Hopping out, I start across the pavement, side-eying the rows of luxury cars on both sides of me.
I’ve never found excess admirable, to be honest. So when I come across an old beater covered in stickers, a smile takes over me and I find myself pausing to see what the driver looks like.
A beautiful black girl climbs out, a piece of toast stuck between her lips, items tumbling out of her purse as she struggles to heft a box and a book bag out of the car at the same time.
Recognizing a fellow clumsy chick in need, I jog over in bare feet and just barely manage to catch the box before it falls to the ground.
“Thanks,” the girl breathes before she turns around and spots me, dressed in casual clothes and standing barefoot on the cool pavement. “Oh.” Her breath releases in a rush as she looks me over. “You’re the missing girl, huh? Parrish Vanguard’s sister?”
I cringe a bit at that. I’d been sort of hoping that I could sneak into the student populace unnoticed. But, apparently, my reputation precedes me.
“That’s me,” I reply, forcing a smile that I don’t feel on the inside. Fake it till you make it. I’m really trying here, I am. But maybe I need to try harder. I owe that to my grandparents; I promised them. So I don’t correct the girl about being Parrish’s sister. “My err, new stepbrother sort of left me high and dry here.”
“You seem to be in need of some shoes,” the girl replies cheerily, perking up. “Danyella.” She extends her hand as I shift the box into the crook of my elbow and offer my own up. Her palm is warm and smooth, her grip firm and self-assured. I spy a potential friend right off the bat. “Here.”
Danyella opens the back door of her car and garbage spills out on the pavement as I chuckle.
“Sorry, sorry, I’ve been meaning to clean this thing out …” She shoves aside stacks of papers, bags of glitter spilling gold across her hands, as bits and pieces of brightly colored fabric scraps tumble to the pavement. “I’ve just been so busy with the production.”
“The production?” I ask, hope filling me. I was always involved with art clubs and shit at my old school. I wasn’t sure if they even had any here. I mean, I know it’s a pompous rich-people academy and all that, but I wasn’t sure spoiled assholes like Parrish or Chasm would be cool with long nights painting scenery or sewing costumes; I figured they might hire stuff like that out.
“We’re doing Wicked this year, Hamilton next.” Danyella makes a sound of triumph and then stands back up. Next thing I know, she’s taking the box from me and setting it on the roof of her car. She throws a black blazer around my shoulders and stands back with a satisfied smile.
“There. That’ll help make you a bit less noticeable.”
I realize suddenly as I blush and mutter my thanks that I haven’t actually introduced myself.
“I’m Dakota Banks,” I blurt and Danyella laughs. Her braided hair is studded with bows, most of which seem to be themed. I recognize a pale blue Dear Evan Hansen one right away. And there, on the opposite side, one with the SIX logo in the center. Clearly, this girl is a fan of musical theater.
Thank the heavens.
“I know who you are,” she reminds me, but not unkindly. “The long-lost daughter of renowned true crime novelist, Tess Vanguard.” Danyella flashes a white-toothed grin. “In my arms she once rested; in the darkness I weep and hold only her ghost.”
I flinch like I’ve been slapped, and Danyella grimaces. She’s only quoting one of the more popular lines from Tess’ most famous book—the one that’s about me—which was a New York Times bestseller for fifty weeks straight. It sold over four million copies in its first year of publication alone and almost twenty million copies in the decade that followed.
“Sorry,” Danyella begins at the same time that I wave my hand dismissively. I’m already wondering if it isn’t too forward to ask her if I might use her phone for a second.
Not sure, exactly, who I’m going to call since I don’t know Tess’ number, but maybe I could get a cab or an Uber or something to take me back to the house?
Only … I guess I don’t know the address of that either.
Crap.
“It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s not. I used to love Abducted Under a Noonday Sun. It was the first book I ever read of Tess’, and a frequent reread for me. Now, I can barely stand looking at the cover. Somehow, finding out that I’m the true story that it’s based on makes it unbearable.
“No, it’s not,” she says, opening her trunk and revealing nearly two dozen boxes of what seem to be brand-new shoes. She gives me a look over her shoulder and then shrugs. “I’m sure you’ve had to put up with people in your business for weeks now; I don’t need to add to your discomfort.” She digs around for a moment, checking the sizes on the boxes, and then looks back at me again. “What are you, a size seven? Seven and a half?”
