Interim(6)

Regan waved her hand dismissively. “The boys don’t even look at me.”

“Yeah, right.”

Regan changed tactics. “Mom,” she pleaded sweetly, “it’s nothing without a belt. You know that. It’ll be a half outfit without the belt. You can’t let me go to school in a half outfit. That’s just asking for a bad day.”

Mrs. Walters sighed and nodded reluctantly. She continued her assessment, noting Regan’s completely unacceptable-for-school mini jean skirt. The purple fishnets helped, though. At least there were no bare legs to accentuate her hemline.

“Shoes?” her mother asked.

“I’ve got two options,” Regan said. “I could go casual with flip flops or make a bold statement with pumps.”

“Hmm,” Mrs. Walters replied, aware that pumps would only make the skirt look shorter.

“Honey, isn’t there a dress code at school?”

“How do you mean?”

“Length of things,” Mrs. Walters said, eyebrows raised.

“My skirt?”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s short?”

“Uh, you could measure it in millimeters.”

“Mom.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re not gonna let me wear it?”

“Just a second ago you wanted me to make every decision for your life,” Mrs. Walters pointed out.

Regan huffed.

“How about skinnies and pumps?” her mom offered.

“Bleh.”

“Do you have a longer skirt?”

Regan stared, confused.

“You realize the position you’re putting me in?”

Regan’s full lips curled into a grin. Oh, she knew all right. And she didn’t feel a tad bit guilty for placing her mother there.

“Regan,” Mrs. Walters said, the exasperation evident in her voice.

“I’m short. And I’ll wear flip flops,” Regan said. “See? Instantly makes anything I wear look longer.”

“Oh, it does, huh?” her mother asked, unconvinced.

Regan nodded.

“And I’ll still get a call from the office,” Mrs. Walters pointed out.

“Maybe. But, Mom, I mean, isn’t it worth it?”

Regan’s phone buzzed—the five minute warning she set every school day. Five minutes to brush her teeth. Five minutes to find her books. Five minutes to make a quick change if needed.

Don’t make me change, Mom, she thought, eyes wide and pleading.

Mrs. Walters sighed. “Yeah. It’s worth it.”

Regan squealed and planted a quick kiss on her mother’s cheek. Mrs. Walters watched her rush out of the bedroom and listened as the front door slammed behind her.

She grinned. “Completely worth it.”

***

He stared. Hard. His brain yelled at him to turn away, but he couldn’t. He started at her feet, moving his eyes up her purple fishnets—cut off around her ankles—to the tiny skirt hugging her hips and ass. He didn’t understand the belt over the pink T-shirt thing, but whatever. He didn’t give a shit about the belt, anyway. The T-shirt was a completely different story, though. He loved that T-shirt—thought he could easily become obsessed with it—the way it stretched over her ample breasts. The most amazing rack he’d ever seen on a girl. Ever.

She pulled her stick-straight hair in a ponytail high atop her head—a few crinkled purple strands spilling out. He didn’t know what that was about, but he liked it. She looked like a punk rock chick, the way she dressed up her chocolate eyes with purple hues. They were so dark that they looked almost black—big, round cave pools. He thought if he got close to them, they wouldn’t reflect his image but show him, instead, the fantasy of what if. What if she let him hold her hand? Kiss her lips?

Pretty eyes. Pretty face. Full lips. Unfair lips, really. No teenage guy could look at those lips and not think the basest thoughts. It was impossible. Typically, he’d feel like a skeeze for ogling her like a piece of meat. After all, Regan usually stood on a pedestal, but today, with that outfit and that weird, badass earring thing curving up and around her ear, he couldn’t help forcing her into the dirtiest part of his mind, down on her knees, and coaxing her to do the most obscene things to him.

“You like that?”

He jerked his head in the direction of the voice.

“You like that, don’t you?” Brandon asked, draping his arm casually over Jeremy’s shoulder, like the two were best buds.