Perfect (Book Two)

Twenty-Four: $250 Gets You Dinner, Dancing...And A Warning.

Foxy was held in Kingman Hall, an old English countryside mansion built by a man who'd invented some new-fangled milking machine in the early 1900s. In fourth grade, when they learned about the hall in the All About Pennsylvania social studies unit, Emily nicknamed it "Moo Mansion."

As the check-in girl scrutinized their invites. Emily looked around. The place had a labyrinthine garden in its front yard. Gargoyles leered from the arches of the mansion's stately front. Ahead of her was the tent where the actual event was being held. It was lit up with fairy lights and full of people.

"Wow." Toby came up beside her. Beautiful girls swished by them toward the tent, wearing elaborate, custom-made dresses and carrying bejeweled bags. Emily looked down at her own dress—it was a simple, strapless pink sheath Carolyn had corn to prom last year. She'd done her hair herself, put on a lot of Carolyn's ultra-girly Lovely perfume—which made her sneeze—and was wearing earrings for the first time in a while, poking them forcefully through the holes in her ears that had almost closed up. Even with all that, she still felt plain next to everyone else.

Yesterday, when Emily called Toby to ask him to Foxy, he'd sounded so surprised—but really excited. She was psyched, too. They would go to Foxy, share another kiss, and who knew? Maybe become a couple. In time, they would visit Jenna at her school in Philadelphia, and Emily would somehow make it all up to her. She'd foster Jenna's next Seeing Eye dog. She'd read to her all the books that hadn't yet come out in Braille. Maybe, in time, Emily would confess her involvement in Jenna's accident.

Or maybe not.

Except now that she was at Foxy, something just felt...wrong. Emily's body kept feeling hot then cold, and her stomach kept clenching up in pain. Toby's hands felt too scratchy, and she'd been so nervous, they'd barely said anything to each other on the way over. Foxy itself didn't seem to be very calming, either; everyone was so stiff and poised. And Emily was sure someone was watching her. As she inspected every girl's made-up, glossy face and every guy's scrubbed, handsome one, she wondered, Are you A?

"Smile!" A flashbulb popped in Emily's face, and she let out a little scream. When the spots faded from her eyes, a blond girl in a merlot-red dress with a press badge over her right boob and a digital camera slung over her shoulder was laughing at her. "I was just taking photos for the Philadelphia Inquirer," she explained. "Wanna try that again, without the freaked expression this time?" Emily clutched Toby's arm and tried to look happy, except her expression was more of a petrified grimace.

After the press girl whirled away, Toby turned to Emily. "Is something wrong? You seemed so relaxed in front of a camera before?"

Emily stiffened. "When have you seen me in front of a camera?"

"The Rosewood versus Tate?" Toby reminded her. "That crazy yearbook kid?"

"Oh, right." Emily breathed out.

Toby's eyes followed a waiter scurrying around with a drink tray. "So, is this your scene?"

"God, no!" Emily said. "I've never been to anything like this in my life."

He looked around. "Everyone looks so...so plastic. I used to want to kill most of these people."

A sharp, startled frisson passed through Emily. It was the same sort of feeling she'd felt when she woke up in the back of Toby's car. When Toby noticed her face, he quickly smiled. "Not literally." He squeezed her hand. "You're much prettier than all the girls here."

Emily flushed. Only she was finding that her insides didn't turn upside down when he said it or when he touched her. They should. Toby looked hot. Gorgeous, actually, in his black suit and black wingtips, with his hair pushed back off his angular, square-jawed face. Every girl was checking him out. When he'd shown up on her porch, even mild-mannered Carolyn had squealed, "He's so cute!"