Page 20 of So Thirsty

“You’re not going to tell me what?”

“If I told you, you’d have time to talk yourself out of it.”

I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. I look down at my plate, and the poached eggs are like alien eyes staring back at me. “You’re really selling this, whatever it is.”

“This is part of the present. Caution to the wind,” she says, setting down her fork and reaching across the table for my hand. She gives me a sweet, pleading puppy-dog look. “Have you no faith in me?”

“Okay, you win,” I say, sufficiently guilted. “Whatever you want to do tonight, I’ll go along for the ride.”

“I don’t want you along for the ride, though. I want you in the driver’s seat. Revving the engine like a motherfucker.”

“Not the engine-revving type, Nay. Never have been.”

“You could be, though. It’s not too late.”

I snort.

“Come on. I promise. It’s gonna be good.”

I pick at my fries. “Well, if you promise.”

She laughs. “No faith. Zero faith.”

“Can you blame me? Within a week of us being friends I got my first detention,” I say, diving into nostalgia to escape the present. “Trouble.”

“You’re so full of it!” she says, threatening me with her fork. “That was not my fault. I wasn’t even there that day!”

We argue about an incident with our honors English teacher, Dr. Hopkins, who rarely assigned books by women and, when he did, spoke about them in such an overtly misogynistic way that I finally blew a fuse and called him out on it, earning myself a detention.

And yes, it’s true that my frustrations with him had been long-standing, existed even before Naomi and I had started to hang out. But she was the one who confirmed my frustrations were valid, who, when I brought him up, said, “That guy hates women.” She corroborated everything I’d been silently seething about for months. And whether she’d meant to or not, she gave me the confidence to confront him about it.

Because when you’re fourteen and the coolest person you’ve ever met is in your corner, you feel invincible. You feel immortal.

Naomi is trouble, but more often than not, she’s the kind of trouble I need, that I’m not brave enough to stir up on my own. My nerves settle about tonight’s surprise plans. At the very least, I could use the distraction.

The waiter comes by to clear our plates.

“How was everything, ladies?” he asks, expressionless, his voice void of enthusiasm.

“Amazing,” Naomi says, looking up at him, batting her lashes, petting her long neck. She flirts with everyone. She’d come on to a scarecrow in a corn maze. It’s not about whoever she’s flirting with. It’s not about desire, or at least most of the time it isn’t. It’s about power.

The waiter smiles at her, showing signs of life. “Can I get you anything else? More coffee? Another latte?”

“Just the check. Thanks, hoss.”

She turns to me, grinning.

8

N aomi lifts up one of my dresses. “Where did you get this? From the Sister Wives collection?”

We’re back in the cottage after spending the afternoon at a wine tasting. We behaved badly, ignoring the sommelier and making stuff up. I’m getting notes of citrus fruit and man tears. This one is full-bodied, peppery, intense, and satisfying, would pair nicely with leftover pizza and an episode of Cold Case Files. This one is jammy, very jamlike, very Bonne Maman.

Now we’re wine buzzed—blundering and impish—as we get ready for tonight’s mystery activity.

“Very funny,” I say, snatching the dress out of her hands. “And I don’t remember where I got it.”

I do. I just don’t want to admit that it’s from Target. I doubt she would care, but part of me is still the girl in the food court wanting her to think I’m cool.