“Because they’re manipulative sociopaths,” she says, closing the cover of the book and glancing up at me. She’s lounging on bean bags in the ‘Quiet Nook’ which is actually where everyone used to go to make out before the librarians moved the shelf with the new release hardcovers and exposed the corner to the side door. It’s not quite so private anymore. “I’m sorry, I know Creed is my twin, but I don’t trust him for shit. I told him as much last night.” She pushes up from her position on her stomach and nestles into a glittery white bean bag. “He swore up and down and all over hell that they’re telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. The thing is, Marnye,” she continues, tucking some of that shimmering blonde hair behind her ear, “they’re all a part of that damn Club. It’s so strict that people get hurt when they don’t follow the rules. So maybe Creed’s lying to you or me or both of us to protect himself. It wouldn’t be the first time things had gone down like that.”
She crosses her legs at the knee, leaning back so far that I can see her garters. Last year, I just assumed she was wearing them to impress a crush. Now, I’m pretty sure she just wears them because they’re hot. They’re even in the school dress code: Academy-issued thigh-high socks can be worn with garters. Of course, it also says: Garters may not be visible at any time, not even when the arms are raised, but that doesn’t stop us all from rolling the waistbands of our skirts.
“I have my reasons for trying to get close to them again,” I murmur, but clearly I’m being cryptic as hell, and Miranda sighs.
“So I figured. Just … be careful, okay? Your revenge thing is fine, but don’t let it take away your natural sweetness.” She leans over to brush loose hair from my forehead, and smiles.
“I am not naturally sweet,” I reply with a roll of my eyes, and she laughs.
“Are you kidding? You’re so sweet you’re practically syrup.” Miranda pauses suddenly and glances away, biting her lower lip. I raise my brows because I can tell something important is about to come up. “Hey Marnye …”
“Yes?” I start, grabbing her abandoned yaoi manga and opening it to a random page. There’s a full page drawing of two guys on a bed, and I think … Oh. Based on the next panel, I don’t have to think about what they’re doing: I know. My cheeks turn pink as I keep flipping through.
“Jessie and I broke up.” She blurts this out in a rush and then peers up at me from under blonde brows. I’ve stacked two bean bags on top of each other to make a chair, raising myself up several inches above her. Better to be here than back in my room, all alone. For the last week and a half, I’ve begged Miranda to stay with me because I can’t bear the silence. As soon as I lay down and the light on my bedside table clicks off, I start remembering the water filling my lungs.
“Wait, this isn’t because of me, is it?” I ask, and Miranda flushes even brighter than I am after looking at the yaoi drawings. Damn. Now I feel like complete crap. I knew I shouldn’t have asked her so many times to sleep over.
“You needed me: you suffered a trauma,” she starts, and then she glances away sharply and exhales, her gaze fixated so purposefully on a copy of a book about sea turtles that I know her mind is a million miles away. When she glances back, I see she’s about to say something important, but gets interrupted by Creed.
“Boys’ love?” he asks, appearing out of nowhere and sweeping the manga from my hands before I can stop him. “How gauche. I’ve told Miranda not to waste her time reading these things: it’s basically porn in the shape of a comic book.”
“How about you get fucked?” Miranda snaps at her twin, and I raise my eyebrows. “If Marnye cared what you thought, she’d ask.” Creed narrows his ice-blue eyes at her, and they have an epic stare down that only a pair of twins could accomplish. Flames practically crackle in the air between them.
It doesn’t bother me though because Creed’s one and only admirable trait is the protective brother thing. He’d kill for his sister; I know he would.
“I’m going to excuse myself,” I murmur, standing up and slipping away.
I end up bumping—quite literally—into Zack in the next aisle. He actually looks surprised to see me, a book of poems open in one hand, his academy-issued tablet on the table next to him. Aww, he’s actually studying. Zack is by no means the top of the class, but since the school year started he’s worked his way up from the bottom twenty percent to the top fifty. Huge improvement.
