In My Dreams I Hold a Knife by Ashley Winstead
Chapter 20
February, senior year
Courtney
If ever someone was born to wear a crown, it was Courtney Kennedy. She of the glossy blond hair, regal face, and astounding proportions. And she knew it, which was important, because other people wasted so much time demurring. Every Valentine’s Day since freshman year, she’d watched girls get crowned Phi Delt Sweetheart—always a Chi O, always a senior—and she knew, with unshakable certainty, that one day it would be hers.
That day was today.
The Phi Delt basement was packed with brothers. They’d dragged in a keg and were doing keg stands, following with shots of whiskey. Tonight was no regular night. The Sweetheart Ball was a famous party, and this year was going to be bigger than ever, because Mint was president, and Mint and his real estate money did everything bigger and better than anyone else.
Courtney watched Mint from across the room, ignoring the small crowd of guys who’d gathered around her, trying to get her attention, trying to get in her pants. There was never a shortage of boys, and tonight—well, tonight she was extraordinary. A skintight red dress, red lips, the perfect amount of tasteful cleavage. A look that screamed I am your Sweetheart, your college queen.
It didn’t matter how many boys surrounded her, because to Courtney there was only one who mattered. Mark Minter. If there was ever a boy born to be with Courtney, it was him. Gorgeous, heir to a fortune, practically Duquette royalty. She would never understand why he’d dated Jessica Miller, that absolute nonperson, since freshman year. That was the frustrating thing about life: sometimes the losers won, for absolutely no discernible reason.
Sometimes people met freshman year and banded together into stupid groups like the East House Seven, and cut you out of the deal right before they rode to campus glory. Just because of some stupid comment she’d made to Jessica—as if no one else in the history of the world ever teased each other—they’d forged this thing without her, even though she lived in the same dorm, in the same room as one of them, and was Courtney Kennedy to boot.
Mint was talking to Frankie, that giant oaf, when he looked over and caught her staring. Courtney smiled her best smile, and he smiled back. She lifted her Solo cup to say cheers, and he echoed her, taking a sip. Even after Courtney looked away, then slid her eyes back, his gaze lingered. He was going to be hers one day; she could feel it.
Maybe that day was today.
She was about to walk over, leaving the circle of boys—who were still talking, maybe even asking her questions—when Heather stumbled down the stairs, practically tripping into Courtney’s arms.
“Christ, Heather.” Courtney shooed the boys away and righted her friend. “What’s your damage?”
Heather hiccupped, which was not a good sign. In fact, now that Courtney could get a good look at her, something was definitely wrong. Heather was never going to win any beauty pageants, let’s be honest, but the girl had a zero-limit credit card, thanks to her doctor mom, and could usually pull herself together. But now, even though Heather’s pink chiffon dress was cute and obviously designer, her mascara was smeared and her nose red, like she’d been crying. Courtney felt a reflexive kick of worry and glanced around, trying to see who’d noticed Heather in this state.
Heather followed her eyes around the basement, clocking Mint and Frankie, and pulled Courtney into a corner. “It’s Jack,” she said, her voice low and thick with feeling. “He just broke up with me, and I’m freaking out.”
“What?” Now this was news. Jack and Heather were like Mint and Jessica—permanent fixtures, practically Duquette institutions, despite being totally mismatched. Courtney had always been able to see it, even if no one else could. It sounded like Jack was finally coming to his senses.
Heather nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “He told me—” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s been cheating on me. We got into a huge fight, and I didn’t know where else to go. I figured everyone would be here.”
Well, would you look at that. Courtney wasn’t surprised at all. It seemed perfectly believable that Jack would find someone prettier than Heather. It had to be another Chi O. She wondered who…
“Where’s Jess?” Heather’s eyes scanned the crowd. “I need to talk to her.”
Courtney bristled. “You don’t need Jessica. I’m your best friend. You can talk to me.”
Heather shook her head vehemently. “Jack told me…a lot. Shocking things. And Jess knew about it for an entire year. I can’t believe she kept this from me. I have to find her.”
Aha.Courtney seized her opportunity. “That doesn’t surprise me. Jessica’s never been a very good friend.”
Tears spilled down Heather’s face, taking her mascara with it. “God, this was supposed to be the best night. A celebration. And now I feel like my entire life is falling apart. I thought Jack and I were going to get married.”
The sight of Heather openly crying tugged at Courtney’s heart. “Hey,” she said sternly. “Don’t waste your time crying over someone who didn’t respect you enough to keep his dick in his pants. He’s the one who lost you. So don’t get sad—get over it. Hell, get even.”
Courtney patted Heather on the shoulder, proud of herself for such a good speech. “Now go clean yourself up in the bathroom. You’ve got mascara everywhere. It’s ridiculous. Your face looks like a Jackson Pollock painting.”
Heather wiped her eyes. “Thanks,” she whispered and left for the stairs.
With Heather gone, Courtney stepped back into the center of the room. She eyed Mint near the keg and strode over, fanning her hair over her shoulder. Just as she was about to reach him, a big chest stepped in front of her.
“Was that Heather?” Frankie asked. “She’s not leaving the party, is she?”
God. The insufferableness of the East House Seven. Like a damn cult, all of them so wrapped up in each other they were practically in love.
“Calm down,” Courtney said, rolling her eyes. “She’s just going to the bathroom. She’ll be back in a minute.” Pathetic.
“Good,” Frankie said, straightening the lapel of his suit jacket. He grinned at her. “Tonight’s going to be a big night for her.” He glanced around and lowered his voice. “Don’t tell anyone, because I’m not supposed to say, but Heather won Sweetheart. I’m really glad. She deserves it.”
The floor dropped out. She grabbed Frankie’s shoulder to steady herself. “Heather?”
“Yeah, great, right?” Frankie frowned. “Am I missing something?”
Courtney swallowed hard, feeling like she was going to throw up. “Who was…runner-up?” If Frankie said Jessica, she was going to light this frat house on fire.
“Oh,” Frankie said, looking suddenly guilty. “You were. Sorry. That was a dick move to tell you Heather won like that. I never think before I say things.”
She was runner-up. Close, but no crown. It was almost like it had been ripped right off her head. Courtney forced herself to smile. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a stupid tradition. Who cares?”
She left Frankie staring at her guiltily and grabbed a Solo cup, pumping the keg to give herself time to think. Heather? How had Heather beaten her? Put the two of them side by side and there was no comparison. Heather was lucky to even be a Chi O. She’d probably only gotten in because she was Courtney’s roommate. She’d been lucky to date Jack, and look, she couldn’t even keep him loyal.
How had this happened? And how could she fix it, turn it around, make the night go the way it was supposed to?
An idea came to her. It was wrong, of course, but no more so than Heather winning Sweetheart instead of her.
Courtney pulled the pills out of her purse and found the darkest corner of the basement, where there was a stumpy radiator, and no one was watching. She poured the pills onto the radiator and, glancing around just in case, crushed them with her phone. Swept them into the beer, mixed it with her finger. She stared at the cup for a second, then dumped two more pills, ground them, and brushed them in. There. That would do.
You couldn’t crown a passed-out Sweetheart.
It made sense, in a funny way, that her pills would help her with this. Courtney would never forget her mother standing beside her in the full-length mirror the night before her first day of high school, closing Courtney’s hand around a single white pill. She’d pinched the baby fat poking over the waist of Courtney’s jeans and said, “This little thing is going to save you.” Their eyes had met in the mirror, and Courtney’s mom smiled a conspiratorial smile. And she’d felt in that moment like she was being let into some secret club, some tight circle where she and her mom would be closer than ever, not just mother-daughter, but two women. Her mom had winked. “It’ll get you everything you want. Trust me.”
And look at it now, doing just that. The secret club she’d hoped for with her mom had never materialized, and neither had the special closeness, but at least this part was turning out exactly like her mother promised.
Across the basement, Heather descended the staircase once more, her mascara back in place, nose no longer red. Courtney, resenting the regal bearing of Heather’s shoulders, made her way over. But before she could say anything, Heather gave her a triumphant look—the kind a villain in a movie wore when they’d hatched an evil plan.
“I thought about what you said, and you’re right,” Heather said. “I’m going to get even with Jack, and I know just how. Hooking up with someone else won’t hurt him. So I’m going to talk to his parents. Next weekend.”
Courtney blinked, taken aback. “Parents’ Weekend?”
“Yes,” Heather said fiercely. “I’m going to tell them everything. His parents love me, and they’re so religious they’ll never forgive him. He’s always cared what they think, no matter how much he denies it. We’ll see how he likes having his life ruined.” She looked around the room. “I need a drink. I have several hours of my life to forget.” Heather turned, gripping her. “Before I get drunk… Don’t let me talk to Frankie, okay? I can’t tell you why, but promise me.”
Courtney was opening her mouth to ask Heather why anyway—or, frankly, to tell her that no matter what Jack had done, nothing justified getting his parents involved—when she realized Heather had given her the perfect opening.
“Here,” she said instead, thrusting her cup at her. “I got you this. Bottom’s up.”
“Thank god,” Heather said, taking the beer and chugging it. She wiped her mouth. “You’re a lifesaver.”