Let's Get Lost by Sarra Manning

to this really long-winded account of the diorama of a veldt that Felix was making for geography, and Dad was smiling and nodding and offering his services and his atlases, and Jesus, you’d think he was down to the final five for Father of the Year or something.
    Then he looked up at me and said quietly, “Felix, will you tell your sister to stop playing with her food and actually eat it,” and we were right back on track.
    Felix thought about it for a nanosecond. “Isabel, stop playing with your food and actually eat it,” he parroted back gleefully, and when Dad wasn’t looking, I managed to whap the back of his hand with the serving spoon. He had no sibling loyalty, the little sod.
    The minute that Felix finally stopped shoveling food into his mouth, I leaped up.
    “You can clear the table, that’s fair, right?” I told him. “There’s raspberries in the fridge for dessert.”
    They were still in the kitchen when I came downstairs twenty minutes later. After much deliberation, I

    was wearing a little pink summer dress with a sweetheart neckline and a scalloped hem that was far too winsome without adding jeans and a stompy pair of boots for extra edge. The ensemble didn’t exactly scream über sophistication, but I’d pinned this DIY construction-paper corsage I’d made in art class to my shoulder and concentrated on my makeup.
    There’s this trick to looking older, and it’s not about piling it on so you end up resembling a teen whore.
    ’Cause older girls have got over the novelty of wearing makeup and they have, like, these little signature things they do. After I’d put on enough concealer so that I didn’t appear to have bruises anymore, I stroked a sliver of shimmery green powder just above and below my eyes in this casual, “oh, I really don’t bother with too many products” way. Then I slicked on some Stila Cleopatra lipstick from my last little crime spree in Boots and gave up doing anything with my hair. Really. I just shoved Felix’s beanie on my head. It was a look. I think.
    I almost got to the front door undetected, even had my jacket on, but I had to stop and retrace my steps to the kitchen, where the iPod was perched on the table. Felix and Dad were dioramaing and I could just tiptoe in and snatch . . .
    “Where do you think you’re going?”
    I shoved the iPod into my pocket. “Oh, so you’re actually talking to me now, are you?”
    Felix rolled his eyes and made a zipping gesture across his mouth, but he could just piss off.
    Dad gave me a smile that was entirely devoid of humor. “Actually, Isabel, I asked a question that I’d like you to answer.”
    “Out, I’m going out,” I called over my shoulder, beetling toward the front door before we could get into the details. “And the others are sleeping over, so don’t barge into my room without knocking in the morning.”
    “Come back here immediately.” His voice got louder with every word, so I knew he was on his feet and about to get all judge, jury, and executioner on my arse.
    I whirled around. “No! Don’t even think about it,” I hissed as he took two more steps nearer to me. “I’m going out, and there’s not a single thing you can do about it. You lay one finger on me and I’ll totally—”
    He stopped my invective mid-flow by suddenly leaning his forehead against the banisters, hands clutching at the wood like it was a life raft. He looked, I don’t know, defeated, which I guess meant I’d won.
    But as I slammed the door so hard behind me that the glass in the panel rattled, the funny thing was that I didn’t feel like a winner.
    6
    I had to run all the way to The Cellar so I’d only be a little bit late, as opposed to spectacularly late. It started to rain as I sprinted down Trafalgar Street, skidding on the slicked pavement and only slowing down as I hit Gloucester Place, so I didn’t get too out of breath.
    I could see Smith waiting outside the steps that led down to the club; he was all hunched