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Authors: Cate Tiernan
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full-length mirror she turned, looking at herself from all angles. She gave her mirror image a big smile.
“I can’t,” I said, wondering why my fourteen-year-old sister had gotten not only her share of the family chest but my share, too, apparently. “I’m going to a party. Where are you all meeting?”
“At the theater,” she said. “Jaycee’s mom is driving us. Do you like Bakker? He’s in your class.”
“He’s okay,” I said. “He seems like a nice guy. Cute.” I had a thought. “I heard he’s been crushing on you. He’s not being too—pushy, is he?”
“Uh-uh,” Mary K. said confidently. “He’s been really sweet.” She turned to look at me as I stood in my underwear in front of my open closet. “Where’s the party? What are you going to wear?”
“At Cal Blaire’s house, and I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Ooh, that new senior,” said Mary K., coming over to shove clothes around. “He is so hot. Everyone I know wants to go out with him. God, Morgan, your clothes really need help.”
“Thank you,” I said, and she laughed.
“Here, this is good,” she said, pulling out a shirt. “You never wear this.”
It was a dark olive green, thin, stretchy top that my other aunt, Margaret, had given me. Aunt Margaret is my mom’s older sister. I love her, but she and Aunt Eileen haven’t talked in years, ever since Eileen came out. Since Aunt Margaret had given me the sweater, I felt disloyal to Aunt Eileen when I wore it. Call me oversensitive.
“I hate that color,” I said.
“No,” Mary K. said emphatically. “It would be perfect with your eyes. Put it on. And wear your black leggings with it.”
I scrambled into the shirt. Downstairs, the doorbell rang, and I heard Bree’s voice. “Oh, no way,” I protested. The shirt barely came down to my waist. “This isn’t long enough. My ass will be hanging out.”
“So let it,” Mary K. advised. “You have a great ass.”
“What?” Bree came in. “I heard that. That shirt looks great. Let’s go.”
Bree looked amazing, like a glowing topaz. Perfect, flyaway hair accentuated her eyes, making them striking. Her wide mouth was tinted a soft shade of brown, and she was almost quivering with energy and excitement. She wore a clingy brown velvet top that accentuated her boobs and low-slung drawstring pants. A good three inches of tight, flat stomach showed. Around her perfect belly button she had put a temporary tattoo of sun rays.
Next to her I felt like a two-by-four.
Mary K. shoved the leggings at me, and I put them on, no longer at all concerned about how I would look. A plaid flannel shirt of my dad’s completed my ensemble and covered my butt. I brushed my hair while Bree tapped her feet with impatience.
“We can take Breezy,” she said. “She’s working again.”
Minutes later I was sitting on a prewarmed leather seat as Bree stomped on the gas and flew down my street.
“What time do you have to be home?” she asked. “This may go till late.” It was barely nine o’clock.
“My curfew’s at one,” I said. “But my folks will probably be asleep and won’t know if I’m a little later. Or I could call them or something.” Bree never has to call home and check with her dad about anything. Sometimes they seem more like roommates than father and daughter.
“Cool.” Bree tapped her brown fingernails against the steering wheel, took a turn a bit too fast, and headed out Gallows Road to one of the older neighborhoods in Widow’s Vale. Cal’s neighborhood. She already knew the way.
Cal’s house was awesome, huge, and made of stone. The wide front porch supported an upstairs balcony, and evergreen vines climbed up the columns to the second floor. The front garden was lush and beautifully landscaped and just on the verge of wildness. I thought of my dad humming as he pruned his rhododendrons every autumn and felt almost sad.
The wide wooden door opened in answer to our knock, and a woman stood there,
“I can’t,” I said, wondering why my fourteen-year-old sister had gotten not only her share of the family chest but my share, too, apparently. “I’m going to a party. Where are you all meeting?”
“At the theater,” she said. “Jaycee’s mom is driving us. Do you like Bakker? He’s in your class.”
“He’s okay,” I said. “He seems like a nice guy. Cute.” I had a thought. “I heard he’s been crushing on you. He’s not being too—pushy, is he?”
“Uh-uh,” Mary K. said confidently. “He’s been really sweet.” She turned to look at me as I stood in my underwear in front of my open closet. “Where’s the party? What are you going to wear?”
“At Cal Blaire’s house, and I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Ooh, that new senior,” said Mary K., coming over to shove clothes around. “He is so hot. Everyone I know wants to go out with him. God, Morgan, your clothes really need help.”
“Thank you,” I said, and she laughed.
“Here, this is good,” she said, pulling out a shirt. “You never wear this.”
It was a dark olive green, thin, stretchy top that my other aunt, Margaret, had given me. Aunt Margaret is my mom’s older sister. I love her, but she and Aunt Eileen haven’t talked in years, ever since Eileen came out. Since Aunt Margaret had given me the sweater, I felt disloyal to Aunt Eileen when I wore it. Call me oversensitive.
“I hate that color,” I said.
“No,” Mary K. said emphatically. “It would be perfect with your eyes. Put it on. And wear your black leggings with it.”
I scrambled into the shirt. Downstairs, the doorbell rang, and I heard Bree’s voice. “Oh, no way,” I protested. The shirt barely came down to my waist. “This isn’t long enough. My ass will be hanging out.”
“So let it,” Mary K. advised. “You have a great ass.”
“What?” Bree came in. “I heard that. That shirt looks great. Let’s go.”
Bree looked amazing, like a glowing topaz. Perfect, flyaway hair accentuated her eyes, making them striking. Her wide mouth was tinted a soft shade of brown, and she was almost quivering with energy and excitement. She wore a clingy brown velvet top that accentuated her boobs and low-slung drawstring pants. A good three inches of tight, flat stomach showed. Around her perfect belly button she had put a temporary tattoo of sun rays.
Next to her I felt like a two-by-four.
Mary K. shoved the leggings at me, and I put them on, no longer at all concerned about how I would look. A plaid flannel shirt of my dad’s completed my ensemble and covered my butt. I brushed my hair while Bree tapped her feet with impatience.
“We can take Breezy,” she said. “She’s working again.”
Minutes later I was sitting on a prewarmed leather seat as Bree stomped on the gas and flew down my street.
“What time do you have to be home?” she asked. “This may go till late.” It was barely nine o’clock.
“My curfew’s at one,” I said. “But my folks will probably be asleep and won’t know if I’m a little later. Or I could call them or something.” Bree never has to call home and check with her dad about anything. Sometimes they seem more like roommates than father and daughter.
“Cool.” Bree tapped her brown fingernails against the steering wheel, took a turn a bit too fast, and headed out Gallows Road to one of the older neighborhoods in Widow’s Vale. Cal’s neighborhood. She already knew the way.
Cal’s house was awesome, huge, and made of stone. The wide front porch supported an upstairs balcony, and evergreen vines climbed up the columns to the second floor. The front garden was lush and beautifully landscaped and just on the verge of wildness. I thought of my dad humming as he pruned his rhododendrons every autumn and felt almost sad.
The wide wooden door opened in answer to our knock, and a woman stood there,
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