Her eyes moved to Norton. “Well. You brought someone.”

“This is Norton.”

Norton held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Miriam ignored it and looked him up and down.

“Someone’s doing charity work.”

“Well. You brought someone.”

My face warmed.

Before I could answer, Norton tilted his head. “Jealousy is a sin, ma’am.”

A few people nearby laughed. Miriam’s smile twitched.

Mark cleared his throat. “You look well, Daphne.”

“Thank you, Mark.”

He glanced at Miriam. “I’m glad you came.”

I wanted to ask if he’d ever wondered whether Miriam had lied.

Instead, I said, “It’s good to see familiar faces.”

“Jealousy is a sin, ma’am.”

Miriam laughed softly. “Oh, Daphne. Still so careful.”

There it was. The little needle.

Careful Daphne. Cold Daphne. Difficult Daphne.

But this time, I didn’t shrink.

“Norton and I are going to look at the yearbook table,” I said, and walked away before Miriam could answer.

At the table, our senior album lay open to the drama club page. Miriam smiled from center stage. I was in one corner, holding programs.

Careful Daphne. Cold Daphne. Difficult Daphne.

Norton leaned closer. “You were in theater?”

“No. I wrote the program notes. Miriam said I had the face for backstage.”

A woman beside the table glanced over. “Daphne? I remember those notes. They were funny.”

For the first time that night, my smile came easily.

Norton murmured, “See? Not everyone remembers her version.”

“Daphne? I remember those notes.”

For almost an hour, I moved through the room instead of hiding from it. I spoke to old classmates and even laughed.

Then Miriam tapped a champagne glass.

“Everyone?” she called from the stage. “Can I have your attention?”

My smile faded.

Norton leaned closer. “Stay with me.”

Miriam lifted the microphone. “It’s wonderful seeing familiar faces tonight. Old friends, old memories, old stories.”

“Can I have your attention?”

Mark stepped toward her. “Miriam. Don’t.”

She smiled wider. “And speaking of stories, let’s clear one up.”

My hand tightened around my glass.

“Before everyone starts admiring Daphne’s handsome plus-one, you should know he isn’t her boyfriend. He isn’t even her date.”

People turned.

Miriam raised her glass. “She paid him.”

“And speaking of stories, let’s clear one up.”

The room gasped.

Someone whispered, “Oh my God.”

Miriam laughed. “She hired an actor because nobody would actually choose her.”

Phones lifted.

I looked at Mark.

He stared at the floor.

“Say something,” I whispered, though I knew he couldn’t hear me.

“She hired an actor.”

He didn’t.

I turned toward the exit, but Norton touched my elbow.

“Your choice,” he said softly.

My throat burned. “I can’t stand there while they laugh.”

“Then don’t stand there. Walk.”

I looked at Miriam, glowing under the gym lights like she’d already won.

I refused to let that happen.

I set my glass down.

“I can’t stand there while they laugh.”

“I didn’t come here to run.”

Norton nodded once, then stepped onto the stage and took the second microphone.

“Miriam is right about one thing,” Norton said. “I am an actor. Daphne hired me through a professional agency as her plus-one. Not as a boyfriend. Not as anything shameful. As support.”

Miriam rolled her eyes. “Support. How sweet.”

Norton looked at her. “You already knew what I was, Miriam.”

Her smile slipped. “I don’t know you.”

“Miriam is right about one thing.”

“Yes, you do. Think.”

“Norton,” she warned.

That was the first time she’d used his name.

Mark looked between them. “Wait. You know him?”

Norton nodded. “We were once signed with the same talent agency.”

Miriam stepped forward. “Don’t.”

“Wait. You know him?”

“You were dropped,” he said, “after making complaints every time someone else got a callback.”

“That’s a lie!”

“No,” Norton said. “It’s a pattern. You’d insult people, report them for reacting, then cry first.”

A few people murmured.

Mark stared at Miriam. “Is that true?”

“You’re seriously asking me that?” she snapped.

Norton turned to me and held out the microphone. “Daphne should answer the rest.”

You’d insult people, report them for reacting.”

Miriam laughed. “She won’t say anything. She never does.”

I walked up the steps and took the microphone.

“I teach literature,” I said. “This week, I taught my students about unreliable narrators.”

Miriam scoffed. “Oh, please.”

“An unreliable narrator hides the truth,” I said. “Sometimes by lying. Sometimes by leaving things out. Sometimes by smiling while handing everyone a twisted version of someone else.”

“She won’t say anything.”

The room went quiet.

“In high school, Miriam told people I thought I was better than them because I liked books. She said I was cold because I was shy. She said I was stuck-up because I didn’t know how to fight back.”

Miriam folded her arms. “You were stuck-up.”

“No,” I said. “I was scared.”

For once, she had no quick answer.