Chapter 1 Nellie
Nellie
Now
I twist the knob on my car stereo, silencing it.
Just moments before, I was blasting Prince while cruising out here, driving too fast on the backcountry roads, sun bleaching the wild grass a pale yellow, searing the top of my head, the wind whipping my hair into a knotted mess.
But I don’t care. It’s summer. I have to drive with the top down.
Why else would I have this cherry-red Beamer convertible?
Mom thinks I like fluffy music like Madonna, and her songs are okay, but Prince is the tasty little secret I keep from her.
Well, one of many. She thinks she knows everything about me; she practically does, but I keep a few things to myself.
And Prince is one of them. When I listen to his music, I don’t feel like the little rich bitch who lives in Longview’s biggest mansion, whose mommy buys her every crisp new Esprit and Guess outfit she wants, and also buys her friends.
I feel free. Wild. Capable of anything.
I kill the engine. It crackles as it cools, little pings of noise, bacon popping in a skillet.
I don’t want them to notice me, the crowd that’s gathered down on the dock.
No one turned in my direction when I pulled into the dirt lot, so no one has spotted me yet, thank freaking God.
I’m too stirred up, not ready to face them.
I planned on springing from the car, making my way down there with a freshly lit cigarette wedged between my lips, when the crowd parted and I glimpsed her, hands above her head, dancing like she’s some freaky hippie from Woodstock.
She was showing off some move, and when she finished, she threw her head back, laughed that rough laugh of hers.
Jane Swift.
What the fuck is she doing here?
This is our spot. Miller’s Swimming Hole. Only the rich kids come here.
Who the fuck invited her?
Rage builds in the back of my throat, and I want to scream, but instead, I take a nice, long pull of my drink, a cherry limeade from Sonic, packed with their pellet ice, spiked with vodka—lots of it. The alcohol feels good as it slides down, burning away the rage. Or at least numbing it.
She and her weird family moved here a few weeks ago, right before school let out. Who does that? Moves at the end of the school year? We’re both juniors, about to be seniors, and there she was in my trig class, the cute new girl soaking up all the attention.
I don’t have any friends—not any real friends—but I’m used to it.
It’s been this way my whole life. I’m a bully, a mean girl, people say, and Mom’s always had to bribe my way into acceptable society.
People basically have to be friends with me.
So I’m in with the rich bitches, even if they don’t like it.
Even if they try and exclude me. Even if they’re distant.
It doesn’t bug me much—most everyone in town is an idiot anyway—but watching Jane just now, parading in the spotlight, makes it glaringly obvious what an outcast I truly am.
When they first got here, Mom and I were downtown, shopping at Ritz’s, the high-end clothing store.
We spotted her and her mother on the sidewalk, heading toward Smithy’s—basically the feed store.
I snickered as they passed us, both of them wearing sad little homemade dresses.
But Jane walked with this strut of confidence that pissed me off.
Who the fuck does she think she is? I thought to myself.
As soon as they disappeared inside a store, I said in a low voice to Mom, “I don’t like her.” Meaning Jane.
“I don’t like her either,” Mom said.
That’s just how we are with each other. She knows to always agree with me.
I take another scorching sip of my drink now, letting the liquor trickle through my veins, dull my thoughts.
Behind the group, the river sparkles, catching the sunlight.
It’s beautiful out here. It’s always been one of my favorite places; everyone is more carefree by the water.
Drinking, smoking, swimming. Diving off the roof of the old metal boathouse.
And it’s just understood that we’ll show up at sunset most summer nights.
You don’t need, like, a formal invitation or anything; you just have to be in with the in crowd, which I guess Jane now officially is. Ugh.
She’s ruining the beauty of it all. Everyone thinks she’s so pure and innocent in her homemade fucking bikini. But I see what she’s doing as she casually tugs the thong out of her crack, drawing all eyes to her.
Her own eyes are almond shaped and green—wholesome eyes—but she saves this wicked, evil glare just for me. Shoots it at me when no one’s looking. Everyone else, it seems, thinks she hung the fucking moon.
As fucking if.
I don’t get it. And normally, one would get skewered in town for having those buck teeth of hers. All our smiles have been trained to perfection with braces, followed by headgear and retainers to maintain, but on her, wild teeth are somehow sexy?
Dustin joked right out of earshot—I saw him make the blow job gesture to his friends—that he bets she’s good at going down.
I knew he was just doing it to get a rise out of me.
It’s his main goal in life. Not that she’d ever go after him.
His family is among the richest in town, second only to mine, so we’ve lived in the same neighborhood all our lives, but, like me, he’s not all that good-looking.
I’m with him only because no one else will go out with me, and Mom made it good and goddamn clear that I would have a boyfriend, even if it were a fake arrangement.
I like Dustin okay, but I won’t let him do anything other than take off my bra, get to second base. But that doesn’t mean he stops trying to go further, every single time. We’re stuck together, at least until we graduate, which can’t happen one goddamn second too soon.
I suck the rest of my drink from my Styrofoam cup, getting a large hit of the alcohol that’s settled at the bottom.
I yank down my visor to study my face. My cheeks are flushed, my lips are cherry red to match the car, and my cobalt-blue eyes are swimming.
Normally, I’d be satisfied enough with how I look to bolt down there, drop into the crowd, but now I snap the visor back up and drill my eyes into Jane’s form, wishing I had superpowers to set things on fire just by looking at them, like Drew Barrymore in Firestarter.
I flinch when the icy liquid hits my hot thigh. Without even realizing it, I drilled a hole in the bottom of my cup while staring at Jane.
Jane, who has nothing and is nothing. Who lives on a farm on the outskirts of town. Her dad’s a fucking carpenter—but they all act like he’s Jesus or something.
Now she’s twirling, arms above her head again, before she climbs the rickety ladder to the top of the boathouse, then dives off. Everyone cheers her on.
Everyone seems to already love her.
Whatever.
I’m a rat, and I know another rat when I see one.