Quinn Littleton was a mean girl—a skinny blonde social terrorist in stilettos. She was everything Emma MacLaren hated. Until she died.

A proud geek girl, Emma loves her quiet life on the outskirts, playing video games and staying off the radar. When her nightmare of a new stepsister moves into the bedroom next door, her world is turned upside down. Quinn is a queen bee with a nasty streak who destroys anyone who gets in her way. Teachers, football players, her fellow cheerleaders—no one is safe.

Emma wants nothing more than to get this girl out of her life, but when Quinn dies suddenly, Emma realizes there was more to her stepsister than anyone ever realized.

A meaningful and humorous exploration of teen stereotypes and grief, Dead Little Mean Girl examines the labels we put on people and what lies beyond if we’re only willing to look closer.

Dead Little Mean Girl

Eva Darrows

Quinn was a mean girl.

We’re not talking “mouthy” or “occasionally moody” or “sharp around the edges.” We’re talking “full-throttle mega-mean girl with acid spit and laser eyes.” That’s awful to say about the recently departed, but you had to see her in action to understand. If she didn’t like you, she took insidious glee in decimating you until you were a twitching pile of pudding beneath her stilettos. Worse? She got away with it. People allowed a lava-spewing horror show to rule the school because she was hot and popular

High school is gross.

Praise for Eva Darrows’s The Awesome

“Blisteringly funny and unrepentantly crass.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“Maggie’s profanity-laced, snarky, deeply loving, yet antagonistic relationship with her mother is delightful.”

—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

EVA DARROWS is the pseudonym for New York Times bestselling author Hillary Monahan, author of Mary: The Summoning and Mary: Unleashed, and, as Eva Darrows, the critically acclaimed The Awesome. Eva lives in Massachusetts with her family of some parts human, more parts fur kids. She can be found on Twitter: @HillaryMonahan.

For Becky, who always makes me smile.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Introduction

Praise

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Acknowledgments

Copyright

Chapter One

Quinn Littleton was found facedown in my garage at nine in the morning on a Monday, her corpse dressed up like Malibu Barbie. Her boobs were crammed into a homemade coconut-shell bra that tied off behind her back with pink ribbons. She wore a hula-style grass skirt she’d trimmed so short it barely covered anything, and thanks to her unflattering final position of facedown, rump pointed at the garage doors, the first thing anyone saw of her corpse was a sliver of thong bisecting perfect butt cheeks.

Quinn Littleton was dead.

And it was sorta my fault.

Did I mention she’s my sister?

I probably should have explained that with the whole “dead in my garage” thing. Hot, popular girls don’t just die there like it’s some kind of suburban elephant graveyard. Quinn is—was—related to me. Sort of. She wasn’t my birth sister but she was for all intents and purposes my stepsister. The only reason she wasn’t my actual stepsister is our moms hadn’t married yet. So Quinn and I lived together, had rooms next to one another and were forced to endure holidays together all without an actual and factual sisterly bond.

I wouldn’t have wanted one, given the choice. We didn’t jell.

Quinn was a mean girl. We’re not talking “mouthy” or “occasionally moody” or “sharp around the edges.” We’re talking “full-throttle mega-mean girl with acid spit and laser eyes.” That’s awful to say about the recently departed, but you had to see her in action to understand. If she didn’t like you, she took insidious glee in decimating you until you were a twitching pile of pudding beneath her stilettos. Worse? She got away with it. People allowed a lava-spewing horror show to rule the school because she was hot and popular.

High school is gross.

It didn’t help that I’m one of those nerdy girls—brainy, glasses, I wear jeans every day and my morning beauty regime consists of washing my face, brushing my teeth and sticking my hair into a ponytail. It was mortifying for Princess Pedicure, who got up a full hour and a half before we left for school to make sure she had time to set her curlers, apply her makeup and match her underwear to her miniskirts.

There’s nothing wrong with investing in your appearance. There is, however, something wrong with telling everyone they’re disgusting because they don’t go on the latest kale-and-prune-juice diet to be “Africa skinny.” That’s a direct quote, by the way. Africa skinny.

Quinn’s worldview was severely limited.

* * *

Quinn and I met a year after our moms started hanging out. We had no idea that they were getting it on behind closed doors, but they hadn’t advertised it, either. They were two quasi-recent divorcées who had joined a women’s support group and found one another. It was martinis on Fridays, late-night conversation and a lot of texting. Which became a lot of shopping trips and dinner dates. And weekend day trips. And then full weekend getaways to Cape Cod and weeks in Maine.

Nine months later, my mother sat me down in the kitchen to inform me that she was dating Karen Littleton, who was a lawyer and “a wonderful person who makes me feel special.” I was surprised, yes, but not bothered. Mom’s business was Mom’s business. I didn’t want to think about her sex life regardless of the gender of her partner. But Karen had reported that her daughter, Quinn, “who is the same age as Emma and I’m sure they’ll be fast friends,” took it poorly. There was yelling and screaming and a lot of “how can you do this to me?”

I was a peach by comparison, especially since the only reaction I could manage was, “Her daughter needs to calm down” and “Man, Dad will be pissed.” Which she did, and he was, and I predicted all that because I’m smarter than the average bear.

Three months after the big reveal, Mom and I had another sit-down talk because Karen and Quinn were moving in. I hadn’t met either of them by that point—Mom had kept her relationship separate so I wouldn’t get hit with shrapnel if things went bad. But a romantic week in Aruba and the happy couple determined it was time to take the next big step. I wasn’t super excited about living with strangers and I said as much. Mom apologized but it was pretty clear it was going to happen whether or not I liked it. When I told Dad, he offered an open door, but...

I love my dad. It’s just that he took the divorce to mean open season on thirty-year-old females. I didn’t want to have to deal with seeing him as the Godfather of Skank, nor did I want to be home by myself the rest of the time—he was a pilot and out of town a lot. Stuck between two bad situations, I picked Karen and Quinn.

To this day, I’m not sure that was a smart decision.

* * *

The first meeting of the East and West Side lesbian families was “interesting.” My mom is short, curvy and olive-skinned thanks to her Sicilian heritage. The hair at her temples is graying, but the rest of it is a beautiful chestnut that hangs to her tailbone. She has round features and her eyes are a pale, pretty brown. She’s an art teacher, so she spends a lot of time picking paint and clay out from under her fingernails. Karen is her absolute opposite. Tall, lithe and imposing, she wears suits and carries a briefcase and actually owns more than one pair of high heels. She’s a Nordic empress with blond hair, blue eyes and skin so pale she makes paper look tan.

From the moment Karen stepped out of her silver Mercedes with the black leather seats, I was uncomfortable. She was dressed in her version of casual—khakis and a white shirt—but she obviously had money and she comported herself like it. I grew up blue-collar middle class, and seeing her polish made me feel grubby by comparison. I fidgeted as she approached, her capped teeth gleaming in the sun.

“Hi, Emma. I’m Karen. So glad to finally meet you.” She flashed a smile before settling into Mom’s side. Mom shifted her weight, her cheeks flushed. She was nervous, though I didn’t know if that was because I was meeting Karen for the first time or because she was finally meeting Quinn. To Karen’s credit, she noticed my mom’s discomfort. She grazed her fingers across Mom’s biceps. Then she glanced at me to see if the contact freaked me out. I was more impressed that she cared about Mom’s welfare than to sweat a display of affection.

“Hey. Hi,” I said. “It’s... Yeah. Cool.”

I sounded like a stammering moron. But what if Karen turned out to be Cruella de Vil? What if she hated me? What if she made my mom unhappier than my dad did after that whole midlife-crisis flight-attendant-humping fiasco?

“Quinn incoming. I’m sure you two will get along,” Karen said, motioning at the Mercedes. “She’s worried about going to a new high school in the fall.”

Karen sounded so very certain, like an Emma-and-Quinn friendship was a preordained thing. I had a momentary flash of hope that Quinn and I could watch Doctor Who together or maybe nerd out about CW shows. If she was a reader, I had four bookshelves in my room loaded with comics and trade paperbacks and all The Dark Tower books.

Maybe this won’t be so bad, I said to myself. Maybe it’ll be cool. Then Quinn stepped out of the car. She was perfect. Her strawberry blonde hair hung to her elbows, her skin so flawless it’d make a model weep. I was short, chubby and dark. She was tall, willowy and golden. I wore three-dollar flip-flops. She wore Gucci pumps that cost more than my entire outfit. Her makeup was perfect; my lip balm was a dollar-bin find. I held a book in my hand, she held—

—a purse dog. A Chihuahua, to be exact, that I later found out was named Versace.

She stood there, her mongrel snarling at me like it wanted to eat my face. I hugged my well-loved copy of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban like it was the last bit of sanity in an insane world. She eyed me, I eyed her and both our faces fell. The universe had conspired to bring high school elite and high school nerd-herd together, and wasn’t that hysterical?

“Hi,” I said, forcing my lips into something that resembled a smile but probably looked more like I wanted to puke.

“Oh, good. Lesbian is hereditary. Not cool, Mom,” Quinn snapped before tromping back to the car, her familiar yapping all the way. She slammed the door and pulled out her phone, her thumbs flying over the screen. She was talking about me already—to people I didn’t know. And she thought I was...

“I’m not a lesbian,” I said to the Mercedes. I turned around to blink at Karen and Mom. “I’m not a lesbian,” I repeated stupidly. It wasn’t that I minded the misperception, but I felt a need to clarify for Karen’s sake. Or maybe I wanted to say something that wasn’t, “Wow, Karen. Your daughter sucks.”

Karen groaned and ran a hand down her face, her gaze swinging up to the summer sky. “I am so sorry. She’s taking this poorly.”

From that point on, so was I.

Chapter Two

Karen and Quinn moved in just before my junior year started. Quinn sulked, brooded, complained and was an all-around Misery Princess for the first week. Day eight was when my raging hate-on for her was born. She’d started the day with, “Girls are supposed to have two boobs, not one. Get a bra that fits,” over breakfast, and that was annoying, but it wasn’t a deal breaker. The conversation I overheard with her father later in the day, however, was another story.

My mother had worked hard to make Quinn feel welcome. The month before Quinn and Karen’s arrival, Mom painted Quinn’s new bedroom Quinn’s favorite color, refinished her floor to beautiful hardwood and bought her a new, expensive bedroom set. She’d stocked the house with Quinn’s favorite foods, and cleared space for her in the upstairs bathroom. She bought her a desktop computer so Quinn could do her homework with relative ease, and even added Quinn to the car insurance so Quinn could take advantage of her driver’s permit.

Mom cared. She showed it by asking Karen every day, multiple times a day, how she could help make Quinn’s transition easier. She treated Quinn like a VIP, buying her iced coffees and ice cream sundaes that Quinn would reject on account of calories. Whenever Quinn emerged from her Quinn hole, Mom was at her beck and call.

Through all of it, Quinn remained...aloof was probably the nice way of putting it, but she was cold, and sharp, and dismissive. She never showed any signs of appreciation. She took and took and took and offered nothing in return, which was why when I heard her slamming my mother when she was on the phone, I wanted to put her head through the wall.

“I hate it here,” she said. “It’s awful.”

I was passing by her room when she said that, the thin door not enough to keep her voice contained. I paused even though I knew I’d regret it, and she continued. “Emma, Dana’s daughter, is boring and fat. This house is ghetto, this town is gross. Dana got her lesbian all over Mom and I want to puke whenever they touch each other. Like, keep your gay to yourself, please.”

It was stupid, awful and bigoted. It was also crap; neither of our mothers was demonstrative, probably because they wanted us to be comfortable and their relationship was still new to us. Quinn was making stuff up to her father. I shook my head and rolled my eyes, about to head back to my room, when she said, “I don’t even dare wear shorts around here. Dana’s constantly checking me out.”

Oh, no. Nope, not today, Satan.

“My mother’s not a pedo,” I snapped, slapping hard on Quinn’s closed door. “And she’s been nothing but nice to you. If you’re going to lie, at least do it where someone can’t call you on your crap.”

“I gotta go, Dad.” Something smacked against the wall and I heard her stomping my way. I stepped back right as she pulled open her door, her eyes narrowed to slits, her hair tied up on top of her head in a sloppy bun. She wore one of those tank tops that showed off a belly button ring and a pair of pink and blue checkered pajama pants.

“Don’t listen to my phone conversations!” she screamed in my face, a spray of spittle striking my cheeks.

I winced and wiped my face, my jaw grinding. “The walls are thin. And don’t pretend me overhearing you calling my mother a pedophile is somehow worse than you saying it in the first place.”

“You’re standing outside of my door, you fat bitch. Don’t even!” Behind her, Versace snarled like he was Cerberus guarding the gates of Hell. I eyed him, he eyed me back and then he charged. Quinn could have stopped him, easily in fact, but she moved aside to let him come at me, the little turd of a dog darting in to attack. Razor-sharp teeth tore into my skin, Versace’s head worrying back and forth when he got a good grip on me. I yelped and punted the little jerk to get him off me.

He hit the wall with a thud and a whine.

Quinn flew out of her room to scoop up her teeth-gnashing baby, checking him for lingering injury. She assessed him for damage, bending all of his limbs to ensure I hadn’t snapped them in half like an ogress.

“Oh my God. Stay the hell away from my dog! Ugh, you are such a bitch!” I stared at her in horror, rivulets of blood streaking down my bare foot to stain the rug below. I was so mad I thought I’d rip her hair out, but hearing the kerfuffle, both of our moms crested the stairs to intervene, Karen stepping between us. She herded Quinn back into her bedroom while my mom took me to the bathroom to bandage my foot.

Mom shut the door to tune out the screeching harpy next door.

“Are you okay?” She sat on the edge of the tub, pulling my foot into her lap. It wasn’t so awful—a few puncture wounds, a scratch. Thankfully Versace wasn’t a German shepherd, though my ankle throbbed something fierce. Chihuahua teeth are no joke.

“Would you be? Her dog bites me and I’m the asshole.”

“Language,” Mom chastised. Right, language. Because that was the important part. But being snide wasn’t going to help my cause, and so I sat on the toilet, looking at the countertop. Quinn had commandeered it from day one, multiple baskets holding her lotions and potions and skin care. There were trays for her makeup, bins for her feminine products and EpiPens, and a cup holding combs and hairbrushes. The upstairs bathroom used to be mine, but her stuff was a flag staked into the ground, claiming that six-by-eleven space for the nation of Quinn.

Can I secede? Please?

Mom dabbed at my cuts with hydrogen peroxide. “She’ll calm down. Karen says Quinn’s struggled with the separation.” Mom glanced up from her doctoring, strain lines framing her eyes and mouth. “I know she’s being difficult, but we can give her a chance to settle in before we call it a wash, right?”

“She just told her father on the phone you were checking her out,” I said. “I’m not sure she deserves a chance.”

That stopped her cold, and she peered up at me from behind her dark brows. Her mouth did a pucker thing, her shoulders tensed and she sighed. “I’ll talk to Karen, but the point remains. She’s having a hard time. Let’s be the bigger people.”

Whatever.

“If the dog bites me again I want it gone,” I added as an afterthought. “I don’t need to be mauled in my own home.”

Mom nodded and reached for the Band-Aids. “That’s fair. Maybe we’ll get him a muzzle.”

Can we get one for Quinn, too?

Nah, I’m not that lucky.

* * *

The damage went deeper than the bite marks. Quinn was such a problem child, I secretly hoped Mom and Karen would break up. I knew it wouldn’t happen—they were far too happy—but my peaceful home was in tatters as a result of their relationship. As a result of Quinn. Mom kept assuring me that Quinn was adapting and to be patient, but I knew what evil lurked behind that bedroom door. A bona fide bitch. And bitches kept right on bitching because that was their basic bitch function.

Quinn threw the curveball our first day of school. I went downstairs in my jeans, sweatshirt and wet hair, expecting attitude, but she was smiling at the breakfast table. Rare. And conversational. Rarer. For the briefest moment, I wondered if maybe Mom was right. Maybe Quinn had purged the douche bag demon festering inside. Or maybe her fairy godmother had granted her a modicum of decency sometime during the night.

“You have good hair, Emma. Like, a nice color and it’s long. You should wear it down,” she said.

I blinked at her over my wobbly pile of scrambled eggs, expecting a second head to sprout from her neck. She smiled. I glanced over at my mother, who was hovering by the sink. Mom and I shared a look. She nodded, encouraging me to say something equally accommodating. It took me a minute to get over my opossum-in-headlights shock, but after a couple of bites I managed, “Thanks. I’ve been growing it out.”

“You can use my flat iron to straighten it before school if you want. Tomorrow or whatever.”

“Oh. Cool.” I had no idea how to use a flat iron, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. I apparently didn’t need to, either.

“...I’ll show you later. After school.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

One morning of her being nice didn’t assuage the pain of our introductory weeks, but it did shake my resolve to hate her with the fury of a thousand suns. The whole time we waited for the bus, she chattered about how she missed her old friends and how much a new school terrified her. I mustered some sympathy for her that day. Actually, I maintained that sympathy the first week of school because she was nice to me. In turn, I introduced her to everyone I knew because that’s what you did when you had the new kid on your hip.

I wasn’t so stupid as to think that we were going to be best friends, but she was tolerable enough that I thought maybe we could coexist amicably. I was even encouraged when I found out we were going to be in the same art class. Quinn liked photography and I slanted toward sketching and inking, but art was a common interest.

The first day of art class, she took the seat next to me. The way the classroom was set up, there were four double rows of black tables, each one big enough for three workstations. I sat at the end, Quinn took the middle and, right as the bell rang, Nikki Lambert came running into the room, her hair dyed pink and gray and purple, to take the third seat. She wore a black shirt, a short black skirt, black-and-white striped tights and a pair of black combat boots. She was a punk rock chick with runway style, cool in that outcast “too mature for the rest of us” way. She and I weren’t super close friends, but we’d hung out a bit during sophomore year and over the summer, and I liked her a lot.

“Hi, I’m new. Quinn Littleton,” Quinn said as an opener. “I’m Emma’s—My mom’s dating Emma’s mom, so we’re like sisters living in lesbian land.”

Nikki dropped a camouflage bag with a red anarchy symbol embroidered on the side onto the table. Her eyebrows lifted as she looked between me and Quinn, a weird smile playing around her mouth. Her lip piercing gleamed silver as she wriggled it around with her tongue.

“I’m Nikki.” Nikki waved at me and I noticed that each of her fingernails was painted a different color. I thought it was awesome. So did Quinn. She reached out to take Nikki’s hand, pulling it close to admire it.

“The gray is Opi, yeah?”

Nikki peered at her for a long moment, not snatching her hand away but clearly surprised by Quinn’s friendliness. So was I. I never would have had the guts to be so outgoing with a stranger.

“Yeah. I think so,” Nikki said.

“I love their stuff. I’m such a nail polish whore.”

They shared a look that I couldn’t quite read. Before anything else could be said, our teacher, Mr. Riddell, walked in. He always looked like he smelled something foul—his brow was knitted with worry lines, his nostrils were pinched, his mouth was flat and wide like a guppy’s. Even his smiles looked pained. But the better I got to know him, the more I understood that this wasn’t an indicator of bad disposition. Nature had given Mr. Riddell a resting sad face.

“Welcome, everybody,” he said. “I’m looking forward to a creative year!”

We didn’t do any art that day, just got a tour of the classroom to see where all our supplies were kept. Mr. Riddell talked about his syllabus and asked us what we’d like to focus on for the year. It was the standard first-day stuff. By the time the bell rang, I was eager to get started but that’d have to wait another day. I stooped over to grab my book bag, and when I stood, there was Quinn, a grin on her face.

“Mind if I invite Nikki to lunch?”

“We’re having lunch together?” I blinked stupidly.

Quinn smirked. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t we?”

I nodded despite the because you hated me two days ago rattling around inside my brain. “I don’t mind. She’s pretty cool.”

“Nice. I’ll ask.”

And I watched as Quinn dazzled her way into Nikki’s charms. She made it look so easy, like people were puzzles she had no problem solving. I should have realized then that this was indicative of a lot of experience. I should have realized that only a person who cycled through friends would know how to ingratiate herself so well so quickly.

Live and learn.

* * *

Not only did Nikki eat with us that day, she ate with us every day that week. I’d taken up my usual seat between my two best friends at the time, Laney Rosenberg and Tommy Naughters. Quinn sat across from me with Nikki to her side. They kept to themselves, giggling and whispering, so it was no big surprise when Quinn informed me that Nikki would be coming home with us after school that day. I thought it was neat that Quinn had already made a friend. Nikki clearly thought it was neat, too.

I had no idea exactly how neat things had gotten.

At the house, the two of them disappeared into Quinn’s room. I was disappointed at being relegated to third wheel, but I settled in at the kitchen table and let my mountain of homework keep me busy instead of brooding about being ignored. Every so often a peal of laughter would ripple downstairs, but that stopped fairly quickly. They were so silent, I almost forgot they were there until Karen called at half past four sounding out of breath.

“Hi, Emma. Quinn about?” she asked.

“She’s in her room.”

“Can you get her for me? I need to ask her a question so I can schedule her allergist appointment.”

I mumbled a yes and trod upstairs, wary of a Versace attack as I rapped my knuckles on Quinn’s door. She hadn’t quite latched it so it swung open with barely any pressure on my part. The Chihuahua immediately started doing his angry Chihuahua thing from his bed in the corner, and I glanced at it, but then Quinn let out a squeal. My eyes flew to her double bed with its white canopy. I blinked. I blinked twice. It took a moment to register what I was seeing, but when I did, I couldn’t unsee it.

There was Quinn, naked as the day she was born, with Nikki doing stuff to her.

Quinn grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest to cover her boobs, Nikki lifted her head in a panic, the dog scrambled to his feet and ran at me like he’d maul me from the knees down. Something clicked on in my brain telling me I should extricate from the situation before a Chihuahua devoured me, so I closed the door, my hand resting on the knob, the flat pane of white wood a blur before my face. All the while, the phone in my grasp called my name over and over again.

Finally, Karen’s voice penetrated the yeah, I totally saw that stupor, and I lifted the phone to my ear again.

“She’s uhh...indisposed,” I said.

Lame, yes, but I was pretty sure telling Karen her kid was having sex in the other room would do no one any favors—least of all me. I already wanted to remove my brain from my skull and give it a solid bleaching.

Karen sounded alarmed. “Everything all right? I heard her shout.”

“Yeah. She’s—” I struggled for the right words as Quinn and Nikki hissed furiously to one another on the other side of the bedroom door “—she’s fine. She was getting changed. I surprised her.”

“Oh! Yikes. Okay. Right. Well, tell her to call my cell. I have a dinner appointment at five so I won’t be available after that, but—thanks, Emma.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. I went back downstairs, my face burning fire. What was I supposed to say to either of them when they emerged? “Sorry I interrupted your sex?” or maybe “Gee, Quinn, maybe being a lesbian is contagious after all?” We’d had peace around the house since school started, but that was probably out the window. Quinn was undoubtedly going to hate me for...

“Hey, Emma?”

Her voice wasn’t angry.

My spine stiffened all the same. “Yeah?”

“I’m really sorry ab—you know. That.” I glanced up to see her leaning over the railing of the stairs in a T-shirt and pair of shorts. She was flushed, though whether that was embarrassment or sex glow, I didn’t know. Nikki appeared behind her, her anarchy bag slung over her shoulder, her colorful hair disheveled. She was red in the face, and she barely looked at me as she darted outside, muttering a goodbye before the door slammed in her wake.

Being caught inside my stepsister embarrassed her. I couldn’t say I blamed her for that.

“Crap. I can follow her if you want,” I said, feeling guilty Nikki was so weirded out.

“No, it’s—I’ll call her later. It’s cool. But don’t say anything to anyone, okay? It’s nothing serious. I’m just messing around.” Quinn jostled her weight back and forth, her hands fluffing out her hair. “It’s not like I’m gay. I was getting off. But you don’t want that kind of stuff getting around school.”

I nodded dumbly at her, and then kept nodding when she returned to her room. I had no intention of saying anything to anyone, especially not our moms who weren’t going to take that last comment all that well. No, I’d keep my mouth shut and hope that it’d all go away.

Except it didn’t. It really, really didn’t.

Quinn lay low all that night through the next morning. When I came down for breakfast, she was quiet, tossing me a half smile but offering none of the friendly-ish chatter of the last few days. The wait for the bus was silent. Walking into school was silent. It put me on edge, but I tried chalking it up to a bad day or late-breaking awkwardness that I’d seen her being intimate with someone.

No, it wasn’t at all a sign that the dark times returneth.

I passed Nikki in the hall once and she met my eyes for a brief second before jerking her gaze away. She scampered into her classroom, head down. And when art class came I sat down at my station beside Quinn only to watch Nikki park herself at another table across the room, as far away from the two of us as possible.

“What’s that all about?” I asked under my breath.

“She’s mad,” Quinn said matter-of-factly.

“Why? What’d you do?”

“Nothing! She’s mad I won’t be her girlfriend. I’m about the pole, not the hole. Silly dyke.”

There were multiple problems with the answer. The first was her tone—it was grade A snark, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since before school started. It was enough to put my body into fight-or-flight mode: my palms went clammy, my stomach clenched. I wanted to dive under a rock to get away from such concentrated meanness.

The second was the context. Nikki had definitely not been holding Quinn down. In fact, one of Quinn’s legs had been firmly propped on Nikki’s shoulder, which was not an indicator that Quinn had been forced into anything. Nikki might have instigated it, but it was hypocritical to call someone a “silly dyke” when you were a willing participant in your very queer sex.

The last problem—and by far the biggest problem—was her volume. I’d whispered my question but Quinn had responded loudly. Loudly enough that everyone looked at her, then over to Nikki, and back again, knowing exactly who Quinn was talking about. The color drained from Nikki’s face as she looked at the class, her eyes enormous.

She’d been outed. Publicly. In a conservative high school with a whopping No One out of the closet. Westvale was gossipy, and very, very white, and very, very privileged. The fact that no one had burned rainbow crosses on my front lawn when Karen moved in was nigh miraculous.

“Stop looking at me,” Nikki snarled, her hand fisting in the straps of her bag before she ran for the door. She collided with Mr. Riddell as he walked in; he oomphed and called her name, but Nikki kept running, not to be seen again for four days.

Chapter Three

Art class started as the sole thing Quinn and I shared in common, but quickly morphed into “the hour I spend with that chick I abhor.” Her stock rose after she screwed over Nikki. People were curious about her. A handful of people called her homophobic, yes, but others justified her behavior, saying it was Nikki’s fault for hitting on a straight girl in the first place. Far more people applauded Quinn’s “bravery” than condemned her insensitivity, which was all sorts of messed up.

I wondered how the perception would have changed if Nikki told everyone the truth. I had no issue with Quinn identifying as straight and screwing a girl—plenty of gay folks had straight sex, and experimentation was a legit thing. But Quinn was cruel when she talked about the gay people in her circle. Even if she hadn’t been getting her hump on with Nikki, look at her mother, at our mothers, and how she’d accused my mother of inappropriate staring. How could she be so horrible?

I stewed about it for days. The conclusions I reached weren’t heartening. Even if Nikki set the record straight, Quinn couldn’t lose. Most of the guys in my school would have been more interested in the fap material than the injustice of what Quinn did to Nikki. Quinn would go from being the hot, interesting new girl to the walking boner fodder of Westvale.

The only thing I could do was extend an olive branch to Nikki. Her first day back after her hiatus, I found her at lunch. I was so nervous, I got slimy-sweaty and worried about pit stains. A few deep breaths, a few prayers to my benevolent, godly maker, and I approached her table, my lunch tray clasped tight between my hands. She stopped eating her pudding midspoonful. Her expression was empty, like this was a stranger wearing a Nikki mask and not the girl herself.

“What Quinn did was wrong and I’m sorry.” I couldn’t look her in the eye so I concentrated on the rhinestone barrettes in her hair instead. “If you want to tell people that she’s a liar, I’ll back you up. That wasn’t cool.”

I expected her to tell me to screw off, but after a long pause, she kicked out the empty chair across from her in invitation.

“Not worth it,” she said, returning her attention to her pudding.

I ate with Nikki every day after that, Tommy and Laney joining us to round out our quartet. It marked the last day of the Quinn/Emma alliance. Quinn didn’t need me anymore. Derek Powers, our star baseball player, asked her out after Nikki’s shamefest and that was it—Quinn had her “in” with the popular kids. She was free to blossom from a petulant, pain-in-the-butt bud to a full-blown terror flower.

My home life deteriorated to its previous misery while school was “pretend the other one is dead” time. The hostility made art class a chore. Quinn would walk in, see where Nikki sat, and purposefully take the workbench farthest away. I stuck with Nikki so that put me and Quinn on opposite ends of the classroom. One day, while I was sketching, I told Nikki that it was an apt metaphor for my and Quinn’s relationship as a whole—a nation divided, ne’er the twain shall meet.

“Cool,” Nikki said. “Glad I’m on the non–douche bag side of the Mason-Dixon.”

So was I.

* * *

A week later, Quinn’s trouble with Mr. Riddell started. Once Quinn got popular, she got social. Really social. Our school had a policy that cell phones had to be put away at all times or they would be confiscated. Either Quinn thought she could charm her way out of punishment or didn’t think the rules applied to her in the first place.

That was a mistake.

It was a Tuesday, and we were working with watercolors. The exercise was to blend the paints as seamlessly as possible. It wasn’t difficult, but apparently it wasn’t interesting enough for Quinn. I could see her in the front row. She alternated between twisting the paintbrush between her fingers and reaching into her bag to pull out her phone. Every time Mr. Riddell patrolled to look at work, she’d thrust her hands under the table or put the phone away, but Mr. Riddell wasn’t an idiot.

“Focus on the work, Miss Littleton. Not whatever it is you’re doing over there.”

“Uh-huh.” She flashed him an oopsie smile, probably hoping her revolting cuteness would sway him, before picking up the paintbrush and doing three swirls across her paper. The moment he walked out of her row, she was back at the phone, her head pointed down, her shoulders hunched so she could hide when Riddell patrolled near. To use my dad’s saying, it was as subtle as a fart in church.

“Dumbass,” Nikki muttered to me under her breath.

“Yep.”

Three more circuits through the room, two more warnings from the teacher before Mr. Riddell got tired of Quinn’s crap. He didn’t come at her from the front row, but from the row behind. Quinn had her head down, her thumbs flying when he reached over her shoulder to pluck the phone from her grasp. She yelped and whirled around, trying to snatch it from his ham fist, but Riddell shook his head and headed toward his desk, depositing the phone in his top drawer.

“You may retrieve it at the end of the school day,” he said.

Quinn’s ears went pink. It wasn’t shame—she wasn’t really capable of shame—so much as annoyed exasperation. “What if there’s an emergency? Like, a school shooter. There’s a billion trench coat kids here. Tommy Nutters has crazy eyes. Hello?”

Tommy Naughters may have been my ex-boyfriend, but he was still my friend. I glowered at the back of her head, wishing I had heat-ray vision. Sadly, my lack of superpowers meant her strawberry blondeness didn’t erupt into flames.

Mr. Riddell grimaced. “Back to work, Quinn.”

“But...”

“Multiple warnings to put it away means no buts. You may collect the phone at the end of the day. If that doesn’t suit you, I can give it to the principal’s office and they can call your mother to collect it for you.”

Quinn’s pink face went red. This was a telltale precursor of Quinn having a fit, which at home resulted in headaches and new designer purses from Karen. I almost hoped she’d lose it in class so I could snicker about her rotting in detention for the rest of her natural life, but a pat on the shoulder from Drone A on her left calmed her enough that she kept her trap shut.

“Whatever,” she snapped, slamming her paintbrush down on her worktable.

Okay, mostly kept her mouth shut.

Class was unremarkable after that. Quinn was sullen. The watercolors were watercolors and did what watercolors do, which wasn’t much. By the time the bell rang, Quinn had worked herself into a snit. She grabbed her books and stormed toward Mr. Riddell’s desk, one hand perched on her hip, her shoe tapping against the tile floor.

“Can I have it now? My last class is across the building and I have plans after school.”

Mr. Riddell made a show of stacking his papers in a neat pile. “This will be the third time you’ve pushed me, so no, you may not. And now your choice is to pick it up tomorrow after school or I’ll call your mother to pick it up today.”

“Come on! I’m expecting a call from my dad later. Please?”

I’d been easing my way toward the door when Quinn’s wail stopped me short. Nikki was at my elbow, and she leaned back so she had a clear view of Riddell’s desk. He didn’t seem all that concerned with Quinn’s plea or the multiple eyes watching the unfurling drama.

“No. Tomorrow or your mother. Which is it?”

“This is so stupid.” Quinn marched for the door, grumbling under her breath the entire time. She was about out of the classroom when Mr. Riddell called her name. She turned, eyes bulging with barely suppressed rage. I sensed the imminent threat of combustion. The art room easels would be strewed with glittery entrails, lacy underwear and Midol.

“Which is it, Quinn? That wasn’t rhetorical.” At Quinn’s blank stare because rhetorical had too many syllables, Mr. Riddell sank into his computer seat, his hand drumming on the desktop. “Tomorrow, or should I call your mother today?”

“Tomorrow,” she spat, her temper barely in check as she stomped her way into the hall. Nikki and I shared a look and headed out, both of us thinking Quinn would get her phone back tomorrow and that’d be it.

Noooooope.

Quinn avoided Mr. Riddell calling home so she could deliver her own slant to her mother after school. She made it sound like Mr. Riddell had screamed at her mercilessly before amputating the arm attached to the phone. The complaining went on for hours, Quinn saying what a jerk Mr. Riddell was and how boring class had been so, really, it was his fault that she’d been texting in the first place. She actually screeched in rage because she had to use something as archaic as the house phone. It couldn’t even look at the internet, she reminded us, and she had to go all the way upstairs to check her Instagram on her computer! And how stupid was that? OH MY GOD!

How we survived her hissy fit is a wonder. It probably had something to do with Karen getting Quinn out of the house at dinnertime so no one accidentally impaled her in the forehead with a butter knife. And by “accidentally,” I mean totally on purpose because the whining made me crazy.

“She’s going to buy her off, you realize,” I said to my mother after they left. Mom gave me a look for stating the obvious, but sure enough, two hours later Quinn walked in with a dress bag in one hand and an ice cream sundae in the other. My mom gave Karen the hairy eyeball for it, but there were certain battles she wouldn’t pick. Karen’s lackluster conflict-management skills was one of them.

Quinn got her phone back the next day and was, by all appearances, properly chastened. If she was a sane person, that would have been the end of it, but no. A week after the confiscation, Mr. Riddell made the tragic mistake of coming to school sick. He was pink and sweaty and clearly uncomfortable. I was guessing he was feverish because he took off his vest, his tie and divested himself of the stuff in his pockets, like the extra weight made him hotter. Halfway through class, while we painted watercolor animals, he excused himself and rushed out the door for the bathroom. This wasn’t noteworthy until Quinn noticed Mr. Riddell’s phone on the corner of his desk.

“Oh. Oh, ho,” Quinn said, standing. She whispered to the girl next to her, Melody Cohler, who was in the larval stages of BFFness. Melody’s scandalized giggles spurred Quinn onward. Quinn sauntered over to the phone, and by the utter joy spreading across her face, I could tell Mr. Riddell hadn’t password protected it. Her thumbs flew over the keypad before she paused and eyed the door, her smile turning feline.

I glanced at Nikki. She scowled at Quinn’s back. And then she was sitting up straighter in her chair, her mouth falling open. I followed her gaze and then my mouth fell open. Quinn was in the corner lifting her shirt, snapping off selfies of her boobs with Mr. Riddell’s phone.

“What the crap are you doing?” I asked because no one else in the class could articulate. They were all too stunned to speak.

“Stay out of it, Emma,” she replied as she took more pictures from the side view. My classmates started snickering, and one of the guys in the back made whooping noises, but Quinn spun around to stab a talon in his direction. “Shut up, Aidan. Everyone shut up or I swear I will kick your asses. This is between me and Riddell.”

Quinn took some less risqué pictures. There was a picture of a vase and some art on the walls, a few shots of the paintbrushes drying on the window ledge. I didn’t understand why until Nikki snorted, looking down at her half-finished painting of a goat. Other people painted pandas or parrots or ponies, but my new best friend picked a goat. Because she was weird.

“She’s burying the pictures. This can’t go well for him,” she said.

The ramifications didn’t occur to me when Quinn returned the phone to the desk. Nor did they occur to me when I went home from school. No, I didn’t quite get it until the next Monday when I walked into art class. Standing at the front of the room was a woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty-six or twenty-seven with Principal Ahadi at her side.

“Everyone, this is Miss Glass. She’ll be taking over for Mr. Riddell for the foreseeable future. I assure you, you’re in great hands. Any questions, you know where to find me.”

My stomach dropped to the floor.

She ratted him out. Those pictures got out, or she told someone about them or forwarded them and now he’s gone.

I didn’t want to believe that Quinn could be so catty as to compromise a guy’s job for scolding her, but when I saw her sit back in her seat in the front row, her arms folding over her chest, her smugness a living, breathing thing threatening to gobble all the space in the classroom, I knew she was responsible.

“Oh. Oh, wow,” I whispered, sinking into my seat, my face flushing hot. “I cannot believe she did that.”

Nikki shook her head so hard her silver cross earrings smacked against her cheeks. “I can. That girl makes Hannibal Lecter look like a saint.”

Chapter Four

“If you tell the school about the Riddell thing, I’ll end you.”

One minute I was shoving a bologna sandwich in my face at the kitchen table, a book open before me, the next Quinn loomed over me in her workout pants and tank top like a perfumed vulture.

“That’s nice. You’re in my light. Move?”

She batted my book away. The pages rustled and settled somewhere in the middle that was distinctly not my place. It irritated me. I was at a really good spot, when Katniss... It’s not important. You don’t mess with my The Hunger Games and she messed with my The Hunger Games and for that I wanted to snap her like a twig.

“You don’t have to be a dong about it.” I snatched the book and tucked it beneath the table where her grimy tentacles couldn’t touch it.

“You’re not listening to me, Emilia.”

This was a new thing, the Emilia bit. I have no idea where she got it from, but it was stupid.

“I am listening. Don’t tell anyone about the Riddell thing. Now can I go back to reading?”

“No, see. You don’t get me.” She leaned down, until her lips were an inch away from my ear, her breath lashing at my skin. I could feel her body heat against my back. “If you tell anyone, I will make you so miserable at school, you’ll wish you were dead.”

She was threatening me.

Awesome.

Faaaaantastic.

I rubbed the back of my neck, unwilling to admit aloud that her unleashing her winged monkeys scared me to death, but that was the truth of it. I liked my low profile. I liked hanging out with Nikki and Laney and Tommy, and being ignored by my classmates. It was safe. Being Quinn’s target dummy outside of the house as well as in? Was the anti-safe. “Whatever, okay? I’ll leave it alone.”

Satisfied with my cowardice, she wandered off to the bathroom. I heard the radio blare followed by the rush of water. I tossed the book onto the counter and headed out the door, my hand plunging into my jeans pocket in search of my cell phone. Fifteen minutes later, I arrived at the Bouncing Bear Coffee Shop on the corner and Tommy Naughters was pulling into the parking lot in a Jeep Cherokee so old it looked like it was held together with duct tape.

Tommy was an old friend, like since-grade-school old friend. Tall and knobby at the joints, he had dark brown hair and hazel eyes and an Adam’s apple that bulged from his neck like he’d swallowed a baseball. He was nerdy like me with his video game T-shirts and black trench coat. We’d dated awhile but it hadn’t gone anywhere. Part of that was his propensity for writing emo poetry. I liked him too much to laugh in his face at what was supposed to be a romantic gesture. But know this: I stilled his soul, granting him the respite given only to those in the tomb.

I still giggle thinking about it because I’m a jerk.

The other part was my mad crush on Shawn Willis, a guy so out of my league it wasn’t even funny. Every time Shawn walked into a room at school, my mouth went dry and I lost my train of thought. Like, midsentence I’d go silent. Tommy noticed The Shawn Effect. He didn’t appreciate it, and our gropey fumblings and makeouts weren’t so good he couldn’t walk away from them.

We stayed friends despite the split, and things were better than ever with him dating my other friend, Laney. She worked at that particular Bouncing Bear, though Tommy said she had the day off and wouldn’t be joining us on account of a family thing. Laney adored Tommy, emo poetry and all, because dead roses were more a goth chick’s scene and Laney was all about her pleather and fishnets.

Tommy clambered from the Jeep in his usual coat, jeans and combat boots, a Dungeons & Dragons book tucked beneath his arm. Seeing me waiting inside at the corner booth, he waved.

“I got a new adventure for us next week,” he said.

“Cool. I’m digging the cleric. Hopefully I won’t blow this one up.”

One of the common threads of our friendship was a mutual appreciation for tabletop role-playing games. This fact had never and would never make it to Quinn, who would have laughed herself to tears that I was one of those kids. My diatribe on how storytelling was an ancient art form celebrated in hundreds of cultures and Dungeons & Dragons was simply a modern extension of a time-honored tradition would be wasted on her.

“What happened with the Evil One now?” Tommy sat across from me. I slid him an iced coffee I’d ordered from the woman behind the counter. Tommy would pollute his with a mountain of sugar, but I liked mine black.

As black as my twisted soul, my sweet Ophelia.

Poor Tommy.

“She’s threatening me about what happened in art class,” I said. “That thing with Riddell I told you about? She says she’ll ruin me. I don’t know what that means, but I’m guessing she’ll tell people stuff about me. Or, well, make stuff up. I’m pretty boring.”

Tommy tossed a straw my way, his fingers tracing over the cover of his book. “Were you planning to tell anyone about what happened? Was that even a thing?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that. Had I considered it? Yes. Planned? No, not really. After Quinn screwed over Nikki, I’d rushed to make nice with the girl who would become my best friend. Once again I felt compelled to repair Quinn’s damage, but I didn’t want it to become a habit. Quinn was Quinn. She owned her asshattery. I could apologize or tattle, but didn’t that set a problematic precedent?

And in this case, it would be at the expense of my own neck.

“I dunno, should I?” I swirled my drink around inside the plastic cup. The ice clicked and whooshed against the sides. “I feel like maybe I should because he’s not a bad guy, but there were thirty other kids there, too. They could say something and take less of a hit from the inevitable Quinn bomb. She’s two doors down from me, you know?”

Tommy nudged my foot with his own.

“There you go. It’s not on you to fix her shit. You worry about you. She worries about her. I’m sure it’ll work out for Riddell.”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding my head.

In retrospect, this was not the best advice in the world, but hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

* * *

The cosmos decided I was a huge toolbag for keeping my mouth shut because at the mall with Nikki the next week, who did we stumble across but the former art teacher himself. I didn’t see him coming, but Nikki did. She and I had just walked out of the shoe store, Nikki the proud new shoe mommy to a pair of knee-high black boots with spiky heels, when she took off down the hall like a bullet. I turned in time to see her approach Mr. Riddell, who was two stores up, his eyes huge behind his glasses.

“Mr. Riddell! How are you?” Nikki asked. I trotted after her, my shopping bag whacking my calf.

Mr. Riddell glanced at me nervously, like I carried Quinn cooties with me that could ruin his life for a second time. He sucked in a breath, his meaty cheeks billowing. “Hello. Yes. I’m sorry to... How are you both doing? I enjoyed having you in my class.”

Nikki actually swooped in to hug him. He looked shocked, but then awkwardly patted her shoulder as she pulled away, his tight smile making him look like he had gas.

“I’m good, thanks. We miss you, Mr. Riddell. The new chick’s okay but she brought us back to basics. Like 101 techniques in a 201, you know? It’s dumb,” Nikki said.

He frowned and adjusted his glasses, the crinkles between his brows looking like a chicken’s foot. “I am sorry to hear that. Are you still taking lessons at the museum?”

Nikki nodded. “On weekends. We’re working with pastels.”

“Excellent. And how are you, Emma?” His head swiveled my way.

Why’d he have to look at me?

“I’m good,” I managed over the frog in my throat.

Don’t be nice. I don’t deserve it. Quinn doesn’t deserve it.

He nodded, smiling, as a middle-aged woman called his name from across the concourse. “That’s my wife. I should go.”

Seeing that woman holding her purse, waiting for her husband, compounded my guilt. Hard. Mr. Riddell had lost a job he’d had for years. He was married and probably had a mortgage. And bills. And a lifestyle. All of those things may have been compromised because Quinn Littleton couldn’t handle a single day without her stupid goddamned cell phone.

“I’m sorry you had to leave.” It escaped before I could think better of it. Nikki winced, but I’d opened that door and I’d reap the consequences for it. Red-faced, I peered at him, my fingers clasped together over my stomach.

“I’m sorry?” he asked.

“For Quinn.” I couldn’t bring myself to say anything else, but I didn’t need to, either. Mr. Riddell’s face flushed, his concentration no longer focused on my face but on my shoes.

“I wasn’t fired, if that’s what you’re... There was an investigation after an anonymous tip about improper... I was exonerated.” He sucked in a shaky breath. “I chose to step down. I couldn’t believe a student would be so hateful.” If I thought him looking down was uncomfortable, it was doubly so when he lifted his chin. The bevy of lines on his face made him look ancient, like he had tree bark instead of skin. “I suspected it was her. Did she tell you?”

“No. The class saw her do it.”

Mr. Riddell’s eyes narrowed. For a horrible moment, I thought he’d shout, but then he did something far worse. He asked me that question. You know, the one that makes your guts rot out.

“No one spoke on my behalf?”

“We wanted to,” I almost said. “We liked you way more than Quinn.” But the words became gobbledygook inside my mouth. The shame was so thick, it was like trying to talk through cotton balls. No, no one said anything because Quinn scared everyone. We were held hostage by a skinny blonde leviathan with a mean streak.

Our silence was damning. Mr. Riddell cleaned his glasses on the bottom hem of his shirt like that was infinitely more important than the two girls standing before him. I caught a momentary flash of white, furry belly before the glasses were replaced. “Well, what’s done is done. I’m fine, my reputation is intact. Perhaps next time you’ll do differently. Good to see you girls. Goodbye, now.”

Before Nikki or I could eke out proper apologies, he crossed the walkway to join his wife, the mall crowd closing in behind him.

I gaped at the spot he’d just occupied. “We let a good man burn,” I managed.

A drizzle of eyeliner-stained tears streaked down Nikki’s cheeks. She dashed them away like she could rid herself of the evidence. “Yeah. We did. Riddell was a good dude. He got me into that art program. God, I hate Quinn.”

Chapter Five

Things settled into a routine of terrible after the Riddell incident. Quinn did Quinn, no one took her to task because she terrified them. It got twice as bad after she joined the cheerleading squad; she had a small army of popular girls to back her. Add to that her unmatched capacity to wheedle, bully and charm her way through any situation and you had a disaster in Malone Souliers.

She was the Wicked Witch of Westvale.

I was the lucky girl who got to live with her and her little dog, too.

At least Karen didn’t suck. She respected my dedication to my grades, complimenting me with, “You have your head on straight—you’re going places in life.” She talked to me about college, offering to poke her alma mater after I sent out my applications. Not once did she say that stuff to her own daughter. Quinn’s concentration had always been the social spheres of school, not academic achievement, so Karen praised me, all the while nagging Quinn about her floundering grades.

It was a sore spot begging to become an open wound. Sure enough, at the end of first term, things imploded. I’d made Dean’s List with straight A’s. Quinn barely passed anything because homework was just not something she was interested in doing. Karen regarded her daughter’s report card in much the same way Superman would regard a lump of kryptonite in his Christmas stocking.

“This isn’t going to work, Quinn. You want to cheer in college but with these grades, you won’t get into college. You’re going to have to do more. Up the grades, show involvement beyond cheerleading. Prove that you’re well-rounded. And don’t try to sell me on cheerleading scholarships. Cheerleading doesn’t have the sway of football or baseball. If you want college, you’re going to have to work for it. I can’t do this for you.”

Quinn bellowed a whole bunch and stomped off to her room, but the idea of colleges turning her away must have bothered her, because she flounced into my room less than an hour later.

“Does your goth friend still work at Bouncing Bear?”

I offered my best deadly librarian stare over the rims of my glasses.

“Her name is Laney, and yes. Why?”

“I need a job.”

I actually laughed. Like, in her face. She looked taken aback, and then she looked pissed. “Stop being a douche. I need a job. You heard my mother. I’ve got to be well-rounded.”

I dropped my chin into my palm so I could maintain uncomfortable eye contact. “The last time Laney came over, you told her it’s lucky she found the one necrophiliac in Westvale because no one else would screw a corpse. Why would she get you a job anywhere?”

Quinn rolled her eyes, but she must have agreed Laney wasn’t a good in because I heard her mutter “Josh” before returning to the foul cocoon from whence she came.

I snorted. If she was going the Josh route, things had taken a dire turn.

Josh Winters was one of those kids who was popular in spite of himself. He was okay-ish looking, was smart-ish, played sports moderately well-ish, and had a good-ish sense of humor. Except he didn’t act like he was only ish because my classmates pandered to him. Josh had money. Lots of money. His parents owned Bouncing Bear, which started as one shop but had spread like a caffeinated plague. You couldn’t walk twelve feet down the street without stumbling upon a Bouncing Bear Coffee Shop with its googly-eyed mascot holding a hot cup of deliciousness.

Josh drove a nice car. He wore the best clothes. He had the biggest house in his neighborhood and was generous with the girls who were kind enough to put out for him. He tended to cycle through the ladies and, at one point, Nikki told me he had so many notches on his belt, his pants were about to fall down. Plenty of girls were more than willing to hop on his junk for a pretty bauble or two.

Quinn eluded his grasp. She’d toy with him and then back out, always blaming her boyfriend du week or some other totally avoidable whatever for keeping them apart. The reality was she preferred the pretty boys, but she wasn’t so dumb as to permanently burn that bridge. Josh smartened up after a while and went after easier fare, but he maintained an eye on Quinn’s pert butt, hoping it’d sashay his way.

If she wanted him to help her get the job, she might have to pay for the favor. The question was with what.

* * *

Answer: nothing.

Josh, still vying to insert himself into Quinn’s orifices, nudged his father about getting Quinn hired. He would later regret this maneuver, as so many of us regret interactions with Quinn, but at the time he probably figured the hot chick would owe him one so why not.

I could have told him the why-nots at length, but he wouldn’t have listened. There were some downfalls to being invisible.

Quinn surprised the family on a Saturday morning wearing a logoed pink polo shirt, a purple visor and tan shorts cut so short, I was pretty sure anyone walking behind her would mistake them for panties. It was ridiculous, especially considering we were due for the first snowfall of the season and she’d freeze to death.

“This uniform is so ugly,” she whined, tucking the shirt into her sort-of-shorts. “This pink washes me out.”

“I think your ass hanging out is the bigger problem,” I said, loud enough for my mother to hear. Mom biffed me on the back of the head, almost causing me to choke on my Cheerios.

“That’s God getting back at you.” Quinn grabbed her pocketbook. “I’m off. Wish me luck!”

Karen smiled after her. It was rare for Quinn to actually listen to anything her mother said, so it probably felt like a huge victory that this one time, Quinn had taken her advice. Once I stopped hacking on cereal, Mom and I eyed one another warily. And then Mom tittered. It was quiet, but it was enough to get me going, too. The next thing you knew, we were both giggling like idiots. Karen looked confused, but neither one of us wanted to rain on her parade so we kept further commentary to ourselves. Though Mom did whisper to me, “It’s good she’s not a boy or they’d be able to tell if she’s circumcised.”

We howled.

I expected Quinn’s Bouncing Bear stint not to last, but she stuck with it. For that matter, she practically glowed whenever she came home. She wouldn’t lift a finger to help around the house, touch her homework, or do anything that required actual effort beyond cheerleading and doing her nails, but for the first month of her employment, Quinn traipsed off to work with nary a complaint, taking early shifts on Saturdays and Sundays and coming home late—sometimes after dark. It didn’t cross me as weird until she missed a cheerleading practice. Melody called the house looking for her, saying that Quinn’s phone was turned off, and had we seen her today? The squad needed her.

I was watching a movie with Nikki at the time so I blew Melody off with a quick, “Nope, I’ll have her call you,” and hung up.

Nikki eyeballed me from behind her copy of Rolling Stone.

“Quinn missing a practice is like the Pope missing Sunday Mass, you realize. That chick is all about her spread eagles. I actually mean the sport ones this time.”

I cocked my head to the side, thoughtful. Quinn’s disposition was less hell beast than usual, and lately she was even wearing long pants to work in lieu of short shorts because “someone asked her to.” Most days, she’d tell that someone to crap in their hat.

“Something’s up,” I announced. “Her cell is never off.”

Nikki ducked behind her magazine. “Ayep. If she missed cheerleading practice, it’s a doozy.”

I didn’t relish the notion of involving myself in Quinn’s screwed-up life, but it was too strange to ignore. On the off chance she was on her way to becoming the next Walter White, I felt compelled to ask. Quinn was a creature of annoying habits. This habit was off the charts.

Nikki took off early that night on account of a date, so I was home alone by the time Quinn rambled in from work. I sat on the couch with a book in one hand and a can of soda in the other. She immediately pulled some of her hair from over her shoulder around front, patting it into place until it covered her neck.

“Hickey, huh?” I asked.

She tsked. “None of your business, Emilia.”

“Not my business, but if I noticed, your mother will.” I put down the book and leaned over the couch arm, sweeping the bangs from my eyes when they fell in front of my glasses. “Okay, so either you’re working twelve-hour shifts or you’re seeing someone. What’s up?”

Quinn rarely engaged in deep thought, so when her face scrunched up and her head tilted to the side, I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. Constipation, maybe. Or the beginnings of a stroke. But then she flopped onto the chair beside me, moving in so close I couldn’t miss her Eau du Donut: a combination of grease, sugar and hazelnut.

“I’m seeing an older man. Like, way older,” she said.

That she had a boyfriend didn’t surprise me. That she was seeing an “older man” did but only because she was so very particular with her arm candy. She was also particular about how she presented herself when she went out with people—she always looked great, smelled great. Right then, she had jelly on her shoulder and coffee stains on her pants. Her Romeo must have really liked donuts.

Maybe Quinn was doing Homer Simpson.

“How much older?”

“His forties. He says he loves me. Like, I think I might love him. He makes me feel so... Look what he bought me.” She reached into her pocket and produced gold hoop earrings with leafy charms dangling from the bottoms. Emeralds, maybe. Or peridots.

“Are those real?” I admired the pretty before my brain kicked in and told me this is really wrong. “Wait. It doesn’t matter if they’re real. Holy crap. You’re seventeen! He’s fortysomething? That’s statutory in this state. Like, he could go to jail.”

“That’s why you can’t say anything. I’m trusting you with this. Don’t screw me over. Please. I’m happy and I don’t want to ruin it.”

My tongue twisted. This guy was as old as her dad, which maybe was the point. Was this some Electra complex manifesting? A result of neglect? Her dad rarely called, and when he did, it was for five or ten minutes before he was making his excuses. Heck, my dad flew planes back and forth to Dubai for rich businessmen but I still heard from him once a week.

I rubbed the heel of my palm against my temple. It was a lot to take in, and nothing I could say would make any of it better. Quinn did the strangest thing then—she reached for me, her pointy fingernails digging into the back of my hand.

“Promise me,” she demanded. “Please? I love him.”

It was the please that got me. For all Quinn’s faults, she rarely asked me for anything. True, that was because she either didn’t like to acknowledge I was alive or was too busy torturing me to want or need stuff, but she hadn’t come to me so much as I’d gone to her. I’d inserted myself and it’d be a bad showing to screw her over with it.

She gave my hand another squeeze.

I groaned in defeat.

“Fine. I promise I won’t say anything. But I’m going on the record here. It’s creepy and you should be careful.”

“I will,” she promised. And for the first and last time in my life, Quinn pulled me into a hug. Despite all expectations otherwise, lightning did not strike me dead.

* * *

Quinn’s spring/winter romance continued for another three weeks. She didn’t miss any more practices, but she did spend her weekend days exchanging bodily fluids with her mysterious dude and, in turn, collecting valuable prizes. A necklace. New lingerie. An iPad. She tried to give me the sordid details once, showing me the rug burn she got from Old Boyfriend’s car upholstery, but I declined story time, telling her there weren’t enough therapists to fix my tender brain meats if she continued talking.

She laughed and called me childish. I was okay with that.

Sadly for Quinn, the Bella and Edward of donuts were not to be. Quinn came home on a Thursday night slinging curses that would have made a sailor blush. I was playing video games at the time with my noise-canceling headphones on, but somehow, Quinn’s banshee wails trumped soundproofing technology.

I went downstairs to check on her only to see her chuck the Bouncing Bear hat across the kitchen.

“I hate him! I hate him! I am... I hate him so much!”

“Are you okay?”

“Leave me alone!”

“Good talk! Leaving you alone.” I returned to my virtual playground where, unlike my kitchen, demolitions were an acceptable form of problem solving. Ten minutes later, a wet, bathrobe-clad Quinn haunted my threshold.

“I hate him so much.” She threw herself at my bed, muffling her shriek of rage in my Domo-kun pillow. I paused the game and waited. She’d stop leaking her psycho all over my stuff eventually, and I was guessing she’d want to talk at that point.

It took her a few minutes to collect herself. She lifted her head, looked at the fuzzy brown monster with fangs who’d been her tissue, and flung it across the room. Poor Domo-kun. Reduced to a snot rag and discarded.

“S-so he says he can’t leave his wife. That they’ve been together too long. I thought he loved me,” she warbled. It was clear by the jut of her chin she was on the verge of sobbing.

Raw emotion from a goodness vacuum such as Quinn Littleton was not an eventuality I was prepared for.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” she demanded.

“I... Yeah. I’m sorry you’re hurt.” I didn’t know how to navigate these waters. I could handle Quinn when she was in typical mean girl mode because that’s what I knew. That was her modus operandi. This vulnerable, softer-side-of-Sears Quinn threw me off guard. She looked so fragile and human.

I sucked in a breath. “He didn’t deserve you. Plus, when he’s sixty you’ll be thirty. There’s not enough Viagra in the world to cover that.”

I didn’t expect her to appreciate what I’d said, but she smiled, rolling onto her back to look at my ceiling. “He said he loved me.”

“Of course he did. He wanted to do you. It’s the oldest cliché in the book.” Her expression turned far less friendly. I hadn’t meant to criticize her, only I guess I had by suggesting she’d let herself be taken advantage of. I winced. “You know what else is an old cliché? A woman scorned. You’ll do better now. Better than him.”

“A woman scorned,” she repeated.

She lifted her butt off my bed to pull her phone from the pocket of her robe. Her thumbs flew. I glanced over to her screen only to see a picture of Quinn with a silver-tipped head jammed between her ample boobies while she grinned at the camera. Then there was another picture that...okay, that was a nipple. I didn’t need to see that, so I looked away. I hadn’t signed on for sisterly areolas.

Quinn kept typing.

“He wants to dump me? Whatever. You’re right. I will do better. But while I’m doing better, I’m going to make sure he has the worst day of his life.”

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Quinn paused to smirk at me, one brow lifted, her eyes full of flint. “Texting his wife. She really ought to know what he’s doing behind her back. A woman scorned, right?”

“Oh,” I said. Because what else could I say? I’d fed fire to the fire god. The inferno was a foregone conclusion.

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