Sophomore Year
TRIGGER
"Where is she?" I ask Hollis for what easily feels like the millionth time tonight as I peer out over the dimly lit dance hall.
The homecoming dance has been going on for almost two hours.
After last night’s fight at the polo match, I thought Asha would show up just to make my life difficult.
Being late could be another way she’s choosing to stick it to me.
There’s no doubt in my mind she knows her tardiness is getting under my skin.
She’s smart, but she still hasn’t realized I actually enjoy getting a reaction out of her.
I like a challenge, but I also need her to be present to accept one.
"Dude, you need to chill," Hollis says, adjusting his tie as his date spins away from him to grab a punch. "You're acting like a stalker."
"I'm not—" I start, but he cuts me off with a knowing look.
"You've checked your phone, like, fifty times. You're wearing a path into the floor. And you keep whipping your head around like you're following a play every time the door opens."
I force myself to lean back against the wall, trying for casual.
He's right. I look like a crazy stalker or, worse, like I’m planning for my own counterattack.
While both of those things are true, I don't need the world to know—at least not before she knows it.
"I just want to know if she's coming. She said she'd be here. "
"She said, and I quote, 'I'll see you at the dance tomorrow night or I won't. I really hope the latter is true.'" Hollis grins. "Let's be honest, she has you permanently benched."
"Who said I was trying to play her games?"
My phone buzzes. I have it out before Hollis can even smirk at me.
Not her.
I shove it back in my pocket and scan the entrance again. The thing is, she’s never late. Ever. She always shows up early to every meeting we have, just so she can make some comment about my time management.
"Look, I get some guys are into that whole girls-playing-hard-to-get thing, and you can lie to me all you want, pretend you aren't interested in her, that this obsession stems from her throwing a milkshake on you and your bruised ego needing payback.
But she's not just some girl; she's my cousin.
And I can promise you that's not what's happening with Asha.
She genuinely hates you. There's no game.
No secret interest. She looks at you the way most people look at gum on their shoe. "
I tap my thumb against my thigh. Hollis has become my closest friend at Ridgewood, and I still haven’t told him about my history with his cousin.
I haven’t told him about the one time we met when we were six, or how our families are enemies, or that the fascination I have with Asha Fairfield doesn't border on obsession—it is obsession. I could tell him now; this could be a segue, but I don’t because my reasons for keeping it to myself center around her doing the same.
Hollis hasn’t ever mentioned that she’s talked about me, which means Asha must have her reasons for not bringing me up too.
Asha and Hollis might be family, but he doesn't know her the way I do.
He's not in our AP class. He doesn't see the way she steals glances when she thinks I'm not looking, or how, in our student council meetings, the hairs on her arms stand at attention when I'm near.
He doesn't see the way her pulse quickens or how her eyes dilate the second all my attention is pinned directly on her.
Hollis doesn't know what it's like to hate the fact that you more than like someone. But I don't need him to.
"If I were to make a bet, I bet she decided you weren't worth the effort tonight," Hollis offers unhelpfully.
"Nah, that's the thing about girls who play hard to get…" I say, my tone laced with more confidence than I feel. "They don't back down from confrontation."
He shakes his head with a smirk, and the double doors behind him swing open. My pulse kicks up before I even register why. Then I see her.
"Never gamble, Hollis. You're shit at it," I say as my eyes trace over every inch of her.
She's wearing a dark-green satin dress that catches the light as she moves, and her hair is down, flowing in thick, wavy locks. She looks...different. Still her, but softer somehow, as she pauses in the doorway, scanning the crowd.
Our eyes meet across the room, and hers narrow immediately, that familiar fire sparking to life.
She squares her shoulders and starts walking, her steps quickly turning to a march as she makes a beeline straight toward me, and despite the murderous look on her face, I can't help the stupid grin spreading across mine.
"Here we go," Hollis mutters, melting away into the crowd.
She stops in front of me, close enough that I catch a hint of something floral in her perfume. Close enough to see the slight flush in her cheeks that might be from rushing, or anger, but confident there's a good chance it's from something else.
"You're late," I say, because apparently, I have a death wish.
"I wasn't aware I owed you a timely arrival." Her tone could cut glass, but she's here. She came.
"You don't owe me anything. I just noticed, that's all."
"Noticed?" She crosses her arms. "Or were you obsessively watching the door like some kind of creep?"
"Can't it be both?"
The corner of her mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly, but I catch it. I always catch it.
"You're insufferable," she says.
"And yet, here you are." I hold out my hand, nodding toward the dance floor. "Dance with me?"
"Absolutely not."
"Afraid you'll enjoy it?"
Her eyes flash, and for a split second, I believe my words are spot on, but then her mask is firmly slipped back into place, and the murderous look she had stomping across the room is replaced with a devilish one that promises calculated revenge.
"Dancing requires touching, and the thought repulses me."
The words sting more than they should, but before I can respond, her smile sharpens into something truly dangerous.
"Besides, while you were busy not finishing the dance hall last night.
.." She pauses, letting that particular failure sink in while I internally scold myself.
She came after she said she wouldn't, and I was too damn tired.
"I put together a surprise fundraising auction to help raise more money for the charity this year's dance is sponsoring. "
"What kind of auction?"
"Oh, you know. The usual. Donated items, experiences, that sort of thing." Her voice is pure innocence, but her eyes are gleaming with malicious delight. "I may have included a few special lots. Very exclusive. Very...personal."
The way she says "personal" makes my blood run cold.
"Asha, what did you do?"
"You'll see." She pats my chest with false sympathy.
"Don't worry. It's all for charity. You're not the type to back out of helping a good cause, are you?
" she says before waltzing up to the stage and heading straight to the DJ.
Leaning in close, she says something in his ear, and he hands her the microphone, looking all too amused.
The music fades, and conversations die down as people start to notice the change in volume and look toward the stage where Asha stands in that dark-green dress, poised and confident, every inch the girl who's spent her life commanding rooms full of people twice her age, at her dad’s galas or at show-jumping competitions. She's in her element.
"Good evening, everyone!" Her voice rings out across the dance hall. "I hope you're all having the best time at homecoming."
There’s applause and a few whistles, and her smile never wavers as she waits for them to simmer.
"As you all know, Homecoming at Ridgewood has a long-standing tradition of raising money for the local shelters as we head into the winter months.
" She pauses, letting the weight of that settle.
"This year, instead of betting on stuff, we're betting on time.
It's our most valuable resource and the gift that keeps on giving. "
What in the actual hell is she talking about?
It was her idea to pull the auction this year, instead choosing to raise the price of a ticket, arguing that attending homecoming in general was the money grab.
None of these trust-fund babies cared to bid on things their parents could buy them with one call home, so why waste time on silent auction tables?
However, they would willingly pay whatever price we put on a ticket just to ensure they attended.
In her words, the higher the price tag, the more exclusive the dance becomes.
The cost itself transformed homecoming from just another school event into something elite, a velvet rope only the wealthy could cross.
She'd actually said it made them want it more, that charging five hundred dollars per ticket did more for the dance's prestige than any decorations or DJ ever could.
The price wasn't just admission. It was a status symbol, proof you belonged to the inner circle that could afford not to flinch at the cost. I couldn't disagree, and though you'd never catch me paying that ticket price to attend a dance, I didn't object because, as class president, I don't have to pay admission.
Hollis appears at my elbow. "Why does it look like you didn't know about this?"
"Because I didn't," I mutter, unable to look away from her.
Suddenly, there are cards in her hand. I'm not sure if they were there before she took the stage, all I know is they are there now, and my heart is pounding as I wait with bated breath for her words.
"Our opening bid is for something money usually can't buy: total control over the winter formal.
Pick any theme you want, any venue the budget allows, curate the playlist, and design the whole experience.
This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to throw the party everyone will remember. Bidding starts at one hundred dollars."