“Oh,” I manage to say.Thatkind of pastor.
Daisy frowns.
“Can I please tell her the best part?” Briar pleads.
Daisy sighs, but nods.
“Daddy and Stepmommy have been led to believe that our sweet Daisy is attending Wexley’s seminary school, but she’s actually majoring in losing her virginity ASAP.”
I smack Daisy on the arm. “Hell yeah, girl.”
She grins down at her burrito bowl. “Thanks. They’re going to be so pissed when they find out I didn’t even apply to seminary school. My mom told me to, and I quote: Take their cursed money and run.”
Briar nods solemnly. “Sound advice.”
Daisy directs her attention to me. “What about you?”
“Nothing special here. Scholarship kid.”
“How about the married-at-eighteen part?” she asks, her eyebrows waggling. “What’s the story there?”
“Oh, that. Well, we just… we’ve known each other forever and…” God, I really should have thought of some sort of backstory for Bennett and me to agree on that doesn’t involve a haunted house. “He asked after my senior prom,” I say, looking for any details I can feed them, even if they’re not true. Behind them is a poster of a churro. “He put the ring on a churro. And I said yes. He was always there when we were growing up, and I didn’t want that to ever change.” I make a mental note to fill Bennett in on the churro plot device in this version of our engagement story.
Daisy’s lips tremble. “That’s so sweet. If it’s right, it’s right. Why wait?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because marriage is a sham,” Briar says, but then relents. “But you two do make a pretty cute couple.”
It turns out that Daisy is an artiste; foil is her canvas, and thanks to her dad’s credit card, we have plenty of it.
“I’m concerned about the lack of pockets,” Briar says as she sizes the three of us up in the narrow mirror hanging on the back of their dorm room door.
She throws back a glug of some absolutely vile cotton candy rum she scored off a guy a few floors down who ordered a grilled cheese last night before he realized he’d lost his wallet.
I take a little spin and eye myself from the back before taking a swig of the cotton-candy-flavored poison. My throat rebels against the awful decision, but I manage to keep it down. “I think our bras are the best we’re going to do in terms of storage.” We all mutually decided that underwear and bras are a must and if we aren’t admitted because of that, then so be it. Going commando and sitting on surfaces at a college party feels like an invitation for things that I’d rather my vagina didn’t come into contact with.
“We look like burritos,” Briar says.
“I think what you mean is hot aliens,” Daisy points out. “Or cheerleaders from the future.”
She’s not wrong. Daisy has crafted us skirts that even have a few pleats over our left thighs. We each have a different style crop top to accommodate our varying sizes of boobs. I’m in a bra top that has been molded to my actual balconette bra. Daisy is in a tube top, and Briar is in a sports bra–like top that is structurally sound enough that I’m starting to think Daisy could double major in fashion designandengineering if she really wanted to.
“Okay, I just need to grab the card to get us in and then we’re ready to go,” I say after we all pass around the bottle once more.
I dart across the hall to my room, immediately go over to my desk, and begin to dig through my purse for the essentials.
“Let me guess. An ABC party.”
With a start, I drop my bag on the floor, the contents spilling everywhere. “What the hell?”
Bennett sits on the bed in black sweatpants and no shirt, his legs crossed and a thick textbook draped across his torso. I didn’t even notice him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice is low and agitated, eyes roaming over my ridiculous outfit.
I attempt to squat down and pick up the contents of my purse, but I freeze upon hearing the sound of foil ripping. “Shit.”
He tosses his book to the side and hops up. “Let me help.”
I watch as he grabs my purse—a vintage Celine bag his mom gave me from her personal collection—and begins to grab my lip balm and tampons and—“Oh, I need that!”
He holds the card for the party between his fingers, clicking his tongue, and turns it over before pocketing it. “No, you don’t.”
