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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.”

“How’s it going with Savannah?”

“Not great. I mean I love her to death, and the kids are fantastic, but I’ve got to get away from her husband.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He can’t walk past me without getting a hard-on. He pawed me once when Savannah was out shopping, and I shoved him off. He’s good-looking, great bod, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to wreck the marriage of the only person I’ve got left in my life. I’m moving to Los Angeles right after graduation. I’m thinking about taking acting lessons.”

After breakfast was over, I was expected to speak. Normally it’s a nonevent where the class president makes a few announcements, asks for volunteers for various committees, and ends with a variation on “the first three years have been great, but this one is going to be the best ever.”

I had a better idea. “My father owns a pub,” I said, stepping up to the podium. “And he’d like to make a donation to the class of ’98.”

I had a slide projector set up, and I flashed a picture of a fifteen-and-a-half-gallon stainless steel beer keg on the screen.

The kids cheered, and half a dozen of Rico’s friends who were all at the same table started chanting, “Boss Lady. Boss Lady. Boss Lady.”

I cringed. I knew it wasn’t a compliment. I knew they called me Boss Lady behind my back, and they called Rico Boss Lady’s Bitch to his face.

“Before you get too excited about that keg,” I said, “I should tell you that since we’re all underage, it’s empty.”

I got the expected chorus of boos.

“But we’re going to fill it up,” I said. “Then we’re going to seal it. And then...” I went to the next slide—the same keg, with the words Heartstone High School Class of 1998 Time Capsule on it. “We’re not going to open it again until our twenty-fifth reunion, at which point my father will give us as many kegs as we need—all full.”

I’m not sure if they liked the idea of a class time capsule or the promise of free beer twenty-five years down the road, but they all whooped their approval, with Rico’s buddies pounding the table and catcalling their Boss Lady mantra.

Duff Logan jumped up on his chair. Duff, the undisputed class clown, was a master at working the teenage funny bone, and his legion of fans quieted down to give him center stage. “I say we put Principal Drucker in the time capsule,” he yelled, “and see if he’s any less of an asshole when we let him out in twenty-five years.”

The room went nuts. I know a good exit line when I hear one, so I pumped my fist, shot them a V-for-Victory sign, and stepped away from the podium.

“Maggie!” It was Rico storming toward me. “I can’t take this shit.”

“What shit?” I said.

“You always running the show. My friends say you treat me like I’m your goddam dumb Mexican pool boy.”

“Rico, your friends have no idea how I treat you.”

“I don’t care. It looks bad. If we’re going to stay together, you’ve got to resign from this stupid president job.”

“I have a better idea,” I said.

“Yeah, what?”

“We’re done,” I said, banging my gavel on one of the cafeteria tables. “ Terminado .”

“ Puta ,” he bellowed. His friends turned, and he gave me the finger. “ Vete a la mierda ,” he added, more for their benefit than for mine.

I smiled as he walked away, feeling very Sandra Day O’Connor about my decision.

I hated to admit it, but I couldn’t wait to share the news with my bogus newscaster sister. Most days the two of us would get home from school about the same time. But one of the waitresses had asked for the night off to take her kids trick-or-treating, so Lizzie agreed to work the dinner shift.

By the time she got home it was almost ten, and I was dying to tell her that I was shopping around for my next frog to kiss, and ask what she thought about Duff Logan, who wasn’t particularly good-looking, but he was funny as hell.

“You’ll never guess what happened at the Halloween breakfast,” I said.

“Tell me later,” she said. “I’ve got something more important to discuss.”

“Well, if your shit’s more important , then by all means?—”

“How about this?” she said, a smug little grin on her face. “I’ll tell you what it is, and you decide if your news is more important than mine.”

“Fine,” I said. “What is it?”

“Dad’s got a girlfriend.”