“What college was she from? Kings?”
“Pembroke,” Peter replied. “His ribs still hurt him. I don’t think those breaks healed properly.”
“Breaks never do, do they? I broke my wrist when I was a child. It’s always been a bit funny.”
Peter was looking at her curiously. She had the light, tingling feeling like he was about to kiss her. It made sense that this might happen now. They had never come together romantically in the last three years. It was one of the few couplings that hadn’t come up. The Nine tended to date internally and reconfigure themselves regularly. To keep up with their love lives, you needed a chart. Julian and Sooz were tied for most romantically active within the group. Along with her two stints with Julian, Sooz had dated Peter for a full year, Yash for a week, Noel for several scattered weekends, and Angela for two months. All the girls had taken their turns with Julian, including Angela. Sebastian, too, had a dalliance. Angela had a tender, brief kiss with Yash their first year, and then dated Noel for much of the second year.
It was like a logic puzzle, keeping it all straight. They often couldn’t do it themselves and would forget who was with who—or they would at least pretend to. This friction is what made the Nine what they were—webbed together by a meshed network of nerves and veins, reacting to each other’s pain and pleasure. They were an organic soap opera with eighteen swinging arms. The tension and the drama was part of what made it all work.
Peter wasn’t handsome in the way Julian was （few people were）。 He wasn’t romantic, like Yash, or rubbery and goofy like Noel, with his 70s clothes and spindly energy. Peter was thoughtful, with heavy-lidded eyes that missed nothing. Sooz had only good things to say about his physical attributes （and Sooz was nothing if not forthcoming）。 He had a broad, athletic build, a soft flop of coppery hair. But the sexiest thing about him was that he was funny—the funniest of them all, really—but that was something you only came to understand over time. Peter wasn’t one for the witty exchanges, like Sebastian, or physical gestures, like Noel or Yash. He was quiet. He saved it, wrote it all down, refined it.
She wanted to say something to Peter about her growing fear of the future, of being without the rest of them, of all the changes, of not being flanked by the Nine at all times. She wanted to grab him and press her face into his chest. She wanted to hold on to all her friends and never, ever let them go. And from the look on his face, he felt exactly as she did.
There was a flash of light followed by a tremendous crack in the distance. The sky opened and the rain came all at once. Instead of taking this moment for its romantic value and inviting Peter to meet her right now, on the floor, what she said was:
“Do you think we’ll still play?”
And that was that. All the tension dispersed. His whole demeanor changed. She had ruined the moment.
“I’m sure we will,” he said, handing the lighter back to her. “See you downstairs.”
He left Angela alone with her dreary thoughts, plus a bonus of embarrassment and disappointment. She needed to get herself together. This misery wouldn’t do. This week was going to be incredible, the most fun they’d ever had, and they’d had a lot of fun. She would make a point of revisiting the moment with Peter. Maybe that would be her project for the week.
She distracted herself by going to the mirror to examine the bald girl who looked back at her. She still wasn’t used to it, even after two weeks. Angela hadn’t meant to cut off all her hair. She had simply woken up one morning with vague memories of a game of truth or dare and all her hair was in the kitchen sink. She laughed in front of the others and cried in her room, not because she hated it but because she didn’t recognize herself. It wasn’t so bad. Maybe she loved it. It was tough, decisive. There was a little hair sprouting now, a soft fuzz. She liked the way it felt.
Another knock. This time, the door opened before she could call out. Rosie popped in.
“Ange,” she said in a low voice, shutting the door behind her. “I need to talk to you for a moment.”
“What’s Jules done?”
“Not everything is about Julian,” Rosie replied, shutting the door. “Jesus.”
“Tell that to him. He’ll faint from shock.”
Usually, Rosie would flop back on the bed to have a chat; tonight, she sat on the edge, her expression grave.
“What’s wrong?” Angela asked. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know. I mean . . . I’m fine. It’s just . . . I saw something. Something I didn’t understand. But I think I might understand it now. It was in the paper. And now that I’ve seen the photos . . .”
“What are you on about?” Angela said, sitting next to her.
“You won’t believe me,” Rosie said. “I don’t believe me . . .”
Before Rosie could say anything else, there was another knock and Sooz joined them. She had a bottle of champagne and three water tumblers tucked under her arm. Rosie shook her head at Angela, indicating that she should say nothing about the conversation they’d been having.
“I’m furious at you,” Sooz said to her friends.
“What?” Angela said. “Why?”
“You don’t have a drink. Sebastian’s family left us six crates of what he’s calling third-rate champers, which means it’s better than anything we’ve had in a while. You look sad, and I won’t have it. Julian’s caused enough trouble.”
Rosie put her hands over her face and stifled a scream.
Sooz popped open the champagne, causing it to foam up and spill onto the bedspread. She filled the tumblers and passed them out. The warm champagne went right to Angela’s brain, creating a pleasant warm fizz behind her eyes.
“No long faces,” Sooz said. “This week is for us and we’re going to have a good time. Now drink up like good girls and come with me. Anyway, it’s time to play the game.”
Whatever Rosie had been about to say, she had decided to hold for the time being. Much as they all loved Sooz, everyone knew she wasn’t great at secrets. She didn’t seem to believe in them as a concept. Everything was to be shared—her possessions, her thoughts, her body. It’s what made her such a good performer and generous friend, and what made her a bit of a nightmare if you were trying to keep something to yourself.
“You’re right,” Rosie said. “Let’s go and play the game.”
“There’s a good girl. Come on. Let’s go.”
As they followed Sooz out of the bedroom into the dark hall, Rosie gave Angela a tug on the arm to hold her back for a moment.
“I’ll talk to you after,” Rosie said to Angela quietly. “Come up and meet me here after the game.”
“But what’s it about? What’s going on?”
Rosie shook her head.
“Not now,” she replied. “It’s too important.”
Over the years, these words would replay in Angela’s head. If only she had pulled Rosie back into that bedroom, waited a few more minutes to go downstairs, sat her back down on the wet bedspread and made her explain. If only she’d listened to her gut for once, maybe things wouldn’t have happened the way they did. Her life—all their lives—would have been different.