Page 33 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
I’m thinking that there’s a literal confetti machine in my living room. “It’s very, um . . .” It’s alot. I have no idea what kind of budget Abigail is working with here. Frankly, I’m not sure Abigail understands the concept of a budget; whenever she wants something, all she has to do is ask her parents and they’ll give her two of it. It’s not that she’s super rich or anything. Abigail and her family are simply devout believers in the value of a Good Experience, of living in the moment. They’re the type to spend a month’s worth of savings for concert tickets to their favorite artist; to book the trip to Italynowand worry about the cost later; to stay in the hotel room with the ocean view even if it’s twice as expensive as the regular rooms, becausewe’re already here, so we might as well enjoy it properly.
As someone who’s a strong advocate of saving up just in case a comet crashes into our house and insurance refuses to cover it, it’s a bit harder for me to enjoy the elaborate bouquets of flowers and chocolate fountain Abigail’s bought for this one occasion. I barely even recognize my own house. She’s dimmed the lights and planted candles around the place so the walls appear to be a shade of pastel pink, obscuring all Max’s muddy sneaker marks. There are also giant cartons of alcohol lined up along the couches. I don’t know where Abigail procured them from, but I doubt her methods were fully legal.
As if my list of worries weren’t already long enough.
“I’m only renting the confetti machine for the night,” she reassures me. “It’s just to set the mood from the beginning. You want people to come in and be like,Wow,I can tell right away from the quality of the confetti scattered casually but strategically across the floor that this will be the best party I’ve ever been to.”
I let out a snort. “Nobody thinks like that.”
“They’ll think that when they see your house.”
“But . . . will they even come?” I worry, pressing my ear against the front door—because it’s a comfortable position, of course. Not because I think this is the most effective way for me to be alerted and prepare myself the instant I hear the sound of footsteps in my driveway. “We said it would start at six on the dot and—” I glance at the clock. “And it’s already five forty-three.”
“Not everyone is as punctual as you are,” Abigail says. “Your idea of ten minutes late is equivalent to the average person’s idea of twenty minutes early. And trust me, they’redefinitelygoing to want to come. They’d rock up to a serial killer’s house if there was the promise of free booze.”
“That’s highly concerning. You realize that’s highly concerning, right?”
She shrugs. “Just how it is.”
“Also—” I pause. Frown. “I’m sorry, did you just compare me to a serial killer?”
“No,”she says, with too much emphasis. “Although, just to put it out there, even if youwerea serial killer, I would absolutely stick by you and sharpen your knives.”
“How sweet.”
“I’d also clean the blood off your bathroom floor,” she adds brightly. “I was reading this fascinating article the other day about how to use basic laundry detergents to do just that. You wouldn’t have to worry about leaving behind any evidence.”
“Okay, wait.” I hold up a hand. “In this—frankly disturbing, highly unrealistic—scenario you’ve conjured out of nowhere, why am I murdering people in mybathroom?”
“Well, you wouldn’t be murdering people in your kitchen. That’s just unhygienic.”
I grimace. “I fear this conversation has gotten away from us.”
“Yeah, sorry, what were we talking about again? Oh right. They’ll show up, Sadie, I promise—”
Before she’s even finished her sentence, the sound of voices drifts over from the front yard.
“Oh my god, people are actually coming,” I say, my throat drying. All of a sudden, it feels like someone’s playing kickball with my intestines. The skirt I’m wearing is too tight, the fabric too itchy.
“See? I’m always right.” Abigail smiles. She refastens the sash around her shimmery dress, fluffs up her hair, and gently guides me out of the way to open the door. “Hello, hello,” she calls out. “Please do come in.”
It’s Ray.
He’s rocked up with four other guys from our history class, and as he steps inside in his oversized varsity jacket and pristine trainers, his eyes sweeping over the party decorations, I experience a moment of pure, heart-stopping panic. What if he isn’t here for the party itself? What if they’ve coordinated some kind of attack on my house? What if they’re going to all start egging the place or laughing at me? But then he sees the alcohol, and he breaks into a grin. “Damn, I knew I’d come to the right place.”
“Welcome,” I say tentatively.
“See, you guys?” Ray calls to his friends as he moves past me. “Told you there’d be free drinks. Let’s get the others over here as well.”
He shoots off a message on his phone, and in hardly any time at all, dozens of people start pulling up in my driveway. Abigail really was right. I shouldn’t have worried about my classmates not showing, even with my current social status. Soon, there’s so little room left for parking that the cars are lined up all the way down the street, girls checking their lipstick and giggling as they join the crowds streaming inside.
Nobody eggs my house. Nobody stalks up to me and slaps me. Nobody calls me a bitch. Though I brace myself for the worst every time I open the door, people seem more impressed than anything by the alcohol supply and the decorations. I even manage to get a little smile and a compliment on my outfit from one of Rosie’s influencer friends.
Slowly, my muscles relax.
My heart unhooks itself from my rib cage. My breathing evens out.
Then the door swings open again, and I find myself staring at the last person in the world I’d expect to appear.
