Page 7 of Not So Goode

She cackled and headed for the door. “Hell if I know. I was about to leave without a purse.”

“Do you want to do a quick checklist?” I asked, hiding a smirk.

She stuck her finger into her mouth and faked a gag. “I’d rather have a vodka enema.”

I blinked at her as I exited her dorm room. “That’s vile.”

“Exactly. So no, Charlotte, I donotwant to do a quick checklist. If I’ve forgotten it, it’s not that important. But, just to makeyouhappy: I have several changes of clothes, I have my purse, my wallet, I have a cell phone in case I have to call the police, I have my favorite Berks, I’m wearing my ass-kicker boots, I have my favorite cardigan…and I have makeup in case I feel like seducing someone hoity-toity.” A mischievous grin. “AndI have a family pack of assorted size condoms, because I plan on being a very, very bad girl.”

I just sighed. “You do not.”

She arched an eyebrow at me, opened her purse, dug around in it, and came up with a fifty-pack box of assorted size, style, and flavor condoms. “Do too.”

“And do you have your birth control as well?”

Her breezy, humorous composure wilted for a moment. “Yeah, I do. I’ve got an IUD.”

I eyed her. “Lex?”

“In the car. Later. Okay?”

I nodded. “Okay, whatever you want.”

“What I want is for you to have a bottle of hooch stashed somewhere.”

I snorted. “Hooch? Lex, come on. No one outside of Kentucky sayshooch.”

“I say hooch. I also say cooch. And lady bits. And I have been known to call a man’s dick his wiener. Frequently. Because it’s funny. And if I’m around someone who takes issue with me swearing, I say things like gosh-darn. Any other questions?”

I followed her out of the building. “Wiener?”

She laughed. “Yep. Pro-tip: Guys don’t appreciate their sacred penis being referred to as a wiener. Which is why I do it.”

“You are absolutely ridiculous.”

She nodded primly. “Yes, yes I am. Thank you. Ridiculousness is my second major.”

“What’s your first major?” I asked.

“Well, itwaswomen’s history with a focus on sexuality.”

I hesitated. “Was?”

She spied my car—a black Mercedes-Benz C-Class. “Let me guess, that’s yours?”

“You sound awful judgy, there, Lex.”

She just shrugged. “You’re twenty-four. How do you have a freaking Benz?”

“Because I drove Mom’s hand-me-down ’96 Corolla all the way through high schoolandcollegeandwhen I started at Denoyer and Whitcomb. I sold it and took the bus or the train or walked everywhere, and I saved every penny I could. I bought my Mercedes used, and I own it outright. It’s my baby, and I love it, and I will not apologize for it. I worked my ass off to own a Mercedes by the time I was twenty-four.”

She nodded. “Fair enough.”

I popped the trunk, helped her shove her bags in next to mine, and then we were settling into the seats. Moments later, we were cruising away from Sarah Lawrence College and heading for I-87.

Silence, for about fifteen minutes—Lexie was staring out the window. Despite her outward calm and usual humor, it was obvious, at least in this quiet moment, that she was far from okay.

“Lex…”