Final Girls(46)

“Isn’t white, like, the most virginal color?” Quincy asked.

“The color of the dress says virgin, but the cut says sex. It’s the best of both worlds. Craig will love it.”

Quincy rolled her eyes. Typical Janelle, who had been obsessed with the Madonna-Whore Complex ever since they learned about it in Psych 101.

“What are you going to wear?”

Janelle turned back to her suitcase. “I brought extras, of course.”

“Of course.”

Quincy held the dress against her body, examining it in the room’s grimy square of a mirror. The cut, with its plunging bodice and asymmetrical skirt, looked a little too sexy for her taste. Even with her back turned, Janelle could sense her hesitation. “Just try it on, Quinn.”

Quincy slid out of the blue dress, which gave Janelle the opportunity to take a disapproving look at her bra and panties. Mismatched and worn, they were the antithesis of sexy.

“God, Quinn, really? Did you not plan any aspect of this weekend?”

“No,” Quincy said, holding the recently removed blue dress to her chest, trying to hide behind it. “Because planning puts pressure on something. And I don’t want any pressure. Whatever Craig and I do this weekend, I want it to happen naturally.”

Janelle gave a sisterly smile and brushed a strand of blonde hair from Quincy’s face. “It’s okay to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.” Quincy grimaced at the anxious quiver in her voice. “I’m just … inexperienced. What if I’m—”

“Lousy at sex?”

“Um, that’s one way to put it.”

“You won’t know until you try it,” Janelle said.

“What if Craig doesn’t like it?”

Quincy thought back to what Janelle had said earlier, about Craig having plenty of options besides her. She knew all too well about the cheerleaders who fawned over him after games and the fangirls in school colors who yelled his name in the quad. They would be all too willing to take Quincy’s place if Craig was disappointed in her.

“He’ll like it,” Janelle said. “He’s a guy, after all.”

“What if I don’t like it?”

“You will. It just takes some getting used to.”

Quincy felt a flutter in her stomach. More than a butterfly. Mothra. “How much getting used to?”

“It’ll be fine,” Janelle assured her. “Now show me how that dress looks on you.”

Quincy slid on the dress, the white silk tickling her bare legs. As she tugged and adjusted it over her shoulder, Janelle said, “What do you think of Joe? He’s kind of hot, right?”

“More like creepy,” Quincy said.

“He’s mysterious.”

“Which is practically the same as creepy.”

“Well, I think he’s mysterious. And hot.”

“And taken,” Quincy added. “You’re forgetting the girlfriend.”

Now it was Janelle’s turn to roll her eyes. “Whatever.”

“I just want to state for the record that the rest of us don’t want him here. We’re only letting him stay because it’s your birthday.”

“Duly noted,” Janelle said. “And don’t worry. I plan on keeping him very entertained.”

Done with wrangling into the dress, Quincy backed into Janelle, who zipped her up. Both of them examined her reflection in the mirror. Although the dress was tighter than Quincy normally liked, Janelle was right. She looked sexy as hell.

“Wow,” she said.

Janelle wolf-whistled. “You look so good I might even try to fuck you.”

“Thanks. I think.”

Janelle made a few adjustments, giving a tight tug of the hem before smoothing some fabric bunched at Quincy’s shoulders.

“Perfect.”

“You think?” Quincy asked despite already knowing that it was, indeed, perfect.

Yet something still bothered her.

“What’s wrong?” Janelle asked.

“It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Janelle said, sighing out the word. “It does. But it also feels good.”

“Which will I feel more of? The bad or the good?”

“That’s the weird part. They’re one and the same.”

Quincy looked in the mirror, zeroing in on the eyes of her reflection, uneasy by the fear she saw in them. “You sure?”

“Trust me.” Janelle wrapped her arms around Quincy, hugging her from behind. “Would I ever lead you astray?”





CHAPTER 16


Coop insists on walking us back to my place, even though Sam and I are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves. Last night made that abundantly clear. Sam walks alongside him, matching his pace stride by careful stride.

I lag behind, my face lifted to the sun. It’s a bright, hot afternoon—the last kiss of Indian summer before winter begins its slow takeover. The bruise on my face pulses a little, warmed by the sunlight. I picture it reddening into visibility along my skin. I want Coop to turn around, finally notice it, widen his eyes in concern. But he stays two steps ahead with Sam, their strides still matching as they round the corner onto 82nd Street.