Page 31 of Five Stolen Rings

“I’ll let you know,” Mrs. Driggs says with a nod, pulling me out of my ponderings. “Thank you, sweetie.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, and another smile blooms, more genuine this time. “Don’t drag those things around by yourself. I can help any time I’m home.”

“I might just take you up on that,” she says. She wavesover her shoulder and begins her hobble up the driveway, and I turn to head back to my little basement unit.

It’s been a long day, and I will sleepverywell.

I startle with surprise, though, when I see that Jack is still here, his car still idling on the street in front of my parents’ house. It’s just as well; I hurry over to the driver’s window and knock on it.

“What?” he says when he rolls it down.

“I’ll text you tomorrow about getting my car,” I say. “Are you working?”

“Yes,” he says, his hands drumming on the steering wheel. He doesn’t even look at me; his gaze stays straight ahead. “But we’ll figure something out.”

I nod. “That’s fine. Thanks.” Then another thing pops into my head. “Oh—and the reunion.”

“What about it?” he says. “Going to try to back out?”

“No,” I say, although I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind. “But I’m not going to be showered, and my hair is going to be gross. Are you sure that’s the kind of fake girlfriend you want?”

“You can bathe,” he says. “Just don’t get your head wet. The reunion isn’t until after your shower ban anyway.” He finally turns to look at me; I can see his eyes flitting over me in the yellow light of the street lamps. “But I don’t really care what you look like. I just need someone to be there.”

“If you’re sure…” I say, letting my voice trail off. Maybe he’ll sense my hesitance and let me off the hook.

But he narrows his eyes at me. “I’m sure,” he says in a soft, even voice. “Now go inside and go to bed. Stop doing things like helping little old ladies with their trash cans.” For some reason he looks irritated when he says this, like me helping Mrs. Driggs has offendedhim personally.

I frown. “It took me two seconds, and she needed help. Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not. I just—” He breaks off, sighing. “Never mind. Go inside, Princess.”

“Why do you call me that?” The words pop out without permission.

His body stills. “So many reasons,” he says, turning his gaze back to the road ahead. And before I can ask any more questions, he’s got his foot on the gas, the car inching forward. I take a few steps back, and then he’s gone, no sign of him left but tire tracks in the snow.

JACK

There were two reasons I started calling StellaPrincess.One was that she turned into a little snob when she came to Windsor in the ninth grade.

But the other reason I called her that—the deeper reason, the one I would never admit...well. I watched her coming into her own, watched her light up with joy in my presence, watched her dogoodin her own way?—

I watched those parts of her blossom. I fell in love with them. And although things changed, although Stella changed…I think I called herPrincessbecause I had one day planned tomake her my queen.

FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

Stella has some nerve, creeping onto my porch to play with my cat when she thinks I’m not home yet.

The shortcut to her neighborhood leads her through mine; every day after school she walks down the winding, neatly manicured lane of Windsor Heights, past my house, all the way to the end of subdivision and through a little patch of woods. The woods spit her out into another neighborhood; she walks through that one too until finally she reaches her own.

It’s kind of a long way to go on foot, but she’s not a kid anymore. She’s sixteen, almost seventeen—a year younger than me—and I happen to know for a fact that she likes taking long walks.

Or—well. She used to. These days…I don’t know.

But it seems she still likes to play with Chutney, my family’s fat silver tabby. She’s crouched on the steps of my front porch, her crisp white shirt coming untucked from her uniform skirt in the back as she leans forward. Her blonde hair is tied in a perfect ponytail, shiny and soft-looking, and one arm is outstretched, scratching Chutney under the chin.

Chutney is a traitor and doesn’t know that Stella has changed, become someone she’s not, trying to find acceptance and popularity.

It wouldn’t suck so much if I didn’t still see hints of the girl I’ve always known. But I do; I catch glimpses of her from across the lunch room when she’s not forcing herself to laugh at the stupid jokes of the junior football captain, her smile flickering, her eyes tired. I pass her in the hallways, part of a flock of giggling girls but nonetheless looking lonely and lost.

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