9

I HEAR THE BUBBLY BEETLE engine outside as I’m brushing on another coat of mascara. Maybe I’ve gone too far, but what the hell. Might as well give Mick a really nice view of what he’ll be missing. I’ve already decided this is not going to work, whatever this is. Even if he was flirting with me and meaning it today, it won’t matter in the long run. I’m a party girl and that’s all I plan on being until I’m old enough that I have to stop wearing underwire bras and thong underwear.

Teagan joins me in the bathroom and whistles as she takes in my reflection. “Damn, girl.” She looks down at her black dress. “I feel like a lumberjack now compared to you.”

“Shut up. This dress is old.”

“That dress should be illegal.” She stands next to me and leans forward so her face is just a few inches from the mirror. “Can you see my zit?” Turning left and right, her eyes never leave the spot below her bottom lip.

“Yep. It’s like Saturn orbiting your chin.”

Her head whips in my direction. “Seriously? You can see it?”

I laugh hard enough to make my stomach burn. “No. But if you stare at it every time you go past a mirror it will be kind of hard to miss. Just relax. You used the green stuff first, right?”

“Yes, jedi make-up master. I did what you told me before.”

I sigh. No one appreciates all the time I’ve spent on Youtube watching makeup tutorials, not even the chicks with planetary pimples to hide. “You’re gorgeous. Go pick out my shoes, would you?”

She snorts. “Yeah right. You mean go pick out the shoes you won’t wear.”

“No, I’ll go with your choice this time, I promise.” “Lies. All lies,” Teagan says as she leaves the bathroom.

I add a little blush to my cheeks. When Teagan is back, I glance at the first

 

selection she brings for my approval or rejection. “Uh, no. I’m not eighty.” “Listen, these are your shoes, woman. If they’re old lady shoes, they

shouldn’t be in your closet in the first place.”

“I can’t throw shoes out. I have a condition. And besides, they’re good for interviews at banks and accounting firms.”

“Since when have you gone to one of those?”

“Never. But someday I will and then I’ll be prepared.”

“Fine.” She pulls out another pair from behind her back. “How about these?”

I bite my inner cheek, thinking about how those will make my legs look.

Then I shake my head. “Nope. Not enough calf action.”

“Calf action?” She stares at the shoes, dangling them up in front of her

 

face.

 

“I need something that will show my calves off. I have good calves.” She nods. “You do have good calves. Can’t argue with that logic.” She

 

leaves once more and I take the minutes she’s gone to make sure every single one of my eyebrow hairs is where it should be.

My eyebrows are famous. Women hate me for having eyebrows like I do. It’s a cross I bear willingly, because someday these eyebrows are going to snag me a hell of a husband. I arch one up, practicing one of my patented moves. I can communicate entire sentences with these babies.

“Okay, last choice before I retire from this lame job.” Teagan shakes a pair of Jimmy Choo knock-offs at me. “Calf busters. Thigh flexers. Butt lifters.

You cannot go wrong with these suckers.”

I snag them out of her hand. “You must be high. How am I supposed to twerk it out with those on?”

Teagan rolls her eyes. “What … you’re going to start licking sledgehammers now, too? Shall I get the foam finger from your dad’s closet?”

“Maybe,” I say as I go into my room. “Do you think it’ll fit in my purse?”

She ignores the question because we both know I’d no sooner foam-finger myself than I’d twerk my ass up against a complete stranger. Twerking is for skanks, and I ain’t no skank.

I pull out Old Faithfuls, the shoes that have never failed to get me all the free drinks I’ve ever wanted. I will be a dancing fool with these bitches on.

Gravity has zero effect on my butt cheeks when I wear these.

“Now these are shoes,” I say. “Learn well, my little tadpole, and someday you will be an awesome man-killer like me.”

“Whatever you say, Yoda-of-shoes.” She bounces down onto my bed. “So, you excited about seeing Mick? He’s going to be there, you know.”

 

Since Jersey came into my room and refused to leave before I could give her any of the scoop on Mick, she has no idea that I’m totally sweating her boyfriend’s brother. I’m not even sure I want to say anything to her about it now. It seems silly. I’m definitely PMSing. She’d understand, but she’s already got so much shit going on, I don’t want to burden her with my stupid stuff. I decide to act like there’s nothing to talk about. Besides, there really isn’t. I’m putting a stop to it tonight. My eyebrows will end this for me; I won’t even have to say a word, and Mick will know it’s over before it even began.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing my tiny purse. “We can talk about all the fun stuff in the car.” I breeze past the family room where my parents are on the couch watching a movie. “Later, couch potaters!” I call out over my shoulder.

“Not too late!” my father calls out after me.

“Yeah, right,” I say under my breath. Curfews are for slackers. I consider any night I’m in before two in the morning to be a complete fail.