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“You’re right. I love you, Feisty,” Perky mumbles around her mouthful of Shrek.
“Don’t call me that, Tits.”
“Did he call you back?” Perky asks, changing the subject away from anything that draws attention to her breasts, which have been viewed more times than unboxing videos of Elsa dolls on YouTube.
“If he did, I wouldn’t know. My phone died and then I just came home.” I spread my arms out as if I’ve invited them on a house tour.
“So that’s it? You left each other hanging? Because when I have phone sex, I always have to take care of business.” Fiona clears her throat like she’s being suggestive but she just sounds like an actress in a post-nasal-drip medicine commercial.
“I did take care of business. I arranged Will’s parents’ house and got rid of the bad chi. I put the peanut butter and the Fluff and bread away in the cupboard, cleaned up, and—”
“Not that business.” Fiona makes another sound like she’s clearing pebbles out of her throat with a bubble wand. “You know. Business.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“I never joke about business.”
“You can say the word masturbation, Feisty,” Perk informs her. “You don’t need to use euphemisms. We’re modern women.”
“Right. No more euphemisms,” Fiona says pointedly. “Like saying bosom instead of tits.”
Perky is biting into a green-covered pakora and makes a face.
“Bad pakora?” I ask.
“Bad friend.” Eyes narrowing, she glares so hard at Fiona. Doesn’t work. When you’re a preschool teacher with a class of four-year-olds, your skin becomes Teflon for angry stares from immature beings.
“We shouldn’t be arguing,” Fiona says softly, in that soothing tone she uses for correcting little kids. And Perky. “We have a common goal: to get Mallory to tell us why she didn’t let Will go all the way.”
“All the what?” My brain shouldn’t have to work this hard to understand them.
“Phone sex. You know. Why didn’t you let Will give you some relief?”
“Why do I tell you people anything?”
“Because you’re a masochist. I thought we established that a long time ago,” Fiona says, carefully spreading aloo gobi all over a plate covered with a thin layer of rice.
“Speaking of enjoying self-abusive behaviors, are either of you actually going to our high school reunion? Ten years, can you believe it? I got invitations by email, Facebook messenger, a direct message on Twitter, another one on Instagram, and some kind of text alert I know I didn’t sign up for.” Perky’s casual drop of this question sets my skin to Creepy-Dude-in-Back-Alley mode.
“I’ve been ignoring them all for months,” I say brightly, plastering a smile on my face.
“I downloaded the app,” Fiona cheerfully says.
“Our high school reunion has an app?” I choke out. As my mouth takes in the yummy curry I’m finally eating, my mind tries to parse what Perky’s up to, and my body keeps hijacking my heart.
“Everyone has an app,” Perky says with a hand wave.
“I don’t have an app!” I protest.
“You can’t keep your smartphone charged above six percent at any given time, Mallory. You don’t deserve an app.”
“That’s not—” Fiona shoves a piece of pakora in my mouth before I can finish.
“I’m going!” Fiona announces, and my stomach craters. Herds move as one unit, but choosing directions takes a tipping point.
One person saying yes is one third. Two is—
“I’m going, too!” Perky declares.
