Chapter 5

Hunter didn't look in my direction for the rest of the week—not that I was keeping track. Or maybe I was. I couldn't help noticing his sullen presence whenever he ambled into the cafeteria or gym. I received no further leads on what drove him to suicide, besides him being certifiable (Casey's words, not mine) and his spawn-of-Satan stepbrother (my words). But I began to crave answers beyond his suicide attempt. I wanted to know where he went when he wasn't in the cafeteria or what he read when he glanced at the phone he kept wedged in his front pocket.

I searched for even the smallest of clues, and on Friday, I was unlucky enough to find one. Hunter Thomas wasn't the most popular; that much was obvious. You don't wear all black, sit alone, and smoke cigarettes when you're trying to infiltrate the popular crowd. I learned, however, that his status far surpassed unpopularity.

He walked into the cafeteria about twenty minutes late, and I assumed he had been outside chain-smoking cigarettes, but it was only an educated guess. The lunchroom doors opened with a loud bang, and Hunter didn't even flinch when half the cafeteria turned to stare at him. He strolled to the food line, but his shoulders tightened when he passed our table.

"Hey, faggot!" someone called, and I froze.

Hunter kept walking, but he lifted his head and brought two lazy fingers to his forehead, saluting our table. The thing was, Hunter didn't look at the guy sitting four chairs down who'd called him a faggot; he looked directly at me.

I watched him drag himself to the lunch line and squeeze out a few crumpled dollars from his pocket to order lunch. Turned out, I wasn't the only one watching him.

I wanted to yank Erica something-or-other's pin-straight hair right out of her head as she eyed him making his way to his table. "It really is a tragedy that he's such a creep, you know. He could be seriously mind-blowingly hot."

I wanted to tell her what I thought was a tragedy, and it involved her being born into the world, but I clamped my mouth shut instead.

Margo's eyes narrowed. "Better not let Scott hear you say that."

"Why? Think he'd be jealous?"

They glared at each other, ignoring Hunter as he bit into an unappetizing cheeseburger. When I returned my attention to their conversation, it had transitioned into their weekend plans.

"Jake's parents came home this morning, but it's not that big of a deal," Margo said. "Scott said we'd just do the party at his house, because his parents are always gone anyway."

Hunter abandoned his cheeseburger with a disgruntled frown and began inhaling his tater tots. I imagined him settling in for an angsty evening at home, his frown nothing compared to the horrific scowl he'd wear as his house overflowed with all the people he hated, and my curiosity outweighed my sanity. "You know what? I think I will come this weekend. I haven't been to a party in a while."

Margo and Casey whooped and shrieked so loud you would have thought I'd offered to supply all the alcohol. Their racket earned us a grimace from Hunter, but he stiffened under my gaze. I'm not sure which of us looked away first, but he frowned his way through the rest of the lunch period, not looking anywhere besides the tray in front of him. As soon as he finished eating, he pulled up his hood, dumped his tray in the trash can, and strolled out of the cafeteria altogether. And I was left sitting there, wondering if it was easier to breathe when he was there or when he wasn't, and praying the party didn't wind up being a mistake.

* * *

Gettingready was about as torturous as I imagined, especially the part where we reviewed every article of Margo's closet to select the perfect outfit. I aspired for presentable, but they chased perfection. Every blemish had to be covered, every strand of hair had to be in place, and every thread of clothing needed to be flattering. In theory, I should have enjoyed it, because I was behind the scenes with the two most popular girls in school. Instead, I wanted to share the truth with their loyal followers. I wanted them to know the American Eagle shirt Margo said was hideous was hanging in the back of her closet, and the face all the guys said was gorgeous took an hour and a half to perfect.

Despite the cold, they wore short dresses and open-toe heels. I looked like an idiot in jeans, but I felt somewhat validated as they shivered and teetered in Margo's driveway. Her mom had offered to drive us, but Margo convulsed at the offer. She typed a few strokes into her phone, and within ten minutes, a sleek black car was waiting. I nodded to Will and Jesse as Margo flung open the door, whining about the cold.

We pulled up to a massive white house alit on a quiet street. Candles glowed in every window, illuminating the dark shutters framing them. The house's proportions were perfect, its solid red door smack dab in the middle with an even number of windows on each side, all covered in a light dusting of snow. One swift photograph could have been the cover of a Christmas card.

I couldn't help the wave of regret that surged to the back of my throat like the copper taste of blood. I was curious about Hunter, but he grew insignificant compared to Scott. I could hear the dull thumping of music inside, matching the erratic beating in my chest, and I stuffed my sweaty hands in my jeans. Margo pushed open the front door while I calculated how long I could stand outside before I died of hypothermia, but as tempting as it was, I didn't hang around to find out.

* * *

I was followingMargo and Casey into the crowded kitchen, offering polite smiles, when I realized I was also the recipient of quite a few waves and head nods. Casey chatted with two girls from our lunch table while I scanned the crowd for a dark head of hair, but there was no sign of Hunter. I knew he lived in the house. Or at least, I knew he used to, but that was two years ago. And even if he still did, I suppose I knew better. It wasn't as though I expected to find him cheering around the keg or squished into the group photo just because his mail was delivered there.

I settled on searching for other clues—an elementary school picture hanging on the fridge or a scribbled note asking him to grab milk on his way home from school—but once again, I found nothing. Hunter didn't even exist on the family calendar hanging outside the pantry. Each day was filled with Scott's practices and games in neat, angular writing. Beside the calendar, there was a gold-foiled invitation honoring a John Thomas. Philanthropist and CEO of—

"Alice!" Casey said, grabbing my hand.

I spun around. My face heated as if I'd been caught rifling through drawers. There were several other sheets of paper tacked to the neat corkboard I'd been examining, but I figured I'd have plenty of time to continue my investigation once everyone was so drunk they forgot I was even there.

Casey glanced between me and the calendar. "Er, what are you doing?"

"Nothing." I made a point of squinting across the kitchen at nothing in particular.

She shoved a cup of beer into my hand. "Want this? I'm getting vodka."

I half shrugged, accepting it because I didn't feel like drawing attention to the matter. I wasn't against drinking or anything, but I wasn't exactly for it either. I hovered somewhere in the middle. I only drank under the right circumstances, and the right circumstances certainly didn't include Scott grinning in my face.

"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in." He looked me over, and I folded my arms across my chest. He wore a button-down shirt and faded designer jeans. His fingers cradled an expensive glass of something golden brown. Everyone else drank cheap beer or shitty vodka, but Scott always had whiskey like the rich, arrogant prick he was. Although, based on the invitation, Scott could probably thank Hunter's dad for the expensive liquor and obnoxious Range Rover, which somehow made it more satisfying.

He took a step closer to me. "I'm glad you could make it. Can I get you anything? Shot of whiskey? Smirnoff?"

If I didn't know any better, his smile would have seemed courteous, but I did know better, so his mocking politeness made me want to bash his head into the too-white cabinets.

"Do you have tonic?" Casey asked.

He waved a hand at the counter behind him. "I don't know, probably. Go check." He redirected his attention to me as Casey huffed past. "Alice?"

"What?"

His smile grew at the harshness in my voice. "I asked if I could get you anything."

I meant to tell him he could fuck off forever, but I couldn't quite get the words out as I pushed past him to follow Casey.