Page 33 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“So, then you’ll read the book. She said it’s really funny.”

“I’ll get around to it,” he said, setting it down on the coffee table. “Just as soon as I’m in the mood for a good laugh.”

NINETEEN

I told Lizzie about the book Beth had sent.

“He’s never going to read it,” she said. “Take it back to the library, stop trying to fix everything and everybody, and get back to your life. Rumor has it that school started last week.”

“Started?” I said. “More like it exploded. Whoever said senior year was easy wasn’t taking two AP courses, trying to get into an Ivy League college, or serving as president of the senior class.”

“Or banging Stephen DeMille,” she said, a smirk on her face.

“Allegedly.”

“Well, that proves it, Counselor. Your failure to deny is a blatant confirmation,” she said. “Hey, I think it’s great. Stephen is smart, he’s pretty decent looking, and his mother’s not a crack whore. You’ve really upped your game since Johnny Rollo.”

I laughed. “Johnny Boy set the bar low. Stephen is passable, but I don’t know if I’ll ever find anyone as incredible as Van.”

Lizzie put her infamous imaginary microphone up to her mouth. “Will poor Maggie McCormick settle for humdrum sex, or will the stalwart Irish lass take on every swinging dick at Heartstone High until she recaptures the magnificent orgasms of her youth? Let’s ask her.” She shoved the fake mic in my face.

The truth was, she wasn’t that far off the mark. In addition to my heavy academic workload, my responsibilities as class president, and the looming deadline for college applications, I was obsessed with one other thing. Sex. I loved it, and I wanted more.

“So, who’s next?” Lizzie asked.

“You’re an idiot,” I said.

“I’m just a hardworking reporter trying to get some answers. Do you have anything I can share with our viewers?”

“Yeah. Tell them you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince.”

“Sounds like this serial frog kisser has her next victim lined up. Can you tell us who it is?”

“If I tell you, will you leave me alone?”

“Probably not, but I won’t tell a soul.” She tossed the invisible mic over her shoulder. “Okay, now it’s just between us sisters.”

“Rico Montero,” I said.

“Ay caramba!You’re going ethnic.”

“He’s Mexican. He thinks I’m ethnic.”

“Well, I hope this one works out for you.”

It didn’t. Thirty years after the women’s liberation movement took root in the industrialized nations of the Western world, Rico either hadn’t heard of it or he flat-out rejected the concept. He was a throwback to the days when women were expected to be barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen. Not exactly my life’s goals, but the sex was good, so we were still a couple on the morning of the senior class Halloween breakfast.

It’s an annual tradition at Heartstone. The seniors dress up for Halloween, eat a pancake breakfast at the cafeteria, and take a group photo for the yearbook. The theme that year was come as a person you admire.

I was in awe of Sandra Day O’Connor, the first woman appointed to the Supreme Court, so I wore a long black robe and a lace collar, and I carried a gavel.

But it was Misty Sinclair who rocked the room. She showed up in a pair of crotch-hugging, ass-grabbing red satin hot pants, a matching V-neck with five inches of cleavage spilling over the top, and a pair of red-sequined fuck-me shoes. And just to make sure nobody mistook her for Mother Teresa or Mary Magdalene, she had a pair of horns protruding from her teased hair, a kinky little fur-trimmed pitchfork, and a pointy red devil’s tail.

Boys drooled, girls trashed-talked her, and at least half a dozen faculty members dropped by unexpectedly—all male.

I sat next to her. Our fleeting friendship had never gone to the next level once she moved in with her sister, but I still rooted for her. “I totally love your outfit,” I said. “You look scandalous.”

“Thanks. I was trying to look like hell, but scandalous sounds equally hot.”

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