A woman by the refreshment table stared. Susan, the mother of one of Wren’s classmates, paused with a paper cup halfway to her mouth. Her eyes went to the badge, then to Wren’s face.
She gave the smallest respectful nod.
Wren felt it, I could tell. Her back straightened, and she squared her shoulders.
Then the trouble hit hard and fast.
Heads turned.
One of Wren’s classmates, a pretty, sure bet for prom queen type, walked over to Wren with a group of girls trailing behind her.
She looked Wren up and down, then tilted her head and laughed.
“Oh, wow,” she said loudly. “This is actually kind of sad.”
The room quieted. Wren went still.
“You tell her, Chloe,” one of the other girls said
Chloe smirked and stepped closer. “You really made your whole personality about a dead cop, bird girl?”
“This is actually kind of sad.”
The room got quiet in that awful, hungry way rooms do when people sense a scene and decide to become furniture.
My hands clenched into fists.
Wren tried to walk away, but Chloe stepped in front of her.
“You know what’s worse?” Chloe said, sharper now. “He’s probably up there right now, watching you…” she paused. “… and he’s embarrassed.”
I took a step forward, but before I could say anything, Chloe lifted her drink.
“Let’s fix this.”
Wren tried to walk away.
Chloe poured her full cup of punch right on Wren’s chest.
It spread across the navy fabric, soaked into the careful seams, ran down the front of the dress in ugly streaks, and dripped over the badge.
For one second, nobody moved.
