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“Ellie!” Piper bellows again, making it clear that I’ve been lost in my thoughts longer than I intended to be.
I hurry toward the door and fling it open, knowing I won’t be able to change my mind the second Piper gets ahold of me. And I don’t want to change my mind. I don’t want my jealousy and petty insecurities to get in the way of what is ultimately most important—destroying POP and The Divine One once and for all.
“Damn, girl!” She whistles obnoxiously as she studies me from head to toe. “Who knew you had a body underneath all of those baggy clothes?”
“Ha. Ha.” I give her a droll smile, even as my heart continues to pound against my chest like an anvil.
“But you would look better without that cover-up,” Piper continues, grabbing the sleeve of the dress and giving it a firm tug. “That bikini deserves to be seen, not hidden.”
“It’ll be cold walking to the pool,” I reason.
She wrinkles her nose and places a hand on her hip. “The cold only bothers people who aren’t as fabulous as me.” She gives a little twirl to emphasize her point. “So? What do you think?”
Unlike mine, Piper’s choice of bathing suit leaves very little to the imagination. Her breasts are practically spilling out of the red and black polka dot bikini, and the bottoms remind me distinctly of a string thong. She, too, wears a cover-up, but hers doesn’t really take the “covering” part of the job too seriously. The dress is a series of elaborate knots that shows more than it hides. It hangs open down her center and swishes with every move she makes. She’s piled her dark, highlighted hair on her head in a stylish, sporty bun.
I mimic her whistle from before and pantomime fanning myself. “Damn. You’re hot.”
Her smile is instantaneous and infectious. I find my own answer grin tugging up my lips. “Right?”
“If we’re going to comment on how hot we are, shouldn’t my name come up in conversation?” Victoria drawls as she indolently perches herself against the doorframe.
The stunning redhead wears a black one-piece that crisscrosses over her chest and dips low in the back. Like Piper, Victoria has on a cover-up that hangs loosely off her shoulders in waves of black lace.
“You know you’re smoking.” Piper nudges her playfully. “Have you shown Jean just how smoking you are?”
Victoria’s cheeks instantly turn crimson, and she ducks her head, using her curtain of silky red hair to obscure her face from view. She mutters something in rapid-fire French too quickly for us to understand but is more than likely a plethora of insults.
Over winter break, Victoria traveled back to France and rekindled a romance with her ex-beau, Jean. The two have been inseparable since then, despite being on separate continents. They FaceTime whenever they’re free—no matter the time or place—and Victoria is already planning to spend her spring break at Jean’s house or have him come visit her here.
Piper and I exchange a conspiratorial look and grin. We love nothing more than teasing our once unflappable “I’ll never settle down with a man” friend about being utterly smitten.
“We need to go,” Victoria huffs primly, already stomping toward the door. “Vamos!”
“Isn’t that Spanish?” Piper teases as she hurries after her. “You can’t confuse me by switching languages like that.”
Victoria merely gives the other girl the finger.
Before I can follow them out of my room—or my old room, considering I haven’t lived here in weeks, despite the school’s official papers—my third and final friend all but pushes me back inside. Jane closes the door and leans against it, her frizzy hair clinging to her cheeks, which are flushed crimson.
“Jane? The hell?” Piper calls.
Jane blanches. “One moment! I need to talk to Ellie about something.”
“Without us?” Piper sounds incredulous.
“It’s about penises!” Jane blurts, her skin darkening even further.
Silence.
And then, almost timidly, Victoria says, “I like penises.”
“It’ll just be a second,” Jane calls back, ignoring our two friends’ muted protests. It’s only then that I realize she holds something in her hands.
“What’s up?” I ask as she places the bag on my bed and turns to face me.
She’s dressed almost as modestly as me, in a cover-up that conceals most of her body. I’m not even sure she’s wearing a bathing suit. Her two French braids are coming loose, the frizzy strands framing her face.
“One second,” she murmurs to me, unzipping what I now realize is a makeup bag. She grabs her concealer as I watch her in unabashed curiosity.
