle

“Egg whites, lemon juice, sugar, whiskey, and an orange rind for aesthetics,” I say zooming in on the whiskey sour recipe on Aria’s laptop and jotting it down on a cheat sheet on my phone. “We’ll have to skip the egg whites and the peel though.”

“My dad just drinks it straight,” Stassi says. sliding into the chair across from me and beside Aria. “What sort of man do you suppose orders a whiskey sour?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. An old one? Why?”

“Because I’m the customer. I have to get in character.” She rubs her chin in thought as I arrange what ingredients we do have.

“Okay.” Stassi claps her hands together. “I think I’ve got just the character that will order a whiskey sour.”

“Okay.” I nod, looking at the recipe once more before clearing my throat. “What can I get you?”

Stassi sighs as if she’s had a long day. “Whiskey. Sour. Don’t suppose you have any egg whites?”

I give her a look. “No, sir, we don’t.”

“Well, what kind of establishment is this, darling?” Stassi asks incredulously, like an old southern man as she scopes out the imaginary bar. “May as well not call it a bar at all. I remember when you could order the classics with no modifications. Everyone knew how to make it just right. Then again, we didn’t have little ladies as the barkeep.”

“Barkeep? What are you, one hundred?” Aria asks.

“Well, she’s going to have hard-to-please customers. I’m just trying to give her some variety,” Stassi says, returning to her original voice. “You can be another bargoer. Like the lech.”

Aria thinks for a moment before leaning against the table, licking her lips and looking up at me beneath her eyelashes. “So, just how stiff can you make ‘um?”

By the time I’ve made a Mint Julep, a Bellini, and a Sangria (the perfect stage name for me given my red hair, according to Aria. This was after we rejected Stassi’s skin colour choices of Cream and Tortilla), a Screwdriver, and classic daiquiris, we’re all giggling and borderline drunk. I’d had the good sense to make the drinks no more than shot glass sized, but still. It took Stassi a good five minutes to stop hiccuping at some lame joke I’d told and couldn’t even remember now.

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