5: New Year, Same Shit

                                    

                                          
FIVE: NEW YEAR, SAME SHIT
DECEMBER 31
WIL DIAMOND
                          


                          
"I THINK I'M BEING HAUNTED," said Wil Diamond before pressing a bottle of Stoli to her lips and tipping it back for a drink.
                          
        She was sitting on the bottom step of a very large staircase while the grand foyer spun around her like she'd just stepped off a merry-go-round. The spinning was due to the champagne she'd chugged like some uncultured sorority girl, so in an effort to combat the bubbled buzz, she switched to vodka. 
                          
        Beside her on the step, Drew Briggs chuckled and flicked the ashes off the end of his joint. His black tie—which he'd paired with a maroon suit for the evening—was loose around his neck and he looked over at Wil to ask,
                          
        "Jesus, Diamond. How bombed are you?" 
                          
        Wil pushed him aside playfully though he hardly budged. He was twice her size and she was no match against him—not physically, anyway. Then she put the bottle between them and exhaled a breath which was mixed with alcohol and weed. 
                          
        "Mildly," she answered, shutting her eyes as the booze and high combined. "But I was in the ballroom earlier and this girl bumped into me. When I looked at her, it was like I was staring Mare Bradley's effing ghost right in the face." 
                          
        Drew took another hit of the joint and then passed it to her. "Here," he said just as she was reaching for it. "Sounds like you need this more than I do." He watched her pinch it between her fingers and then he asked, "Are you sleeping?" 
                          
        Wil took a hit, holding the smoke until a cough forced her to exhale. She laughed after. 
                          
        "Are you?"  she asked when she could speak again. "Your dad died a month ago. I should be asking you how you're doing." 
                          
        Drew shrugged because of the many things that Drew Briggs was—star soccer player, class clown, pathological flirt—sensitive never made the list. In fact, the only person Drew every allowed himself to become even remotely emotional with was Wil, his best friend of many years. So when his father was tragically killed by a pack of werewolves during a full moon last month, the only person who caught even a glimpse of his pain was Wil. 
                          
        "The twins have been asking a lot of questions," Drew said of his younger sisters, Kendall and Meredith (both of whom were in their first year at the Academy). Wil paid careful attention to the way he avoided talking about himself. It was a move Wil had mastered herself. "Kenny has this crazy theory that it was somehow related to the Incident." 
                          
        Wil felt something in her stomach churn uneasily—though it could've easily had as much to do with her alcohol consumption as it did with the mention of what happened in November. 
                          
        "You dad had nothing to do with that." 
                          
        "I know," answered Drew, stealing back the joint though rather than take another hit, he let it smolder between his fingers. "And I'm sure deep down, Kendall knows that too. But it was such a freak accident and it happened the next day. She's willing to believe anything if it explains why our dad was killed."  
                          
        Wil leaned her head against Drew's shoulder and sighed. She already hated herself for what happened and if Drew's father was another casualty of that day, she'd never forgive herself. Though all she did was steal a spell book out of her mother's office, Wil played a crucial role in Reagan's assault that day.  
                          
        "So this ghost you saw," Drew joked after a moment of silence, changing the subject to anything that didn't have to do with his father's death. "I'm pretty sure you're talking about the new girl."