Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Stella shrugs. “Nobody told me. Or cared.”
Tammy’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Stella. “Where’s Boyd?”
The question hangs, loaded. Who’s Boyd? I literally have no idea.
Stella sips her drink, her expression cool. “How would I know?”
Tammy rolls her eyes. “Because he’s still obsessed with you. Even after what you did to him.”
“Pray tell, what did I do?” Stella asks, tone pure innocence. But her jaw is tight. “Did I steal his snack? Play with his toys? Or did I give him an orgasm that he’ll never forget?”
“You gave him chlamydia, for starters,” says Tammy, voice pitched loud enough to reach the inner circle of partygoers. There’s a twitch in the crowd—a cluster of sorority girls freeze mid-sip, and one guy’s laugh cuts off in midair. “Do you know what that is?”
Stella’s not even fazed. “You wish. I’m as clean as a whistle. Maybe you should check your own panties.”
Tammy’s face goes bright pink, but she holds her ground. “Funny, because I saw the test results. They said ‘recent sexual contact.’ Boyd only hooked up with you.”
Stella doesn’t answer. Instead, she lifts her chin, offering Tammy her profile, as if she’s bored. I feel the tension boiling off her.
Tammy leans in closer, voice dropping. “I just thought you should know because I’m getting treated. You might want to do the same.”
Stella finally turns, looking her dead in the eye. “I haven’t fucked Boyd in months. Maybe you want to get your timeline straight, Red, because maybe you’re the one who gave him chlamydia.”
Tammy sneers. “That’s not what he says. Boyd swears you have a dirty pussy that’s teeming with bacteria. He also told people you blew the entire swim team at Homecoming. You did, didn’t you? I could swear there were pictures of you slutting it up.”
Stella’s eyes go wide, her mouth snarling with rage. “You little bitch—”
And then it’s on. The crowd doesn’t so much back away as collapse inward, a ripple effect that clears a perfect ring around the two girls. I freeze, clutching my plastic cup, as the room goes airless and every phone lifts, recording.
This isn’t a fistfight, that’s for sure. It’s all teeth and nails, with lots of scratching and hair-pulling. Tammy lunges, shrieking, and Stella’s hands are in her hair, yanking the red mass backward so hard I hear individual follicles pop. Someone’s drink goes flying, arcing blue punch across Tammy’s shoulder. They’re locked together, tumbling sideways over a lucite coffee table, bare legs flashing, heels gouging the rug. For a moment, I see Stella’s face, eyes wild but focused, jaw clenched like she’s in the finals of the hundred-meter dash.
The music is still going, but now the soundtrack is shrieks and the hysterical barking of the crowd.
Tammy gets a hand free, claws down Stella’s face, leaving four perfect lines. Stella bites back a scream, then grabs the front of Tammy’s dress and yanks, hard, exposing one pink-capped breast to a circle of thirty drunken college kids. Instead of recoiling, Tammy swings a punch—misses by a mile, but catches a fistful of my hair instead.
I yelp, ducking away, and almost trip over a goddamn dog, some tiny Pomeranian now howling at the violence. Where did the dog come from?
But Tammy and Stella continue fighting. They hit the floor together, a tangle of pale limbs and hair extensions, rolling until they crash into the far wall. Someone is shouting, “Catfight!” over and over. I see a flash of Stella’s blue eyes, wild and alive, and for a second I think she’s going to murder the girl. Then Tammy rakes her nails down Stella’s thigh, and Stella howls, wrenching Tammy’s head back so hard that a hunk of red hair comes away in her hand. For a split second, Tammy just gapes, staring, and then she shrieks like a banshee and hurls herself forward.
“Hi-ya!” she screams. “Bitch!”
“You’re the ho!” Stella screams back. “Whore!”
The room is an explosion of sound, all sense and decorum shattered.
I look at the shattered vodka bottle on the floor, at the streak of blood on Stella’s shin, at the way Tammy’s dress has torn so that she’s exposed. Seriously, she was wearing so little there wasn’t much to tear away to begin with.
And then, as if I’m floating above it, I see myself: Kayleigh McEnroe, bystander, clutching a plastic cup like a doofus. There’s hair and nails and knees and shrieking, and the crowd surges forward, every phone out, every mouth open in shock or delight or horror.
The fight is a living thing now, and I can’t look away.
But I have to do something.
They say when you’re in crisis, time slows down. I always thought that was just a thing people said, like “the best years of your life are still to come” or “it’s not you, it’s me.” But right now, as I watch Stella and Tammy go full death match on the living room floor, time does actually stretch out, like the last pull of a taffy rope before it snaps.