“Very.” I gave my boob a pat. “The doctor said I mightn’t be able to wear underwire for weeks. We’re talking possible sagging here. The pain is real.”

Hang cracked up. “These are problems us flat-chested girls will never have. You and your rack stay away from me. I’m sticking with my sports bras and comfort, thank you very much!”

Some reality television show played in silence on the small flat-screen hanging from her wall. Pictures she’d drawn or painted covered another wall, the subjects ranging from self-portraits to friends, houses on her street, and small everyday things from around the house.

“You really are crazy talented,” I said for not the first time.

“Shut up.”

“You are.”

“No.” She downed a mouthful of beer. “Dad is crazy talented. I’m average.”

I just shook my head.

“Me and my brother are lucky,” she said. “Between Mom being an accountant and Dad an art teacher, we’ve got both the left and the right side of the brain covered.”

“I’m not sure I’ve got any of the brain covered,” I joked. “Mom is smart. She had to drop out of college to have me, though. The sperm donor wanted nothing to do with us. His loss.”

“Bastard.”

I shrugged.

Sure, it sometimes stung, but that didn’t change the truth of it. I was loved. I would not allow the douche canoe who’d broken Mom’s heart and let us down so badly to mess with my head. No emotional reunion would be coming up, no understanding and ultimate forgiveness. For me, he didn’t exist. One parent who loves you can be more than enough. The end.

“So,” she said, lying on her side, holding the beer back up to her lips. “When do we start texting insults to John?”

“Um, never?”

Her mouth opened wide in surprise. “No, come on. He let that bitch touch him after she said all of that shit about you. Where is the loyalty?”

“I don’t own him. If he wants to have bad taste in women, that’s his problem.” It made me die a little on the inside, but no biggie.

“No way, you can’t let this go. Friendship! Comradery!”

Maybe I should have told her the tale of him coming to my rescue when my back tire had blown out. But even though I really liked Hang, trust still didn’t come easy. My privacy had been invaded enough in the last few weeks for me to now value it deeply.

She held out her hand, fingers beckoning. “Just give me your phone. I’ll send him one small, concise message, that’s all. Something along the lines of ‘I hope you had a nice day and that your penis falls off.’”

“No. We are not drunk-texting John.”

Two hours later . . .

“Is cock splash one word or two, do you think?” asked Hang, chewing on her bottom lip while she studied the screen of my cell.

“You’re calling him a cock splash?”

“Inventive, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” I stretched out on the bed at her side. The ceiling seemed to be doing some trippy spinning thing. “I wish I’d thought of that one.”

“It’s like I told you, vodka helps with creativity. It unleashes the artist within.”

“Obviously.”

“My brother is not going to be happy that I stole that bottle out of his room. Though I really don’t drink that often. Still, we should hide the evidence and not tell him. And we should definitely not let my parents find out.” Her cell chimed again and she grabbed it off the bedside table. You had to admire the girl’s ability to multitask. Who knew how many different people she’d been carrying on text conversations with tonight? “Oh, that’s nice. Carrie and Sophia’s dinner with Sophia’s parents is going well.”

“That’s good.” I sighed. “Everyone should be happy and in love and shit.”

“Hmm. Either that, or drinking and sending boys imaginative and angry texts.”

“Yeah.”

A pounding noise came from the front door. We both sat up, startled, then we began laughing for some reason. I don’t know, it made sense at the time.

“My brother must have forgotten his key.” Hang climbed off the bed and I followed because curiosity, but also bathroom break time. Fortunately, we hadn’t changed out of whatever clothes we’d worn to school. No one would be meeting me in my pajamas, for a change.

The house was a long, low-set brick ranch, the walls covered in big, bright, beautiful canvases. All of the paintings done by Hang’s dad. If he’d been my parent and I’d been into art, I’d be intimidated too. He was good.

More pounding on the front door.

“Patience,” called out Hang, flipping the lock and swinging the door open.

“Ladies.” Anders filled the doorway, his smile wide. “You were wrong, JC. They’re not messily drunk at all.”

Something inside of me—my stomach, my pride, I don’t know—sank lower than the floor. I grabbed Hang’s arm, whispering, “You told them we were here?”

“Anders tricked me.”

I frowned. “How?”

“He asked me where I lived.”

“H-how is that a trick question?” I asked, bewildered.

Hang flailed.

The boy in question, however, chuckled his ass off. Jerk.

John pushed him aside, striding into the hallway. He was not happy. “Any particular reason you sent me the address for every STD clinic in the state?”

I opened my mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “Well, you know, that’s actually really useful information for anyone to have.”

He remained unconvinced. “And you want my tiny, useless dick to shrivel and fall off why?”

“Man,” Anders laughed. “That one cracked me up. Though they were all pretty good.”

Hang grinned. “We did half each.”

“Nice work.” He held up his freakishly large hand and they high-fived. Awesome.

Meanwhile, a vaguely homicidal expression filled John’s eyes. “Edie?”

“Like you don’t know,” said Hang, all goodwill and joy now gone from her face. “Turncoat.”

John just looked at her, brows drawn tight.

“Erika,” she spat at him.

“Erika?” John turned to me. “What about her?”