Page 20 of New Year

“Is this too much?” Daria asks, stepping from her closet in a black bodycon dress that clings to her enviable curves like a second skin.

“For a search party?” I ask. “Or a regular party?”

“Ugh, I knew it,” she says with a groan, returning to her closet.

“You look amazing,” I call from her bed. “But you’ll freeze to death. It’s like forty degrees out there.”

“How about this?” she asks, coming back out in a longer, even tighter, backless sweater dress.

“Hot, but maybe not the best choice for a somber occasion.”

“It’s black,” she points out, gesturing at herself.

“What happened to the full body rain suit you wore last time?”

“And look like an eight-year-old in front of Colin?” she asks, giving me a look.

“I mean, this isn’t really about him, right? It’s about Lindsey’s cousin.”

“Uh huh,” she says. “And how come you weren’t wearing a rain suit last time?”

“Because I don’t have one,” I say flatly. “I borrowed the raincoat. Trust me, you looked way more comfortable than I did. My feet looked like a dead person’s when I finally took my wet shoes off.”

“And you looked cute as hell in front of Chase,” she says, giving me a no-bullshit look.

“That’s not why,” I protest. “Besides, you have Brandon. Why do you even care what Colin thinks?”

“And Chase has Lindsey,” she shoots back. “But you still changed your entire look since school started.”

“Not for Chase,” I say, shaking my head. “For Lindsey.”

“Whatever,” she says, turning back to her closet. “If I wanted to be judged, I would have invited her to help me get dressed.”

“Sorry,” I say, feeling like shit about criticizing. She’s right. I have zero legs to stand on when it comes to lusting after the wrong guy. “It’s just hard to watch you try to impress him after everything you told me about him. But if you’re sure, I’ll support you, whatever you do.”

“Trust me, girl, I know what I’m doing,” she says, seeming to forget the tension as she digs through her dresser and pulls out a pair of high-waisted, dark wash skinny jeans. She pulls them on, wiggling to get them over her curves, and zips herself into them. As usual, she looks like she just stepped out of an ad, the denim hugging her perfect body and accentuating every asset.

“Yes, those,” I say quickly.

She beams at me, turning to check out her ass in the mirror and running her hands over her hips. “Right? Dad took me shopping over Christmas. I got them on sale too, only fifty bucks.”

She prattles on as she finds a poppy red blouse to go with them, then smooths on a fresh coat of matching lipstick. “Now shoes,” she says.

“If I say rain boots, will you yell at me?”

“Hm, no, I think you’re right,” she says, stepping into a pair of white ones with little Mexican flags printed on them. “I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”

We collect my sister, who’s watching some telenovela with Daria’s mom.

“You off on a date?” she asks, wiggling her brows at us.

“No, Mom, we’re looking for dead bodies.”

“Hm, looks like you’re looking for live bodies to me,” she says with a knowing smirk. “Just be safe.”

Daria told me once that her mom had her when she was only thirteen, and her parents kicked her out and never spoke to her again. Her grandma took her in and raised them together, so they’re more like sisters. Her mom’s not even thirty.

A knock sounds at the door, and her mom jumps up to open it. “Well, what do we have here?” she asks, throwing a triumphant look over her shoulder at her daughter.

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