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“Wish granted, I’ll be right back,” Nellie chirps, sliding between the bodies towards the makeshift bar set up in the fireplace.
Without my sidekick, I hover awkwardly by the entrance of the common room, wondering if I should get my cell out of my purse and pretend to text one of my non-existent friends.
This iswayout of my comfort zone. I spent my entire childhood at the end of the lunch table, nose in a book, or in Mrs. Harjo’s workshop desperately repairing a piece I could flip. I don’t know how to socialize. I don’t know how to make friends or—
“Cool party, huh?” a voice comes from over my shoulder.
I whip around too quickly, stumbling on my borrowed stilettos and twisting my ankle underneath me. I grab whatever’s closest to me—the hemline of a plaid shirt, and a big chunk of it comes with me as I tumble towards the carpet. Before I’m fully on my ass, a hand swoops under my elbow and pulls me back to my feet.
“Whoa,” the voice says again, “are you all right?”
I look up at the big brown eyes in front of me, then down at the bundle of fabric in my hand. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I ripped your shirt. I—”
The guy laughs, looking down at the skin now poking through the hole in his shirt. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Just glad you didn’t snap your ankles. I’m studying economics, not fractured bones, so I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help if you did. I’m Sam, by the way.” He sticks out a warm hand, and I blink twice to clear the vodka haze before I have the common sense to take it.
“Poppy.”
A flash of recognition in his eyes. “Oh—you’re in my managerial class, right? Poppy Valentina?”
A beat passes before I nod. The second I bought my plane ticket to Santa Clara County, I changed my surname from Murphy to Valentina, which was my mother’s maiden name, getting rid of the final traces of my cowardly father in the process. “Yeah. Sorry. I haven’t really been paying attention to anything but the lecturers, I’m struggling to keep up.” That was a lie; I’ve ranked top of the class in all my preliminary exams so far, but I feel rude that I don’t recognize him at all.
“No worries,” he smiles, raising his beer to me. He’s quite handsome, but I don’t know if that’s the cocktail of vodka and adrenaline talking. Toned body—I can see the outline of abs peeking through the hole I made in his shirt—neat brown hair, and big eyes a few shades lighter. “Let me get you a drink.”
Right on cue, Nellie’s tanned arm brushes against my shoulder. “Here you go, birthday girl,” she announces, thrusting a questionable-looking drink under my nose. “Don’t ask what’s in it, you don’t want to know.”
“Oh,” Sam flashes me an apologetic grin. “You’rethatPoppy. Birthday girl. Damn, I’m so rude.”
I wave the fabric in the air. “Not as rude as me.” I laugh back.
Nellie’s eyes dart back and forth between us, and I can practically see the cupid cogs whirring in her brain.
“And not as rude as I’m going to be, Sam,” she says with a sickly-sweet smile, linking her arm with mine. “I’m going to have to steal my friend for a few minutes, but you can have her right back, I promise.”
Before he can protest, Nellie is guiding me through the throng of dancers towards the restroom at the back. “What was that about?” I moan, wincing as I take a sip of her mystery cocktail. “He was kinda cute.”
“Yeah, kinda,” she dismisses, “but you look far too hot to limit yourself to one guy all evening. Make him sweat.”
After a quick hair check, a reapplication of lipstick and a drinks top-up, I feel more confident to work the room, and as the music gets louder and the party-goers get blurrier, I’m introducing myself as “the birthday girl” to anyone that will listen.
I’m draped over the arm of an armchair chatting to two girls who live on the floor below when the lights suddenly dim, and a hushed wave ripples through the crowd.
“What’s going on?” I mutter as freshmen part like the Red Sea to reveal Nellie, holding a large chocolate cake with eighteen dancing candles on top.
She starts theHappy Birthdaysong a little too loud, wobbling towards me like she’s balancing on a high beam. The crowd joins in, reckless and cheery, chanting the words like it’s the latest Number One hit on the Billboard charts.
“Make a wish, Pops!” she squeals, her blue eyes shimmering at me over the candles.
Unable to squash the cheesy grin splitting my face in two, I squeeze my eyes shut.
I wish that I pass the semester with flying colors.
I wish that I make loads of friends.
But most importantly, I wish that I never have to see the Devil again, even in my nightmares.
Poppy
NINETEEN YEARS OLD
