“Honestly, Amina. That Linda Lokind found out who you were and tracked you down. She must have stalked you. Just like she stalked Chris.”
Amina bit her lip. She so clearly wanted to protest, but I guess she realized it wasn’t the right time.
We’d searched online for more info about Linda, some sort of proof that she was a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but Linda Lokind was as good as invisible.
“You’ve got something there,” Amina said, pointing with her plastic fork. “No, there. Higher up.”
I moved my finger up my cheek and wiped away a smear of sauce.
Amina sighed. She gets embarrassed whenever I’m messy and sloppy. She uses her utensils like surgical instruments, making tiny mouse-sized portions that slip into her mouth so she hardly needs to open it. You can never see her chewing.
“Tegnérs tonight?” she said. “Please, please, please.”
“No way.”
I’d had a headache all afternoon and all I wanted to do was crash on the couch and sleep for ten hours. This day was made for a crappy night in. And I didn’t have to worry about Chris. He’d texted to say he was going to meet up with an old friend and we would talk another day. For some reason I was trembling at the thought of having to break up with him. I didn’t know whether I should take the bull by the horns and tell the truth or let it just kind of fade away.
“Please,” said Amina. “I’m begging you.”
She wanted to dance, party, meet people. She said she was feeling more stoked than ever. And, of course, like the best friend I want and try to be, I rallied. We goofed around, dancing to old Eurovision songs, crowding in front of the mirror in the hall, changing and exchanging outfits. Just before midnight we got on our bikes and breezed down the hills toward Tegnérs.
* * *
We tossed our hair and sweated beneath explosions of light on the dance floor. Amina held my hand as we slalomed between whirling nightclub bodies, and we soon landed at the bar, breathless, to order ciders from the bearded bartender.
I was drenched with sweat and my head was pounding.
“Look at that!” Amina said, pointing across the bar. “Wasn’t he supposed to be with an old friend?”
Chris was standing with his back to the bar, leaning slightly over a bare-shouldered girl with silver earrings. They were laughing, and her hand gently brushed his elbow.
“Who is she?” said Amina.
I grabbed my cider and rounded the bar. Chris was just about to turn around—he was still laughing when he discovered me.
“Stella! You’re here too?”
I tensed my whole body in protest when he hugged me. The girl with all the earrings looked at me in surprise.
“This is my friend Beatrice,” said Chris.
I sized her up as we shook hands. She was around twenty-five, or maybe thirty, and wore a lot of makeup. She had big lips and a tight body.
“Sorry,” I said. “When you said ‘old friend,’ I thought…”
“Old?” Beatrice said with a laugh.
Chris faked a look of shame.
“So how do you know each other?” I asked.
“Originally through Chris’s ex,” said Beatrice.
Chris pretended not to hear and said something about how much he liked my top. He didn’t seem into this conversation at all, but I wasn’t about to let it go.
“You mean Linda?” I asked.
Beatrice looked at Chris, who yielded to her with a shrug.
“Linda and I became friends back in school,” said Beatrice. “I was actually there the first time she and Chris met. We hung out quite a bit back in the beginning of their relationship, before she … got sick.”
She lowered her head a little.
“Sick?” I said.
Beatrice nodded, but didn’t elaborate.
“Linda tracked me down,” I said, turning to Chris, who face-palmed.
“Seriously?”
“She even found Amina. She wanted to warn us about you. She claimed you did some pretty sick stuff.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Chris. “I’ve had enough of this. She’s out to ruin my life, no matter what it takes.”
“It’s so sad,” Beatrice said, patting Chris’s arm. “Linda was the sweetest girl in the world when I first got to know her. So kind and considerate. Yeah, maybe she was a little paranoid and jealous even then, but who would have ever thought things would end up like this?”
“Can’t she get help?” I asked. “Like, from a psychiatrist?”