When Marci returned “ten-point-five” seconds later, she did a double take at Kori’s tattoo. I fully expected some lame-ass jab, not: “That’s cool, does it mean anything special?”

Before Kori could answer, Chelsea glided up closer to see what the fuss was all about because Chelsea is all about fuss. She twirled the keys to her car, the silver Tiffany key chain shooting off sunrays with each revolution.

Kori glanced up at Marci, as surprised as I was that they were talking to us. Surely Marci wasn’t seriously interested in Kori’s tattoo. Chelsea definitely wasn’t, and her judgmental grunt proved it.

“It’s an ancient Chinese proverb.”

“Really?” Chelsea said, wrinkling her nose. “You mean like— an ounce of heroin is worth a pound of pot?” She tried to sound disgusted, but she was too excited by her own cleverness that she started snorting.

One look at Kori’s smirk and I knew in her head she was continuing to narrate for Chelsea. Look at me! I’m witty! I’m blond! I made a funny! But aloud, Kori countered with, “It’s Chinese for: Hilary Duff can eat my muff.”

Oooh! Smack down! That obliterated the smile off Chelsea’s face.

I glimpsed a quirk at the corner of Marci’s lips, but Chelsea huffed in revulsion and whatever humor Marci had found in the situation was well masked.

“Well, that was a quick battle of Yo Momma,” I said, faking a pout.

Chelsea treated us to one of her perfected ice queen laser stares. Her best one yet. Brava! “Come on, Mar, you don’t want to get a contact high off dragon lady here.”

“Now, now, let’s not be hypocritical. Heath was asking where he could score some exx-tee-see for you.”

Heath is “the one” of Chelsea’s one-point-five boyfriends.

I’m not sure if it’s truly to aid her sex life so much as it’s a drug with a label. (She’d shoot up if Prada came out with a line of needles. She does love her labels.) But, in a stage whisper to me, loud enough for the rapidly-departing-in-a-huffing-fit Chelsea to hear, Kori added, “I hear it turns the Ice Queen into a hyena in heat.”

“Ooh, you mean she’s a frosty slut?” I said, and then jerked around, my face flushing at the sound of someone laughing—a deep, throaty, masculine rumble.

“Who was that?” I asked Kori while motioning toward the only guy in the parking lot.

“You mean Becks?”

“Who?”

“Anthony Beck. You remember him. Total rock star.”