Fluffy(33)

“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.

A disaster.

“I can’t,” I inform them with an officiousness that peels my fingernails off. “I have to man the table at the Dance and Dairy festival for Habitat for Humanity.”

Check.

“No. You don’t. I already talked to Mrs. Kormatillo. She said they can find someone else,” Perky says.

Checkmate.

“Please,” I groan. “Please don’t make me go.”

“Why wouldn’t you want to go? You were valedictorian! You went to an Ivy League school! You came home and got a job with benefits and— ”

“I am the overachiever who never left and now I’m unemployed and fat.”

“Whoa! Who took Mallory and replaced her with her sister’s voice?” Fiona asks, shocked. “You just morphed into Hastings for a minute there. She was drunk the night she said that crap to you, Mallory. That was four years ago! Don’t internalize it.”

“And you are not fat.” Perky shuts one eye and examines me. “In fact, I’ll bet you’re within five pounds of high school weight.”

“I am.” I’m actually two pounds lighter, but I don’t say that aloud, because that’s just begging for the universe to throw three pounds my way.

“Stop calling yourself fat. You are an overachiever, however,” Perky notes.

“She is not!” Fiona jumps in. “Quit insulting poor Mal.”

“Overachiever is an insult?”

“It implies she’s pushed beyond her natural abilities. Like it's some kind of psychological problem.”

“You have a very negative view of the world for a preschool teacher, Fi,” Perky shoots back.

“Says the woman who hates everyone.”

“Not everyone. Just people who say the word tits.”

We settle in with our rice and curries and deep-fried chickpea flour concoctions and for five minutes, we shut up about the stupid reunion.

Five minutes.

That’s the outer limit of how long Perky can stay silent.

“So,” she says, exactly three hundred and one seconds later (yes, I clock watched), “Now that Will is back in town and the reunion is coming up—”

I start gagging uncontrollably on a piece of spiced cauliflower. Coriander burns when it coats your uvula.