“Okay, whew.” Cissy leans back in the busted front seat, and props one knee onto the dashboard. “Shoot.”

“Hypothetical question. Suppose there’s a guy–”

Cissy holds up her pointer finger. “Is he hot?”

How I hate admitting this. “Yes.”

“Okay. I like this game already. Please continue.”

“So, this hottie guy is a total and complete dick. Yet you still think about kissing him and–”

“Stop right there.” Cissy raises her hand shoulder height, palm forward. “The answer is kiss him, kiss him, kiss him.”

“You didn’t hear the question.”

Cissy turns to me, her blonde ringlets jiggling. “What is the question?”

“Okay, you got me. What would you do in this situation?”

“As I said, kiss him.”

“That’s not very helpful.”

Cissy glances out the window. “I thought this was just a hypothetical.”

I grip the steering wheel so tightly, my knuckles could pop out of my skin. “Of course, it is.” A hypothetical about that Lincoln guy.

Cissy stares out the window for another moment, then stops. “Hang on there, amiga.” Her head snaps toward me, her mouth pursed. “What’s this really about?”

“Nothing. A little girl talk on the drive home from the party.” I turn to her and wink. “Zeke looked mighty handsome tonight, by the way.”

Please take the bait and change the subject. Please, please, pleeeeeeease.

Cissy drums her manicured nails on the dashboard. “If you weren’t mad at me for ignoring you, why drag me off in a huff?”

“I didn’t huff.”

“Myla, your eyes were blazing bright red.”

“Okay, maybe I huffed a little bit.” In a lovely bit of kindness from the universe, Cissy’s house appears to my right. I pull over the car. “I’m fine, totally. I just wanted to ask a hypothetical question and say how handsome Zeke looked. That’s all.”

Cissy’s eyes narrow. “If you say so.”

I make a great show of checking my watch. “Oh, wow, look at the time. I gotta go or my Mom will freak!”

Cissy slowly exits the car. I can almost hear the rusty gears of her brain working overtime. I’m going to get a call later, you can bet on it. The moment she’s clear of the curb, I rev the engine and speed home (as much as anyone can speed in Betsy). I stomp through the front door.

Hopefully, the drama for the evening is over.

5

I chuck my keys onto the kitchen table and march straight through the living room on the way to bed. I hardly register that Mom sits front-and-center on the living room couch, a pile of ghoul robe patterns beside her.

“You’re back early.” She pats the empty spot beside her on the couch, but I’m in no mood for a mother-daughter bonding session.

I stop and pretend that it’s really important to smooth out the folds of my neon orange dress. “It was time to go.”