Bounce by Natasha Friend Page B

ours are over. Finito. Kaput.
    Stella looks at me, a little smile playing on her lips.
    You think I’m kidding? I reach behind my head—fiddle with the clasp of her necklace until it comes loose. See? I’m taking this off. I don’t need it anymore. I don’t need you anymore.
    She opens her mouth as if she’s going to say something, but no words come out.
    Later, when I’m lying in bed, there she is again. Green eyes watching me. Soft pink mouth opening and closing, opening and closing, like a fish.
    But no words come out. Not a single one.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    After another day of dirty looks and not one person to hang out with after school, I open the mailbox. Usually there’s nothing for me—my Maine friends just call and e-mail—but today there is.
    I stare at the envelope.
    Miss Evyn Linney and Mrs. Eleni Linney.
    A sick feeling comes over me as I open it, and not just because the yellow-and-green-plaid card stock is nauseating to behold.
    You are cordially invited to the 47th Annual March School Mother-Daughter Tea. Sunday, November Twenty-third at Two in the Afternoon
    Are they serious? Do they actually think she’s my mother? And if they know she’s not—if they know she’s just the woman my father married—do they really think I’d want to drink tea with her, anywhere? The thought of walking into the March School on a weekend, for an afternoon of small talk and crumpets, is bad enough. But with Betty Boop by my side? Forget it.
    Luckily, I’m the one who brought in the mail. She hasn’t seen the invitation yet, and now she never will.
    Birdie walks into the kitchen just as I’m stuffing the last shreds of yellow and green into the trash can.
    â€œHey, Ev,” he says, not noticing a thing. “How was the day?”
    â€œFine,” I say.
    â€œSchool was good?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œAnything to share?”
    I look at him.
    He’s got that eager-beaver look on his face, like he’s been doing some inspirational reading. How to Connect with Your Daughter in the Kitchen After School.
    â€œAnything?” he repeats.
    I shake my head.
    I’ve never seen him act this way around me. We used to just talk, like regular people.
    â€œYou’ll be here for dinner, right?” he asks.
    â€œWhy wouldn’t I be here for dinner?”
    He laughs—a jolly har, har, har. “No reason. It’s just Family Meeting Night, that’s all.”
    Family Meeting Night.
    Linus.
    Linus will be here.
    â€œIf you could be at the table by six o’clock that would be great.”
    I shrug. Whatever, my shoulders say.
    But that shrug is a lie.
    Inside, my heart is playing the bongos. My brain is flinging open storage drawers, in search of the perfect outfit.
    Family Meeting Night. I have on a black camisole and tight black jeans—castoffs from Jules. Also lipstick. It’s the kind of ensemble that a girl with short hair and no curves whatsoever could actually look good in. Even sexy. Maybe. If you were to squint at her from a great distance.
    I come to the table, hoping I won’t say anything stupid—hoping my crush-blush will behave itself.
    But when I get there, Linus’s seat is empty. Apparently, he has a take-home exam due on Monday, and it’s half his grade. He’s not here, and for the dinner portion of the evening I’m devastated.
    The knee slapper is this: I only think I’m devastated. I don’t know real devastation yet. No one does. Not Mackey, not Thalia, not the sweater twins, not Ajax, not Phoebe. Real devastation won’t hit us until after dessert. Until after we file into the living room. Until Birdie and Eleni are standing right in front of us, beaming like a couple of halogen lightbulbs. It hurts my eyes to look at them.
    â€œKids.” My father slides his arm around her shoulders and squeezes. “We have an announcement.”
    They move closer to each