Juni doesn’t push. She slides off the desk and follows me. She’s a reassuring silence at my shoulder as we hurry downstairs, past the lockers, and out the door.
Her question turns over and over in my head. I do like sex, and I do like making my own decisions, and I do like Feminist Theory 101. But something else about sleeping with people keeps me at it. Winding up beside someone, resting my head on his shoulder, relaxes me. That part outperforms the sex most of the time—no offense to the dudes involved.
But thinking about it too hard feels like second-guessing myself, and I already get so much shit for “whoring around,” as so many people have kindly put it—I don’t want to give my critics the tiniest hint of validation.
As we head across the green, I fold my arms tight against the chill. I try to forget Claire’s hurt expression and try to shake off thoughts of my mom. I shouldn’t have mentioned her to Juniper. Now she’s at the front of my mind, and she won’t go.
I always miss Mom more at this time of year. With Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas all in a row, thoughts of her are packed tight on the road to winter. Keeping everything locked away takes more energy than usual. Sometimes I take the memories out, dust them off, and look at them hard, and they glow a little around the edges. I still have the image of Mom’s delicate hands scooping pumpkin seeds into a bowl. “Oooh, pumpkin innards,” she’d say in a ghostly moan. “Katrina, Olivia, young mortals, assist me with the pumpkin intestines.”
These days, the house stays bare. Dad doesn’t say anything about it, but I get the feeling the empty space is easier for him. And Kat doesn’t say anything about it, but then again, Kat never says anything.
Juniper unlocks her car. I slip into the passenger seat, sliding it back to stretch my legs.
Juni presses a button. The engine purrs to life. “Kat doesn’t need a ride, does she?”
“Nah, Drama Club today,” I say. “I think she’s getting a ride after or something.” My twin sister must have occupied the “talented” half of the womb. Though I’ve developed quite the talent for sitting in audiences and applauding.
“Oh, hey. Our competition.” As she pulls the car forward, Juni nods to one side of the junior lot, where a tall boy sprawls on top of a black Camry. “Over there.”
I straighten up and almost whack my head on the ceiling. Peering out my window, I spy Matt Jackson, who lies back, texting. I’ve never looked hard at the guy before. He looks foxlike, with the forward set of his facial features and the fringe of fire-red dye at the tips of his rusty hair.
Juniper’s car dips over a speed bump. From his car roof, Matt Jackson turns toward us, and I look away. Not fast enough.
“Ah, shitshitshit,” I say. “He’s totally looking at me. He totally saw me creeping.”
“Don’t worry,” Juniper says. “He’ll never guess we’re planning his political assassination.” She lets out a maniacal laugh.
I grin. “Yeah, you’ve always struck me as a John Wilkes Booth sort of girl.”
“June Wilkes Booth, even.”
I groan, sinking low in my seat. Juniper, looking pleased with herself, turns the radio on. The sound system emits a deep, start-up hum, and one of Paganini’s Caprices sings out of the speakers. Juni’s left hand, her nails cut short, plays along on the steering wheel.
By the time we pull out of the parking lot and down the street, the day’s problems have faded in the distance, left back at Paloma High School with its waxed hallways, defaced bathroom stalls, and all the students who think it’s their job to judge me.
BACKSTAGE, THE CURTAINS SMELL LIKE DUST. IT’S easy to forget myself here, drowned in the dark.
Whispers scurry along the wing from the girls who play my daughters. Whispers that beg for my attention.
Focus, Kat.
I tuck my hair behind my ears, digesting the lines that pass onstage, beat by beat. It’s Emily’s monologue out there—her plea for relevance.
Focus . . .
The backstage whispers scrape at me again, harder this time. Anger prickles hot in my palms. The others should be listening for their cues. They should be taking this seriously.
“—and I’m tired of waiting,” Emily says. My cue.
I stride onstage and lose myself completely.
Here in the blinding lights, I shed layers of myself like a knight casting off her armor plate by plate. I move with purpose, with want, with drive. Kat Scott is nobody. Nowhere. If she even exists, I’m not concerned with her.
“You’re tired of waiting?” I demand.