Free A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters by Martin H. Greenberg

Catherine.” She has a wide toothy grin, my mother, behind carmine lips. “My goodness, you look tired! It’s so dreadfully hot out there. Would you like a snack before dinner? Some cookies and lemonade?”
    “That’d be great, Mrs. Robins.” Kate gave her a winsome smile and I imagined my mother melting. The bathroom door hid Mom, but I could see Kate lounging on the bed, in what she called her come-hither pose. A black one-piece swimsuit, a rhinestone buckle between her shallow breasts, against all that pink. She was unbraiding her hair and it sprang back in tame waves against her paleness.
    I was pretty sure Mom wished I’d been born blonde to match the room she kept decorating for me.
    “I’ll be back up with a tray. Did you girls have a good time?”
    “Superlative,” I drawled through the bathroom door. “What’s for dinner, Mumzers?”
    She trilled her brittle little laugh. “Oh, very simple—chicken breasts with lemon, angelhair pasta, some vegetables. I just have no time for anything fancy. I’m sure Catherine doesn’t mind, do you, dear? You’re one of the family by now.”
    “It’s always good, Mrs. Robins.” Kate’s smile stretched and I was pretty sure she was thinking of something to whisper to me as soon as Mom was out of earshot. “Thanks.”
    But Mom lingered. “Is your mother not feeling well? She sounded . . . not quite herself.”
    I half-closed the door and wriggled out of the bikini.
    “I think she has a summer cold. And she’s working really hard.” Kate kicked at the poolbag, discarded on the Pepto-Bismol rug.
    I stepped into jeans, yanked a T-shirt down. “Mom, can I take the car after dinner and go pick up Kate’s stuff?”
    “Oh, certainly, sweetheart. Cookies and lemonade coming up!” She bustled away down the hall, staggering slightly on her heels.
    Gin at three in the afternoon. If it was any more of a cliché she’d be wearing pearls while she scrubbed the spotless oven.
    “Is she okay?” Kate’s forehead creased.
    “Just kind of drunk.” I stepped out. “Bathroom’s all yours.”
    “We don’t have to go to my house. I can just—”
    “We’ll just be there for a couple minutes to pick up your stuff and take a look at things. Okay? It’s part of the plan.”
    She nodded, chewing at her lower lip, and I wanted to kiss her. But I put my hands behind my back as she heaved herself up from my bed and slid past me. All my nerve endings felt her, like the weight of sunshine on already-burned skin. She stopped right in front of me. “Becks?”
    “Yeah?” My fingers knotted together. The pink bed pulsed with a secret under it. The first time we’d made out in the middle of the night had been on that bed.
    She pressed her lips to mine. Sunscreen, chlorine, fresh air, and the faint biscuit odor she carried everywhere, all around me. We melted into each other for a long time until my mother’s footsteps sounded in the hall again. Kate untangled her fingers from my damp hair, I let go of the sweet curve of her waist. She vanished into the bathroom while Mom brought in a crimson lacquered tray piled with cucumber sandwiches, sugar cookies, and a pitcher of lemonade.
    I knew Mom wouldn’t see how I was blushing. She just gave me a swift booze- fogged glance, checking for loose threads or zits, and breezed right on out.
     
    The Cooke house was a small brown ranch number three streets over, where the neighborhood went from genteel to shabby. The yard wasn’t mowed, and the juniper hedges were straggling. Both grass and bushes were turning a weird yellow. We had the windows down, and her mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway.
    Edgar’s maroon Lincoln Continental crouched there instead, its pristine paint job shimmering under golden evening light. Its windshield was a blind, dark-tinted eye.
    I set the parking brake and we both eyed the house. Kate let out a nervous, jagged little laugh. “He’s here.”
    “You knew he would be.” I blew out between my teeth.