Firespell by Chloe Neill Page B

at the room that pink threw up on.
    Honestly—it looked like a Barbie factory exploded. There was pink everywhere, from the walls to the carpet to the bedspread and pillowcases. I practically had to squint against the glare.
    On the other hand, the stuff in the room was choice: flat-screen TV; top- of-the-line laptop; fancy speaker system with an iPod port; thick, quilted duvet. I mean, sure it was all covered in kill-me-now pink, but I could appreciate quality.
    “Nice room,” I half lied, as Veronica shut the door behind me. Mary Katherine was already on Amie’s bed, one leg crossed over the other and the glossy shoe box on her lap. Amie was in a sleek, clear plastic chair in front of a desk made of the same clear plastic. “Why, exactly, is she here?” Mary Katherine asked.
    Veronica gave me an appraising look. “We’re going to see how cool she is.”
    When Mary Katherine stroked the sides of the shoe box, I assumed my field trip into the Kingdom of Pink and the coolness test were related to whatever was in the shoe box in Mary Katherine’s lap . . . or my reaction to it.
    “How do we know she’s not a Little Mary Tattletale?” Mary Katherine asked.
    “Oh, come on, M.K. Lily’s from New York. She’s hip.” Veronica arched a challenging eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”
    I was from Sagamore, not New York, but I was too busy contemplating the first-degree peer pressure to bother correcting her. But since the surprise invitation was a mystery that would be solved when M.K. flipped the lid off the shoe box, I figured I’d go for it. I wasn’t getting a whole lot of closure on mysteries these days.
    “I’m wicked hip,” I agreed, my voice wicked dry.
    “Are you ready?” Veronica asked, as Mary Katherine slipped her fingers beneath the lip of the shoe box.
    “Sure,” I said.
    I’m not sure what I expected for all the buildup. Mind-altering substances? Diamonds? Stolen electronics? Weapons-grade plutonium? Or, if they’d been teenage boys, fireworks and nudie magazines?
    It wasn’t quite that dramatic.
    With her girls—and me—around her, Mary Katherine lifted the lid. It was filled with candy, diet soda, back issues of Cosmo , energy drinks and clove cigarettes. It was like a supermodel’s necessities kit.
    “Well?” M.K. prompted. “Pretty sweet, huh?”
    I opened my mouth, then closed it again with a snap. Surely they weren’t so sheltered that issues of Cosmo —which were probably available at every drugstore, bodega, and grocery store in the United States—were contraband. Still, I was a guest in enemy territory. Now was not the time for insults. “There’s definitely . . . all sorts of stuff in there.”
    Veronica reached in and grabbed a box of candy cigarettes, then pulled out a stick of white candy. “We have friends who bring it in,” she said, nipping a bit off the end.
    “And Mary Katherine’s parents practically make shipments,” Amie added, disapproval ringing in her voice.
    M.K. rolled her eyes. “We need it,” she said. “St. Sophia’s is all about health and vigor, organic and free-range and vitamin-enhanced. Weaknesses like these don’t figure into that. And if Foley ever found this stuff in our room, we’d be toast.” She gave me an appraising glance. “So—can you keep your mouth shut?”
    My gaze on a small bag of black licorice—my greatest weakness—I nodded. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
    Mary Katherine snorted and, seeing the direction of my gaze, reached over, grabbed the packet of licorice Scotties, and tossed it to me. I pulled it open—not even pausing to question why she was offering me candy—and began to nibble the head off a tiny, chewy dog.
    Veronica looked at her BFFs, then slid a glance my way, her eyes bright with promise. “You know, Parker, we don’t keep all of Mary Katherine’s stash up here, just in case Foley decides to start doing room checks again. The rest of it is in our little hidey-hole. We call it our treasure chest. We