Fingers snap in front of my face.
I blink. Shelby is staring at me, her face tense with annoyance.
"Ang, you're not even listening, are you?"
"I am," I fib, smothering a yawn with my sleeve.
She narrows her eyes. "Angela."
"I'm listening," I repeat, turning aside to conceal another yawn.
She smacked my arm. "Ow! Shelby!"
I vividly remember the first time I met Shelby, as if it were a scar that would never disappear.
We'd known each other since we were in diapers, but it wasn't until sixth grade that everything changed, when she transferred and Tiffany Weismann made her the newest target. Shelby never conformed to the norm, and she had no desire to do so. She was bold in a manner that made you feel brave just being beside her, yet kind in a way that softened the sharpest edges. And the way she recounted stories, like little incantations, was impossible to resist. If you attempted, she'd simply start anew, her eyes challenging you to look away until you fell under her spell.
I look at her now and smile despite myself.
"Ang, of all people, you understand how important the Masquerade Ball is. We had been preparing this since freshman year. What's up with you? You're acting... off."
I sighed. "I did not sleep again. A nightmare."
Her expression transforms. "Still?"
I nod. "Each night. It's always the same one." And my birthday is coming up. The coven claims it's significant." I use my fingertips to create air quotes.
Shelby nods slowly. She is not Wiccan, but she appreciates it. I studied at both college and the Pagan Academy. Most individuals do not comprehend. Protesters occasionally show up, carrying placards and shouting about demon worship. It is exhausting.
"Anyway," I begin, attempting to get us back on track, "if Evan hasn't invited you to the ball yet, maybe you should ask him."
Shelby gasps, as if I've perpetrated blasphemy. "Excuse me?"
"This is the 21st century. Girls can ask guys out right now."
She looks at me as if I had told her her favorite TV show has been canceled.
"Ang, that isn't even funny." Evan should be groveling. The ball is a week away, and he hasn't said anything. "What if he has changed his mind?"
I raise an eyebrow. "You already bought the dress, didn't you?"
She groans. "Of course I did!"
Shelby was predictable in this sense; she would sooner stay at home than risk coming up alone. I can't forget senior prom. Corey Martins asked her to go, only to abandon her the night before. News quickly spread that he had returned to his ex-girlfriend. Shelby nevertheless got the dress, got it ironed, got her hair immaculate, and waited by the door for an hour, hoping that he would show up. He never did. The hurt in her eyes, when she finally accepted the truth and realized how foolish she had been to believe otherwise, went deeper than anything Corey could have said.
We did not go. My boyfriend at the time, James, almost broke up with me over it; quarterback, prom king in waiting, you name it. But that night, he stayed at home, telling everyone about a stomach flu as we waited in my room with Shelby, pretending not to hear the music wafting from town. We didn't talk for a week thereafter; James was dramatic like that, but I didn't mind. Shelby was more important. The next day, she grabbed every photo of Corey she could find, even those printed in the yearbook, and fed them to a lighter, watching the pages curl and blacken until nothing remained but ash.
"Shel," I say with a smile, "after a year, he probably assumes you two come as a set, like peanut butter and jelly."
"I like PBJ. Or maybe he's hoping I'll forget," she murmurs.
"I'll do recon," I say with a smile and an eye-roll. "See what he's thinking."
She tosses a Cheeto at my head. I chuckle and throw it back.
"You're the best," she declares. "Seriously. Thank you."
I grin, but my thoughts are already drifting. Shelby is still discussing gowns, shoes, and accessories, but it all fades into static.
I do the girly stuff because she enjoys it. She is my closest friend.
But right now, all I can think of is the nightmare.
And those eyes.
Mercy University's Masquerade Ball is more than simply a party; it's a ritual, a custom shrouded in velvet and mystery. Only students with an official invitation from the college's Secret Society committee are permitted to attend. It's so exclusive that if your date attends another college, they'll require a separate ticket—at double the cost. Mercy describes it as "exclusive." I call it elitist.
The girls, especially those in sororities, value the ball greatly and view it as a significant milestone in their lives. It practically serves as a rite of passage for them. And, since joining a sorority is almost required if you want to graduate, the majority of us comply. Mercy professes to be about "empowering women" and "building post-grad networks," but it reads more like a social funnel with a clothing code.
I'm a member of Sigma, the worldwide honor organization for nurses. When things go well, it can be enjoyable. What about rush week, though? Complete chaos.
One of the pledge tasks involved sneaking out after curfew and conducting a full-fledged "midnight emergency drill" in the courtyard. We had to move one of the practice mannequins from the lab, strap it to a rolling bed, and perform a simulated code blue until morning classes began.
I was pushed into the role of "patient"—gown open in the back, hooked up to an IV bag of bright-green Mountain Dew. Shelby? Shelby, the charge nurse, overstepped her boundaries. She put on her gloves, shouted for a crash cart, and began chest compressions so theatrical that passersby thought it was genuine. Another pledge pushed up a grocery cart and pretended it was a defibrillator, yelling "CLEAR!" before zapping me with spatulas.
By sunrise, half of the school had seen us run a whole phony code. I'm quite sure there's still a video someplace of Shelby attempting to intubate the mannequin with a pool noodle.
Shelby and I have attended Mercy for three years. We applied to all of the same colleges, but she only got into Mercy. I was accepted to the majority of colleges, including Johns Hopkins University, my favorite school. Shelby shed tears upon discovering our potential separation, yet she persistently encouraged me to proceed. That's who she is: faithful, even if it hurts.
Overall, when it counted most, I chose Mercy. My nursing scholarship covered all four years here, whereas JHU would have only paid for two. It was the logical decision. But occasionally, late at night, I wonder what might have occurred if I had made a different choice.
We attend most of the same classes. Shelby studies internal medicine, while I study obstetrics and gynecology with a focus on neonatal care. We always support each other, whether it's with homework, lecture notes, gossip, or the occasional existential crisis.
Shelby grabs my arm and drags me to the counter to pay. Shelby's warm and grounding grip comforts me.
Outside, the light struggles to shine through the clouds. We go back to school, the wind tugging on our jackets. I cast a glance toward the package store. The black pickup vanished. A peculiar discomfort prickles in the back of my neck. That truck looked familiar. But from where?
"Ang, don't forget that we are meeting at my house tonight to finish planning for the ball," Shelby adds, nudging me. "Have you found a dress yet, or will we do that tonight? I still do not want you to go alone. Have you asked anyone?
I dodge the final question. "I'm making my dress, remember? You saw the sketches. It's almost done—only a few finishing touches remain."
Her eyes light up. "You are such a talented designer. I don't understand why you aren't studying medicine instead of fashion design."
In between phrases, she chews on a PBJ bite. Shelby is always eating. I'm not sure where she puts it all; she's built like a gymnast. She runs a lot, even when she's not shopping or reading gossip magazines. It's impressive.
I smirk. She has been wanting me to make her a dress for years. But for some selfish reason, I want to keep my creations to myself. There is something sacrosanct about wearing something that no one else in the world has. Maybe someday I'll design for others. Maybe. I just feel compelled to work in a profession where new life is born.
Currently, I'd like to travel overseas and volunteer in underfunded clinics. Something meaningful. Something that leaves an impression. Working in a rural hospital or with a medical mission team would be rewarding—and would also look appealing on a resume.
I glance at my watch, a gift my parents gave me upon my admission to Mercy. We are almost back on campus. We have just one more class left. Thank the Gods.
I enjoy hands-on medical education, but what about lectures? I don't find the lectures particularly enjoyable. I yearn to experience the depths of a hospital, free from the burden of memorizing the life story of an 18th-century painter or dissecting a frog to demonstrate my "well-roundedness." Society's definition of success is exhausting.
When we get to the science building, Shelby says goodbye and reminds me to meet her at her car after class so she can drop me off at the academy before we begin masquerade prepping.
I smirk and wave back before moving in the opposite direction to my next lesson. The wind kicks up behind me, and I swear I hear a faint rumbling from an engine.
However, when I turn back, the parking lot is empty.