Thirteen

M:

Sunday couldn't have arrived fast enough.

After the suffocating tension of the week, I was desperate for an escape. I was genuinely happy that I'd get to spend a day with my best friend after what felt like a lifetime.

With this being our senior year, the schedule had been nothing short of hectic. Finding the time to just 'hang out' without the pressure of cheer practice or academic expectations was a rare, precious luxury.

"Just one more turn and I'll be right in front of your house, H," I said into the Bluetooth system, drumming my fingers on the leather-wrapped steering wheel to the beat of the pop song playing at a low volume.

The morning sun was bright, reflecting off the polished hood of my car, and for a moment, the world felt almost normal.

"Okay, but be quick! There's a new pair of Choos that's been calling my name, and I swear, if some basic bitch gets them before I do, I will lowkenuinely throw hands." Heather's voice was over-enthusiastic, vibrating through the speakers with a frequency that made my head throb slightly.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes at her characteristic impatience.

"Yes, Mom. I'm literally turning into your driveway now." I ended the call right after, pulling up to her front gate. I could see the day going really well from here; I needed this distraction.

"Ugh, finally." Heather groaned theatrically as she swung the passenger door open and plopped onto the seat, her expensive perfume immediately filling the small space of the car.

"Stop being dramatic. I'm exactly on time," I retorted, shifting the car back into gear.

"I will if you stop driving like a literal grandma. Seriously, Margaux, some of us have shopping to do." She shot me a sly smirk. In response, I grabbed a used paper towel from the center console and tossed it at her.

She shrieked in horror, jumping in her seat.

"Eww! Gross!" A groan of pure disgust escaped her lips as she pinched the paper with two fingers and tossed it into the back seat.

I stared at her with my mouth agape, feigning offense. "Hey! That was mine. You can't just litter in my backseat."

"Girl, bye. Lord knows where it's been. Hopefully not up your ass." She snickered loudly, and I reached over to swat her shoulder with a pout.

"You're so mean. Remind me again why I'm friends with you?" I shot her a playful glare.

"Oh, I'm not mean. You're the designated mean one in our relationship. I'm just the sidekick with the better personality." There was a proud, gleaming smile on her face that made it impossible to stay mad.

"I'm not mean, just brutally honest. There's a difference." I gave a small shrug of my shoulders, navigating the car out of her neighborhood.

"Like hell you are. You're a terror in thigh-high skirts, Marge, and we both know it." She snorted, and I shot her yet another glare, though the corners of my mouth were twitching.

Her arms instantly went up in an immediate gesture of surrender. Good.

People are often surprised when they see us like this.

They think I'm just some cold, heartless ice queen, but I have feelings too. I just save them for the people who won't use them as a weapon against me.

The drive to the mall was short but incredibly eventful. Heather was in a rare, chaotic mood, passing the time by prank-calling some of our more uptight teachers.

She went from telling Mr. Henderson that his classroom was currently on fire to faking an 'otherworldly emergency' to a non-emergency line that probably flagged our location immediately.

I was half-convinced the SWAT team would be waiting for us in the parking garage, but I let her have her fun.

It was better than talking about the heavy shit waiting for me back at that house.

The mall was surprisingly packed for a Sunday. I had assumed that since most people were at church or home recovering from Saturday night, it would be less crowded, but the parking lot was a sea of shimmering metal and frustrated drivers.

"Park faster! Are you sure you're not secretly seventy-eight years old? I need to see your ID," Heather said, turning in her seat to analyze my face with a very serious, squinted look.

I reached out and shoved her face away, focusing on the narrow space ahead. "Quit acting weird and let me concentrate. People who back into parking spaces just want attention, I swear."

I was getting frustrated. Parking was the one thing I knew I wasn't good at, no matter how many times I practiced. The spatial awareness just wasn't there.

"Use your mirrors, Margaux. They're attached to the car for a reason, not just so you can check your lip gloss." My best friend rolled her eyes, and I pursed my lips, keeping myself from retorting something truly biting.

"You see? It wasn't that hard," she said with a smug tone, bumping her shoulder against mine as we finally stepped out of the car and into the blast of the mall's air conditioning.

"Easy for you to say. You weren't the one behind the wheel," I mumbled under my breath, but I was sure she heard it.

"Alright, cheer up, buttercup. We have a full girl's day and night to look forward to. No boys, no cheer stress, just us." She held my shoulders and shook me gently until a smile finally broke through my annoyance.

I muttered a "fine" and let her drag me toward a high-end department store.

Heather had a sixth sense for luxury, and she was currently being pulled by the magnetic force of those Jimmy Choos.

The store she brought us to was one I usually bypassed. I'd never been inside this specific boutique, and I was beyond shocked at the revelation.

The interior was stunning—all gold accents and minimalist shelving. They had incredible clothes and shoes that felt much more 'me' than the usual preppy brands we wore. I actually found a few silk blouses and a leather skirt that I decided to keep.

A high-pitched squeal suddenly shattered the quiet, high-class atmosphere of the shop.

I turned just in time to see Heather sprinting—well, more like jumping—over to me, shoving a pair of stilettos directly into my face.

I pushed her hands back so I could actually see.

"I found them! Look at them! They're so pretty! Oh my gosh, Margaux, look at the intricate crystal work on the heel!" She kept on 'ooh'ing and 'ahh'ing at the shoe.

I had to admit, they were beautiful, but they were definitely 'Heather' shoes. Loud, sparkly, and impossible to ignore.

They weren't something I'd be caught wearing, but that was the beauty of our friendship. We had completely different styles and mannerisms, yet we still managed to navigate the world together.

"Well, are you going to buy them? Or are we just here to worship at the altar of footwear?" I asked. I was starting to feel a gnawing hunger in my stomach, which led me to realize I hadn't eaten a single thing this morning. I hadn't even had a glass of water; that was a rookie mistake.

She nodded vigorously, already looking around for the next thing to add to her hoard. She didn't even answer my question verbally, her brain already onto the next shiny object.

After browsing through the store for another twenty minutes, during which I looked at nothing in particular while Heather looked at everything, she was finally ready to leave.

She kept waltzing around, searching for a specific clutch to match the shoes.

I watched her, wondering if this was how boyfriends felt when they were dragged along on shopping trips. It was exhausting, but oddly entertaining.

We eventually made our way to the cashier to check out. My brows climbed higher and higher with every zero that popped up on the digital display for Heather's bill.

My god, how much did those shoes actually cost?

"You're a menace to society," was all I said as we walked out, still a bit star-struck by the total.

"To fashion, honey. I'm a menace to fashion," she corrected in a posh, faux-British accent. I snickered. I wasn't entirely sure what that meant in the grand scheme of things, but it felt right.

"Maggie! I hungy!!" she whined the moment we dropped the heavy shopping bags into my trunk. It was a relief to get rid of them; I hated hoarding bags around all day like a pack mule.

"Call me Maggie one more time and I'll slice off your boobs," I warned playfully. She gasped, dropping her jaw and clutching her chest with both hands in mock terror.

"You will do no such thing, Margaux Annabelle Dubois!"

I sucked in a sharp, cold breath and turned to her, my eyes narrowing. The playfulness vanished instantly. "Use that name again, and it'll be the last thing you ever say."

Well, I was partially serious.

'Annabelle' was the middle name given to me by my dear old dad. I despised the name just as much as I despised the man who gave it to me.

It felt like a brand, a reminder that I was his property.

"Sheesh, I'm sorry," Heather muttered, her voice dropping as she realized she'd crossed a line. She nervously chuckled, and the familiar wave of guilt washed over me. I never wanted her to feel like she had to walk on eggshells around me.

"Don't...don't be sorry. Please. It's just...that name brings back a lot of memories." Painful ones.

Memories of my mother's funeral, of the cold way my father had looked at me while the priest spoke, of the years of being told I had to live up to the Dubois legacy.

"Oh. Well, I'm still sorry. You've mentioned not liking the name before, but I still teased you about it. I'm a bad best friend," she said with a sincere look in her eyes.

All those mushy, sentimental feelings I usually kept locked away surfaced, and I reached out to hug her. It felt nice, but weird.

Nice because I loved her, weird because I wasn't a hugger by nature.

"Apology accepted. Now, let's go eat some junk food and forget the Dubois family exists for an hour!" I pumped my fist in the air playfully, and she laughed at the gesture.

It had been ages since I'd allowed myself to eat anything less than perfectly healthy, so I decided it was a cheat day in every sense of the word.

We walked into a fast-food joint in the food court and managed to snag a window seat. We were a few floors up, so looking out the window provided a relaxing view of the rooftops and the cars moving like ants on the street below.

The waitress came over to take our orders, and I immediately noticed the way she subtly checked out Heather.

My best friend, never one to miss a beat, leaned forward, her eyes locked onto the girl's with predatory focus.

I smirked at the encounter before clearing my throat.

"I'd like a medium fry, a bacon cheeseburger, and a vanilla frappe," I said, my voice cutting through the thick, pheromone-heavy air.

Under the table, I delivered a sharp kick to Heather's shin.

"Whatever she's having," Heather breathed, her voice dropping into that smoky register she usually reserved for dark corners and bad decisions. She didn't even glance at the menu; she was too busy memorizing the waitress's name tag. "Make it a large. I've got a big appetite today."

"I'll be right back with that," the waitress replied, her voice practically a purr as she lingered a second too long.

The second her heels clicked away, I leaned across the table. "You really need to keep it in your pants, H. I'd like to eat without a side of arousal."

"And what you need is to get something up your cooch," Heather shot back, completely unbothered. "Seriously, girl, I've almost never seen you with anyone. You're like a nun in a designer skirt."

"I really don't feel the need to perform intercourse with anyone in particular at the moment," I said. The words sounded strange, even to me. Did I really just talk like Remington? Why was her vocabulary suddenly bleeding into mine? And for that matter, what was she up to today? Was she at home? Was she with that girl from the I*******m photo? Why did I find myself hoping—just a smidge—that I'd run into her here?

"Margaux!" Heather's voice snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts.

"Hm?" I blinked, still a bit disoriented.

"I asked if there really wasn't anyone you had your eye on. Romantically. Even just a little bit?" Her brows were furrowed in genuine concern.

"There's no one. You'd be the first person I'd tell if I developed feelings for someone. You know that." It was true. Heather was the gatekeeper of my secrets, or at least she was supposed to be.

"Okay then. Just try to be open, okay? Don't close yourself off. I'll support whatever decision you make, whoever it's with."

Ugh, this girl and her sentimentality. I loved her, but sometimes her emotional openness made me want to crawl out of my skin.

"Yeah, okay, enough of the mushy shit. What was that look you gave that waitress? You sly fox." I brought my hand up, gesturing around her face with my index finger.

"Unlike you, I have needs. And I think she might be the one to meet them." My pervy best friend had a wicked smirk on her face.

"Disgusting," I said, scrunching my face in playful revulsion.

"It won't be disgusting when you eventually get to feel it firsthand. I can already imagine her hands—"

I cut her off immediately, shaking my head aggressively. "No! You will not finish that sentence. I need to be able to stomach my food!"

"I wouldn't need to finish it, Marge. Her tongue would do all the talking for me." Heather shivered in her seat with a grin, and I threw a crumpled napkin at her.

Why are we best friends again?

"That's sick. You're sick." I really didn't need the mental image of my best friend receiving head. My supposed innocence felt like it was being flushed down the drain.

Heather started laughing hysterically, drawing the attention of the surrounding tables. I felt myself shrinking into my seat, the heat of embarrassment rising in my cheeks.

I was going to kill her. I was definitely going to kill her.

Soon after, the waitress returned with our orders.

The wink she threw at Heather was so obvious I'm surprised it didn't create a tear in literal space and time. I said nothing, focusing on my burger.

We enjoyed the greasy lunch, diving into school gossip. Most of it centered around the girls in our year and their increasingly graphic remarks about a specific curly-headed basketball player.

My lips turned up in disgust when Heather recalled some of the things the girls said about Remington in the locker room.

They talked about how her ass looked in the uniform, how her muscles flexed when she dribbled, how she looked when she was drenched in sweat.

I tried to seem surprised by these observations, acting like I hadn't noticed them myself. But the truth was, I'd noticed all of it.

And more.

I'd noticed the way her eyes changed color in the light, or how her pupils get blown when she gets excited, and the way she bites her lip when she's focused.

What? I love people watching a bit too much, sue me.

When we finished lunch, Heather flagged down the waitress.

"The food was lovely. I'll make sure to come back on my own soon. Maybe we could talk over lunch sometime? When you're off the clock?" Heather was as clever as she was bold.

"I'd like that. Here's your bill." The waitress slid the slip of paper toward Heather and walked off.

"Her number's scribbled on the back, isn't it?" I sent her a knowing smirk.

Heather just hummed, a small, triumphant shrug following.

"Let's go back to my place then. I'm exhausted and I desperately need a shower," I said, standing up.

The drive back to the Dubois estate was filled with laughter. We spent the time trying to match the high notes of the singers on my playlist.

Ariana Grande is a queen, but my vocal cords were definitely not built for her range.

Immediately after I parked in the driveway, two maids came rushing out to help with the bags. I wanted to tell them not to worry, that we could handle it, but I realized it was their job and refusing would only make things awkward.

I still insisted on carrying the most expensive bags myself.

"Did you remodel? It looks...different from how I remembered," Heather said as she walked into my bedroom, running her hands along the new shelves.

"I did. I got tired of the old appearance. It needed more color. More space." I shrugged.

That was only a half-truth. The real reason was that my father had stepped into my room without knocking once, and I'd had a complete meltdown.

He always makes his presence known—usually by the heavy sound of his shoes or the smell of his cigars—but realizing he'd been in my private sanctuary while I was focused on homework felt like he'd tainted it.

I'd repainted the walls and bought new furniture just to wash the feeling of him away. The room looked different now. Better. More like a fortress.

"Well, I'm loving it. It looks much more vibrant. More homey," she said, sinking into the bed with a sigh.

I clapped my hands to get her attention. "Alright, go shower. I'll go after you. Let's get this girl's night started!"

I was actually excited. Heather was the only friend I ever brought home who was allowed to stay the night. The others from the cheer team had been here for meetings, but I never let them into my bedroom.

We usually stayed in the guest wings. My room was the only place in the world that was truly mine.

"Margaux, your shampoo smells like actual heaven. Text me the brand. I need it in my life." Heather stepped out of the bathroom later, sniffing her own hair like a total creep.

"Sure, just remind me because my brain is fried," I chuckled.

I took my turn in the shower, letting the hot water wash away the lingering stress of the week.

When I stepped out, freshly bathed and relaxed, I was ready for the rest of our plans: mani-pedis, baking, and then a movie marathon.

Heather wanted to do her nails in clear polish this time, which was a very odd choice for her. She usually went for neon pinks or deep reds.

I raised a brow but said nothing, though I suspected it had something to do with her plans for that waitress. I chose to block that thought out for my own mental health.

I chose a deep, espresso brown for my nails. I wasn't sure why I picked it. Maybe because it felt dark and grounded—but the end result looked sophisticated, so I was happy with it.

We used a new UV nail dryer I'd found online, and the polish set in record time. The night spent with Heather reminded me how much I'd missed her.

She was the only person who got me, who understood the layers of ice I had to maintain to survive my own father the rest of the people in this god-awful place.

Eventually, we were lying on my bed in the darkness, the only light coming from the moon filtering through the curtains. We were soaking in the silence before sleep took over.

"Marge," she whispered.

"Yes?" I whispered back, staring at the ceiling.

"I know."

"About what?"

"You bullying the new student. Remington."

My heart skipped a beat. "And?"

"Why?" she asked, her voice soft and non-judgmental.

"Why not?" I shot back, the defensive walls going up instantly.

"Because she's never done anything to you. In fact, she's been pretty chill."

I snorted at that. "I know."

"Then why? And don't give me that bullshit about her being mixed-race. I know you don't actually care about that."

"Do you want the truth?" I asked. I wasn't even sure I knew it myself.

"Yes."

"I don't know. It's just...I felt like I was meant to trouble her. Like if I didn't, something else would happen. Something worse." That made no sense, even as the words left my mouth.

"Oh?" She chuckled softly.

I hummed in response, the sound vibrating in my chest.

"I know this might seem like a total long shot, but...do you perhaps feel anything for her? Like, besides the 'hating her' thing?"

I was taken aback by the question, bolted upright in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. "W-what? Why would you even ask that? You know I'm not gay, Heather."

I suddenly felt incredibly uneasy. The air in the room felt too thick.

"I didn't say you were gay, Marge. I just asked a question. A simple yes or no would have been fine."

She was right. I was being overly dramatic. I was reacting like a guilty person.

"Well, no. I feel nothing but resentment toward her," I said, my voice firm. I didn't know whether I was trying to convince her or myself.

"I see. I'm sorry for making assumptions. Let's get some sleep."

"You're fine. Just know that I don't like her. Not in any way, shape, or form. Goodnight, H."

"Goodnight, Maggie."

I rolled my eyes at the nickname, but I didn't fight it this time. I let her have the win.

But even after Heather's breathing leveled out into the steady rhythm of sleep, my eyes remained wide open.

My mind was a chaotic mess of racing thoughts.

I didn't like Remington Alvarez. I didn't want to like her. But the more I tried to push her out of my mind, the more she became a permanent fixture, a puzzle I was becoming obsessed with solving.

I wasn't into girls...so that meant I was straight, right? Guys never did catch my interest either.

So...was I gay? Or bisexual? Was I really bisexual? I couldn't be. Could I?

I thought about the fashion books in my library, the way I sometimes stared just a little too long at the exposed bodies of the female models.

But that was just admiration for the art, right? That was completely normal.

Ugh! I don't know! I was so confused, and I desperately wished I could ask Heather for help, but I'd already shut that door by getting defensive.

I blame Remington. It was all her fault for existing and being so...complicated.

I rolled my eyes at her name in the dark.

And then there was the 'secret.' What Kevin had said about her kept ringing in my mind like a bell I couldn't un-ring.

I found myself constantly glancing below her waist when we were in the gym, trying to see if I could catch a glimpse of, well, anything.

It felt like Kevin was being delusional; there was no sign of a bulge there like the other guys had. And no, don't blame me for looking—I get curious sometimes.

There was only one way to confirm my suspicions and finally put my mind at rest. I had to catch her alone in the locker room again. I had to demand she show me exactly what she was hiding.

Because until I knew the truth, she was going to continue consuming every single one of my thoughts.

Great. Now she was the last thing I was thinking about before I fell asleep. Again.

I turned on my side, a slow, dark smile tugging at the corners of my mouth as sleep finally claimed me.

Enjoy your privacy while it lasts, Remington. Because one way or another, I'm going to find out the truth.