“Says the pageant queen,” I reply, rolling my eyes. Cressida is from the South, like me. Unlike me, she participated in some of its more archaic traditions. She claims it was at her mother and grandmother’s insistence, but Cressida is both strong-willed and loves the spotlight, so I suspect it wasn’t completely involuntary.

Cressida gives me a regal wave that ends with only her middle finger still raised. I laugh and then flop back down on the cushions that have started to mold to the shape of my body.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Cressida comments, glancing around the messy living room.

“Yeah, I’ll clean it up,” I assure her.

“Sad I missed the party,” she says, kicking a stray beer can the boys left behind. “Looked like a rager.”

“Looked like?”

“I enjoyed ‘Wannabe’ the most,” she replies, smirking.

“Fuck. I’m going to kill Kyle.”

“Was he the lucky guy last night?” She winks.

I make an unintelligible sound, and Emma’s arrival saves me from actually having to answer. I didn’t hook up with any of the more-than-willing soccer guys last night. I drank myself into a haze that apparently resulted in a Spice Girls concert.

Emma arrives next, bouncing into the room and leaping atop the back of the couch. Except she misjudges the distance and ends up half-smothering me.

“Emma!” I protest as her elbow digs into my left thigh.

“Miss me?” She grins, rolling back onto the cushions she was actually aiming for. “I thought you were some badass soccer player who couldn’t feel pain. The way you talked about Scholenberg, I thought you’d come back wrapped in a wall of muscle or something.”

“I’ve always been a badass soccer player,” I respond.

Emma’s attention shifts to the living room. “Damn, I knew I should have come back last night. You had a party without me?”

I shrug. “Just a few of the soccer guys.”

Emma perks back up. “Speaking of which, I told them we’d meet them at Peak’s Point in twenty minutes. Put on something other than… that.” She wrinkles her nose at the sweatpants I’ve barely taken off. “Anne’s meeting us there.”

I haul myself off the couch. “Not wasting any time, huh?”

“It’s senior fucking year, Saylor. I don’t care how hungover you are.”

“I’m not hungover,” I protest, even though I totally am.

“Uh-huh,” Emma replies, giving Cressida a hug and then bouncing upstairs. I trail after her and into my bedroom, yanking off the baggy t-shirt I paired with sweatpants this morning.

I put on a bikini and then pull the same t-shirt back on. I’m too lazy to find something else. I twist my hair up in a messy bun, grab my sunglasses, and meet Emma in the hallway. She’s wearing an emerald sarong and eyes my t-shirt critically.

“Don’t start,” I warn.