Free Tragedy Girl by Christine Hurley Deriso

his age to be so … poised , I think is the word Uncle Mark was looking for. It just caught us off guard, I guess. In a good way, of course.”
    She nods vigorously, apparently pleased with her word choice.
    But Uncle Mark isn’t nodding. He’s just standing there looking … concerned. Aunt Meg’s spin notwithstanding, he definitely wasn’t giving Blake a compliment when I walked into the room.
    Too smooth.
    That’s what he said.

Eleven
    “Oh, you should come too!”
    Lauren gives Melanie a level stare. “Right. There’s nothing pathetic about that .”
    “You wouldn’t be a third wheel,” Melanie insists. “You could invite Garrett.”
    Lauren raises a hand. “You. Must. Stop.”
    Melanie picks up a chicken nugget and gives an exaggerated pout before popping it into her mouth. “I think he really likes you,” she says, her mouth full.
    “Based on how many times he’s called me since the bonfire?” Lauren says. “Let’s see … hmmmm, wait a second, I’m counting … Okay, got it: he’s called me zero times. Go on your little double date. I’ll sit home and crochet.”
    “So Blake ate dinner with your family last night?” Melanie asks me as people rustle around us carrying their trays to or from their tables.
    I pause for a minute. Your family . Yes, idiot. That’s who Uncle Mark and Aunt Meg are. They’re family.
    “Yep,” I say. “They wanted to meet him, and he was free, so … ”
    “Wow,” Lauren says. “Dinner with the fam. This is heating up pretty quickly.”
    I narrow my eyes quizzically. “ Too quickly?” I ask them, genuinely interested in their opinions. “Is this weird?”
    Melanie offers a breezy smile. “What would be weird about it?”
    I ponder the question, then shrug. “He and Cara were so close. I think she’s the only girl he ever dated, and only a few months have passed since she—”
    “Hey, life goes on,” Lauren says, then sips her iced tea through a straw. “I mean, I feel terrible about the girl, but you can’t expect a guy to stay in mourning the rest of his life.”
    “Still,” I say, “they were incredibly close. He takes flowers to her mother every Sunday.”
    “Well, that’s adorable,” Lauren says drolly, and my stomach clenches as I wonder what she’s insinuating. I guess she sees the anxiety etched on my face.
    “I didn’t mean anything by it,” she assures me. “It is adorable. It’s very … Blake-like. He’s … quite a guy.”
    I purse my lips. I’ve been hearing these things about Blake a lot, but the compliments always seem tinged with a little, I dunno … sarcasm? What’s that about? Is it that noteworthy for a guy our age to be so mature? Is decency so extraordinary that people don’t really quite buy it? That’s totally unfair. So Blake’s not a typical shallow high school airhead. Sue him, for chrissakes.
    “Truly, Anne, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
    I feel my neck grow warm. “It’s fine,” I murmur.
    A tense moment hangs in the air, then Melanie leans closer. “I told Lauren about the note.”
    What? We’d decided, that morning in her bedroom, to keep the note a secret. The last thing we wanted to do was fan the flames, intensify the drama, drag out the childishness—at least that’s the last thing I wanted to do. We even floated the idea that Lauren might have written the note, though that’s clearly a long shot. Yes, I know it’s hard to keep a secret, but I’m cringing right now. What is Melanie thinking ?
    I stare at Melanie with my jaw dropped.
    “Sorry, Anne,” she tells me, “but it’s too creepy not to talk about.”
    She reaches into her purse and takes out the note, smoothing the paper on her lap. I instinctively reach over and try to grab it, but Melanie moves it beyond my reach.
    Lauren presses her lips together. “Uh, in the first place,” she tells me in a steady voice, “I’ve already seen the note. Remember? And in the second , it’s Melanie’s note—not yours. Plus, Mel