Nine Liars (Truly Devious, #5)(19)

The others had their respective conversations with their families, and everyone was granted permission for this educational opportunity. They had an email from some dude at the American embassy, and sometimes, that is enough to make your weeklong plan of tours and photo opportunities seem more legitimate than it is.

She went to class. She did the readings (usually). She went to study parties in the yurt. She saw the leaves change to gold and red and finally to brown and fall off the trees. She ate maple syrup and pretended to be a functioning member of the student body. She was physically present. Her body showed up. Mentally, not so much. For weeks, she was flooded with the kind of excitement that borders on panic. Everything was new and fresh and alive. The air smelled sweeter. Her classes were more interesting. Math seemed relevant. The new students were sparkling citizens of humanity, and her established classmates close as family. The sheep loved her and she loved them.

Her thoughts circled one subject, like water in a drain. A few days before their departure, Stevie decided she couldn’t handle her questions alone, so it was time to go to the expert. Stevie knocked on Janelle’s door. Janelle looked up from some physics homework, a TV show, and crocheting—all of which she was watching or doing at the same time, because she was Janelle.

Stevie sat on the floor and picked at the wood for a moment, trying to find the words.

“When we go to England,” she said. “I don’t . . . get to see David that often. And I’ve been . . . because he’s been gone, and I . . . I think I . . . I want to . . .”

She knew the words but was having trouble uttering them.

“I think we . . . I . . .”

“You want to have sex with David,” Janelle said plainly.

Stevie pointed at her, indicating that she had guessed correctly.

“How did you know?”

Janelle smiled in a way that suggested that Stevie was a beautiful tropical fish, so simple and so precious.

“What’s the question?” Janelle asked. “I’m kind of not an expert on the whole male anatomy thing, but I know the basics.”

“No! No. No . . . What do I . . . do? Not . . . what do I do. But, what do I do? For it? I mean, to make it happen? To get ready? I just want to be ready, in case . . .”

“You mean, contraception? Is that what you’re asking?”

“No. I mean . . . like, I’ve got to . . . wear something?”

“Actually, you don’t. That’s kind of part of it.”

“I mean, something for before. Like, an outfit.”

“Ohhhhh.” Janelle nodded. Clothing choices. This was her wheelhouse. “Well, first thing, I’d say you have to feel comfortable. It’s about what makes you feel sexy. What makes you feel sexy?”

“Are you seriously asking me that? Nothing.”

“I mean, what do you feel like you look good in?”

Stevie cast her gaze around the room helplessly.

“A . . . hoodie?”

Janelle leaned back against the bed. This was a challenge, and Janelle liked a challenge.

“There is no such thing as a sex hoodie,” she said. “At least, there is probably not such a thing as a sex hoodie.”

“Please stop saying sex hoodie.”

“What about . . . underwear?”

“I own underwear,” Stevie confirmed.

“Maybe you can get nice underwear?”

Stevie had considered this, but nice underwear was not for her. She got three-packs of cotton briefs, usually in black. They were all stretched out, except for one pair that held on to its elastic for dear life. It was the magic pair, and Stevie saved it for special occasions, like when she might be bending over more than usual or the day her favorite podcast released a new episode. As for bras . . . half the time she forgot to wear one, and the other half of the time, she wore the same sports bra she’d gotten on a clearance rack. So really, it was bra. Singular. Very stretched out. Had deodorant marks on it that were never coming off.

“Let’s do a little online shopping,” Janelle said, pulling up a browser window. “See what we can find.”

Janelle motioned for Stevie to sit next to her and breezily started searching for lingerie. Like that was a thing anyone could just do. Like looking at store websites was free or something.

“Let’s start high end,” Janelle said, going to a gauzy, soft-focus site full of people lounging on sofas in coordinated underwear in the dappled sunlight, looking smugly content. “Let’s just get a sense of your bra style. What do you like?”

Stevie didn’t know what there was to like or dislike. Bras were a standard construction: two bumpy bits, two strappy things, and something to hold it all together.

“Push-up?” Janelle asked. “Half cup? Lace?”

Stevie tapped her nails nervously on the floor.

“Let’s start with something basic,” Janelle said, clicking on one of the offerings. It was some kind of lace situation, black, with a silver trim. There was a suggestion of a French maid costume about it, and it was $90. While Stevie had some money now, she didn’t have endless money, and not $90 for a bra kind of money.

“That’s basic?” Stevie said.

“Black lace is pretty standard.”

“It’s ninety bucks!”

“What’s your price point?” Janelle said.