Molly glares at me, apparently objecting to my teasing tone. Danni, however, appears to take it as I mean it, because she breaks into a deeply dimpled grin. Suddenly, all traces of nervousness have vanished. She’s blossomed into a different person. “It’s something,” she agrees. “Now, I already know your name, but maybe you could introduce yourself anyway?”

“Rosemary.”

“Rosemary or Rose?”

“That depends how much we end up liking each other,” I say.

“I’ll monitor it. You didn’t give me your surname,” she points out.

“I don’t have one.”

“Do you just like to stand out? Or are you not important enough for one?”

I rest my cheek on my balled fist, surprised at her gall. “Both, actually.”

Molly jumps in before we start having too much fun. “I ran into Danni when I got my senior cape,” she says. “She’s from America.”

My annoyance with Molly is at the forefront of my mind again, and it seeps into my tone as I grip the wet flute of champagne with the tips of my fingers and sit up straighter. “Oh, you’re from the American Blythes,” I say, feigning recognition. “Why didn’t you say so to begin with?”

“Rose, don’t be a shit,” Molly says blankly. “She can’t tell when you’re joking yet.”

“Do you get to pass off digs as a sense of humor when you don’t have a last name?” Danni asks.

If I was surprised at her gall before, it’s nothing compared to how shocked I am right now. I’m rather used to strangers and acquaintances politely pretending to find my jibes hilarious. “It’s one of the many perks,” I say finally.

Molly turns to Danni. “Well, we’d better finish getting everyone to tell you their surnames,” she says in a tone that tells me she thinks I’m being unfathomably rude. I would argue Danni seems perfectly capable of dishing out just as much as she’s served, but I keep that argument to myself. I am, it’s rather apparent, on considerably thin ice with Molly as it is.

I raise my eyebrows in place of a goodbye. Danni moves to follow Molly, but then she pauses and glances at me. “Nice to meet you, Rose,” she says, before turning her back to me. I stare after her for several seconds.

Eleanor flips around on the couch again and follows my gaze. She gives a knowing “hmm,” and I jump, embarrassed to be caught staring.

“What?”

“She’s definitely acting odd,” she says. It takes me quite a bit longer than it should to realize she’s referring to Molly.

“I told you,” I say. “I think she hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Eleanor says, but it’s far from convincing. “She’s just grieving.”