Page 26 of Mad Girl

“Well, how big is this guy?”

“You know Michael Harris?”

“Everyone knows Michael Harris,” Willoughby said.

“About like him.”

“So—six-two?”

I waggled my hand. “Thereabouts. But you don’t have to worry about this guy.”

Willoughby winced. “I don’t want to fight anyone.”

“Please. I doubt this guy’s ever fought anyone in his life. He’s super straight-laced. He drinks hot tea. He wears cardigans, for crying out loud.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t kick someone’s ass,” Willoughby said.

I won’t lie, Casey. At the time, I laughed pretty hard at this—laughed so hard I started coughing. Willoughby shot me a concerned look. “Trust me,” I said, clearing my throat. “He’s the least threatening person you’ll ever meet.

As I said it, though, I wasn’t so sure. A spark of something had come off you in response to my threat that night we’d shared the cigarette. But beating a guy’s ass over a house party? No way.

Willoughby considered my proposal. “I need a B+ in this class.”

“Done,” I said. “You help me? I’ll help you.”

Willoughby whipped out his phone. “I’ll start spreading the word.”

“Good. But you’ll need to bring your own alcohol. My dad keeps only one bottle of scotch in the house.”

“No problem,” Willoughby said. We hammered out some details and shook on it.

During history class, I filled Tinsley in on the plan. She didn’t love the idea of getting you in trouble, but she also wanted to have a little fun.

First, I convinced Bree to let us snoop around Michael’s apartment after school, conveniently leaving out my plan to swipe his alcohol for a party. She’d try talking me out of it—or worse, tattletale to her parents. The last thing I needed was John or Libby rushing down the street to shut the party down.

Second, I convinced Hal to drive us by Michael’s new apartment. I told him Michael would be there (he wasn’t) and wanted to show us around (he obviously did not).

Third, I texted you: Staying late to meet with a teacher. Be home by 3:30. You quickly replied: Any later than that and I’m coming after you. To which I replied with the middle finger emoji.

Inside Michael’s apartment, it didn’t feel nearly as wrong for me to go through his stuff. I used to snoop through his things at the Harrises’ all the time. Michael knew I did it. He fussed about it, in fact, but that sure as hell never stopped me. I skimmed a finger over the surfaces in his bedroom, too modern and bare, too minimalist for my liking. It screamed bachelor pad.

“Gross,” Tinsley said, trailing behind me, kicking a red thong out of her walking path. “Sienna’s underwear.”

I opened Michael’s nightstand drawer, expecting to find the entire bottom covered in a sea of metallic condom packets, and it was. Along with something else I’d never seen there before: a flat leather rose on the end of a fancy stick. I picked it up. “What’s this?”

Tinsley winked. “A paddle. For spanking.”

Bree came up behind us. “Disgusting. There are things about my brother I’d rather not know, and this is a pretty big one.”

I dropped the paddle and slammed the drawer shut, which the girls took as their cue to leave. But I stayed back, wandering into his bathroom, eventually locating a small pair of scissors in the vanity. I chopped up that bitch’s red panties, along with a matching bra I found hanging on the door. I chopped Sienna’s fancy underwear to bits and scattered that shit like confetti all over his bathroom floor.

Maybe next time, she’d think twice before accusing me of having a crush on anyone.

Bree wanted to go home, so Tinsley distracted her while I grabbed Michael’s whiskey and slipped the bottle into my bag.

Back at the house, on our way upstairs, Tinsley and I spotted you in bed—reading, as usual. When your gaze flicked up to meet mine, my stomach fluttered. Because of my plan, obviously. Definitely not because you were wearing those black reading glasses or anything.

Tinsley did my makeup all sexy like hers and let me borrow one of her black bandage dresses. Skintight. Insanely short. It had sheer long sleeves, a sheer turtleneck, a little cutout at the chest, and wired cups that molded to my boobs, pushing them up. The type of dress my dad would never allow me to wear, and I understood why as I studied myself in the floor-length mirror opposite my bed. It clung to my curves in all the right places, making me look like a woman instead of a girl.