Deeper. Megan Hart

      “Oh, you don’t have to. Your face says it all.” Missy demonstrated, wrinkling her nose and thinning her lips.

      “I don’t look like that.” Bess laughed again to cover up her embarrassment at knowing she probably did.

      “Sure, right. Whatever.” Missy waved a hand and returned for her joint, which she sucked greedily, coughing some more. “Poor little rich girl. Can’t your grammy and grampy fork you over some dough?”

      Bess finished her soda and got up to put the can in the garbage, even though Missy would hardly have noticed if she’d tossed it onto the living room floor. “They’re letting me live without rent for the summer. What more could I ask for?”

      “An allowance.” Missy, still puffing, went to the dresser just outside the hallway to the bedrooms and pulled out a makeup bag from the top drawer. From the bag came more jars and tubes and brushes than Bess had ever seen in any woman’s arsenal. Missy already wore a full coating of cosmetics, but apparently her “at home” face wasn’t presentable enough for company other than Bess.

      “I’m twenty years old. I’m past the point of getting an allowance.” Bess didn’t point out that though her weekly paychecks were less than what Missy pulled in with her tips, Bess was saving for college and Missy was just…living.

      Missy painted on a fresh set of arched eyebrows and turned her face from side to side to stare at her reflection. “I’m going to dye my hair black.”

      “What?” Bess was used to her non sequiturs by now, but this was a little out there. “Why?”

      Missy shrugged, then adjusted her tank top to expose more cleavage. She swiped her eyelids with shadow and spoke with pursed lips as she used a brush to paint them. “Just because. C’mon, Bess, haven’t you ever wanted to do something different?”

      “Not really.”

      She turned to look at her full on. “Not ever?”

      Bess chewed the inside of her cheek before remembering it was a bad habit, and stopped. “Different like how?”

      Missy swaggered close enough to pluck at the collar of Bess’s Izod shirt. “I could lend you something to wear before the guys get here, if you want.”

      Bess glanced at her khaki skirt, bare legs and flip-flops before looking at Missy’s denim mini and tiny top. “What’s the matter with what I have on?”

      Missy shrugged and went back to her face. “Nothing…for you. I guess.”

      Girls have a language in which the words have nothing to do with the meaning. Bess flushed, looking again at her clothes. She touched her hair, bound on top of her head with a spring clip. She’d showered after work and used some powder and gloss, but nothing more than that. She’d figured they’d watch TV or something, not have a party.

      “I think I look fine.” She sounded defensive. “I told you, I’m not planning to get screwed.”

      “Of course you’re not.” Missy sounded so patronizing and sympathetic, Bess erupted.

      “What’s that supposed to mean?” She strode to the mirror, pushing Missy aside to stare at her reflection before turning away to glare. “Anyway, anyone who doesn’t like me the way I am can just…suck it!”

      Missy’s drawn-on brows rose at Bess’s exclamation. “Cool it down, sugar-tits. Jesus! Fine, don’t get laid. Save yourself for your lame-ass boyfriend back home.”

      “I’m not saving myself for anyone,” Bess said. “Just because you don’t comprehend the concept of being faithful doesn’t mean nobody else does. And he’s not lame.”

      And he might not be her boyfriend anymore.

      Missy rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Do I care?”

      “I don’t know. Do you? You sure as hell keep bringing it up.” Bess put her hands on her hips.

      Missy glared. Bess glared back. After a second, though, Missy’s lips twitched. A second after that, both of them were guffawing.

      “You are such a drama queen.” Missy pushed Bess aside in order to put away her makeup.

      “Screw you, Missy.”

      “I didn’t know you swang that way, sugar-tits.” She fluttered her heavily mascaraed eyelashes.

      Bess, as usual, had nothing wittier to counter with, and settled for trying to tidy up the disaster of Missy’s living room. She’d only managed to clear piles of magazines and newspapers off the couch and chairs before the door opened and Heather arrived with Kelly in tow. Both looked pretty drunk already.

      “Hey, girl!”

      “Lookit you, bitch! What the hell? Who did your hair?”

      “Where’s the fucking pizza?”

      Bess watched the interchange and wondered what it would be like to have a house where people came in without knocking and tossed themselves onto the furniture as if they lived there. She was pretty sure she’d hate it. She nodded when Kelly waved at her, but Heather, typically, ignored her. Heather didn’t like Bess. The feeling was mutual, because Bess knew Heather thought she was a stuck-up princess.

      People arrived for the next hour, many more than Missy had actually invited, but news of a party always spread fast. The trailer, not even a double-wide, soon became a haze of smoke, body heat and music. Bess, stomach growling, kept hoping someone would show up with the promised pizza. Bags of chips and pretzels appeared along with forties of malt liquor and bottles of every other kind of booze. At least Missy’s friends brought their own with enough to share.

      Bess wasn’t the only one underage, but she was probably the only one not drinking. Nobody cared, assuming as long as she had a cup in her hand she was getting as wasted as the rest of them. Missy would have known, but was so busy drifting from lap to lap she couldn’t be bothered with Bess.

      A cheer went up when the pizza arrived, finally. Bess had met Ryan before. He fucked Missy once in a while, when they were both drunk or stoned or bored. He held the pizza boxes high, shouting out, “Two bucks, two bucks,” to everyone he passed.

      Two bucks. All she had in her pocket. For two bucks she could have gone and bought her own slice and a drink, but at the party she’d be able to eat as much as she wanted or could snag before it all disappeared. Ryan clearly knew what he was doing, though, because he’d brought four pizzas. The guy behind him, his face shadowed by a ball cap pulled low over his eyes, carried another three.

      “Bess.” Ryan winked at her as she moved aside the empty cans and paper plates already stained from previous pizzas to make room for the boxes. “How you doin’, baby?”

      “Good.” She brushed off her hands. The table was sticky, but it wasn’t worth the effort to clean it. She turned in Missy’s tiny kitchen to grab some paper plates from the cupboard and set them down. Already hands were digging into the boxes and carrying away slices. She wanted to get hers.

      “This is my buddy, Nick.” Ryan jerked a thumb over his shoulder as his friend set down the other boxes.

      Concentrating on sliding the steaming slices onto her plate, Bess did little more than flick a glance in his direction. Her stomach had sprouted the pins and needles preceding the shakes of low blood sugar, and though there’d be more than one person passed out here by the end of the night, she didn’t intend to be the first. When she looked up, Nick was gone, swallowed by the mass of writhing, dancing bodies.

      Ryan leaned across her to grab a napkin from the counter behind her. His arm brushed her breast. His breath wafted over her throat and cheek. Pinned between the table and the counter with no place to go, Bess flushed at the intimacy, especially when Ryan grinned and winked. His glance fell to the front of her shirt before he looked at her face again.

      “Nice party,” he said, and turned away to load his plate with