Elegy. Tara Hudson

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      I must have figured out a way to black out but stay conscious. That was my only explanation for why I suddenly found myself sitting in a theater chair, staring blankly up at Kaylen.

      A very angry version of Kaylen.

      “What do you mean, a pipe burst?” she demanded, crossing her arms and giving me a glare that bordered on murderous.

      I shrugged. In my semidelirious state, I must have dragged myself out of the hellish bathroom and conjured up an excuse for the sopping mess. Excellent work on my part, all things considered.

      “I don’t know, Kaylen,” I heard myself saying. “It’s your plumbing.”

      Most of Kaylen’s guests snickered. But from the corner of my eye, I saw Jillian shift forward ever so slightly. Judging by her clenched fists, she knew something had gone wrong. At the very least, she knew a pipe hadn’t burst.

      “I’ve got to go,” I said abruptly, pushing myself up from the chair. Without looking at the other girls, I moved toward the pile of overnight bags at the back of the room. “Jillian, can you take me home?”

      “What?” Kaylen nearly shrieked. “You destroyed the bath mat, and now you’re making my best friend leave my party?”

      I hesitated, glancing at Jillian. Thankfully, she looked more than ready to leave, too. I let my shoulders slump and put on my fakest, most embarrassed frown.

      “I . . . I didn’t want to admit it, but I did get sick playing Bloody Mary. I tried to wash up in the sink, but I kind of overfilled it. I’m so, so sorry, Kaylen. This is just so embarrassing.”

      The apology worked . . . a little. Kaylen still looked frustrated, but the rigid line of her mouth softened and she uncrossed her arms.

      “Well, after all the wine and the spinning, I figured that could happen,” she conceded.

      In a last-ditch maneuver, I decided to ham it up to the fullest. For Jillian’s sake, since she still had to see these people at school on Monday.

      “I don’t want to ruin the party. And it was so important for me to make a good impression. But I feel kind of awful now. Like, I might get sick again.” I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead, as if the gesture would prove . . . something. Clamminess, maybe?

      “So how about I mop up all the water,” I finished. “And then just go home?”

      Kaylen’s eyes widened and she waved her hands frantically. “No! God no. I don’t want you puking on the floor, too.”

      “Okay,” I said, hanging my head in fake dejection. “I’ll just go then.”

      Evidently my pathetic but determined charade had thoroughly spooked Jillian. “I’ll get our stuff,” she chimed in, a little too eagerly. She practically dove for our bags, digging them out of the pile and then using them to usher me toward the door. Like I needed any additional prodding to get out of there, and soon.

      After a perfunctory good-bye to Kaylen and her guests—all of whom looked a little dazed by the scene I’d just made—Jillian and I raced out of the room, down the stairs, and through the front door.

      Neither of us spared the Pattons’ McMansion a backward glance as we drove away. We didn’t say it aloud, but I’m pretty sure we were thinking the same thing: we couldn’t move fast enough to escape the house that had gone from creepily gaudy to just plain creepy.

      Jillian and I hadn’t been on the road for more than ten minutes before she swerved the car onto a shoulder and stomped on the brakes. She stopped so abruptly that I had to slap my hands against the dash to keep myself from slamming into it.

      Jillian shifted into park and turned sharply toward me.

      “What happened back there?”

      I shook my head, frowning as I settled back into my seat. “I’m not entirely sure. An ultimatum, I think.”

      Her brow knitted in confusion—an expression that reminded me so much of her brother.

      “Explain, Amelia,” she said. “Please.”

      And so I did; picking absently at my sleeve, I described my strange meeting in the mirror. When I finished the story, Jillian turned away from me. For longer than I’d expected her to, she just stared out the darkened windshield.

      Finally, in a hushed voice, she asked, “Do you think they mean it?”

      I raised one eyebrow. “Which part?”

      “The death part.”