Solitaire, Part 2 of 3 Read Online Free Page A

11, but I’m not too sure, who is dressed as a very accurate David Tennant’s Doctor Who. I immediately feel a kind of connection with her because she looks so alone.
    She looks at me and as it’s too late to pretend I haven’t been staring I say, “Your costume is, er, really good.”
    “Thank you,” she says, and I nod and walk off.
    Ignoring the beers and WKDs and Bacardi Breezers, I raid Becky’s fridge for some diet lemonade. With my plastic cup in hand, I amble into the garden.
    It’s a truly magnificent garden: slightly sloped with a pond at the bottom, enclosed by clusters of bare willow trees. Groups are huddled all over the wooden decking and the grass, even though it’s about 0 degrees Celsius. Somehow, Becky has got her hands on an actual floodlight. It’s as bright as the sun and the groups of teenagers spill swaying shadows over the grass. I spot Becky/Tinker Bell with a different group of Year 12s. I go up to her.
    “Hey,” I say, sliding into the circle.
    “Toriiiiiiiii!” She’s got a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream in her hand with one of those curly plastic straws in it. “Dude! Guess what! I’ve got something so amazing to tell you! It’s just so amazing! You’re going to die, it’s so so so amazing! You are going to die!”
    I smile at her even though she’s shaking me by the shoulders and spilling Baileys on me.
    “You. Are going. To DIE.”
    “Yes, yes, I’m going to die—”
    “You know Ben Hope?”
    Yes, I know Ben Hope, and I also know exactly what she’s about to say.
    “
Ben Hope asked me out
,” she splutters.
    “Oh,” I say, “my God!”
    “I know! I, like, did not expect a
thing
! We were chatting earlier and he admitted he liked me; oh my God, he was so cute and
awkward
!” And then she talks for quite a while about Ben Hope while sipping on her Baileys, and I’m smiling and nodding and definitely feeling really pleased for her.
    After a while, Becky starts repeating the whole story to some girl dressed as Minnie Mouse and I feel myself getting a bit bored so I check my blog on my phone. There’s a little (1) symbol, signifying I have a message:
    Anonymous:
Thought for the day: Why do cars always part for ambulances?
    I read the message several times. It could be from anyone, I guess, though no one I know in real life knows about my blog. Stupid anons. Why do cars always part for ambulances? Because the world is not filled with assholes. That’s why.
    Because the world is not filled with assholes.
    As soon as I make that deduction, Lucas finds me. He’s a little bit pissed.
    “I can’t work out who you are,” he says, always so
embarrassed
.
    “I’m Wednesday Addams.”
    “Aah, so cute, so cute.” He nods knowingly, but I can tell that he has no idea who Wednesday Addams is.
    I look past him, out into the floodlit garden. All the people are just blurred darkness. I feel a bit sick and this diet lemonade is giving me a nasty taste in my mouth. I want to go and pour it down the sink, but I think I’ll feel even more lost if I don’t have something to hold on to.
    “Tori?”
    I look at him. The garlic was a bad move. It doesn’t smell great. “Mm?”
    “I asked if you were all right. You look like you’re having a mid-life crisis.”
    “It’s not a mid-life crisis. It’s just a life crisis.”
    “Pardon? I can’t hear you.”
    “I’m fine. Just bored.”
    He smiles at me like I’m joking, but I’m not joking. All parties are boring.
    “You can go and talk to other people, you know,” I say. “I really don’t have anything interesting to say.”
    “You always have interesting things to say,” he says. “You just don’t say them.”
    I lie and say I need another drink even though my cup is more than half full and I feel really sick. I get out of the garden. I’m out of breath and so angry for no reason. I barge through the crowds of stupid, drunk teenagers and lock myself in the downstairs bathroom. Someone’s been sick in here –