Free Just Flirt by Laura Bowers

at our food until Madeline returns, complaining about a cracked toilet seat. Lou sets our check in the middle of the table. “Are we having problems, Dee?” Madeline asks while pushing the check in Mom’s direction. Yes, Madeline, problems.
    And I’m guessing that’s what you wanted all along.

5 Sabrina
     
    “God, this Meghan woman should just lie down and die already!”
    Bridget Carson stares at the screen of my laptop and shakes her head. Two of her favorite activities are eating and gossip hunting, both of which she’s been doing for the past hour, scanning tabloid Web sites on my bed with a bag of potato chips and relaying important facts such as which celebrity got a boob job or who dared to wear the same outfit twice.
    Torrance gathers her long hair and stares at her reflection in my bedroom’s full-length mirror. “Who needs to die, Megan Fox?” she asks, keeping both eyes on her slim frame while she goes through a series of poses with her lips pursed and stomach tight as though she’s on America’s Next Top Model.
    Bridget shoves a handful of chips in her mouth and licks salt off her fingers. “No, not Megan Fox the actress, although seeing her croak would be fabulous. Meghan from this ridiculous blog called The Superflirt Chronicles.”
    Surely I didn’t hear her right.
    “Did you say super fart ?” I sit down beside Bridget. Oh, gross, she’s gotten crumbs on my bed, which is even more annoying than Mom’s habit of drinking from the milk jug. Before she can plunder for more chips, I snatch the bag away. “And I swear, Bridget, must you? It’s so unfair how you can binge like a total hog and not gain weight.”
    “Jeez, sorry. And no, Super flirt. It’s written by some teenage flirtologist chick.” Bridget points to a hideously girlie blog that reeks of estrogen with its lime green border and hot pink cheetah print. She brushes crumbs off her snow white polo shirt and says, “Meghan is this old divorced woman who’s, like, desperate for love. She’s in her forties. Why even bother?”
    As Bridget starts to ramble about her forty-two-year-old single aunt who is headed for Spinsterville, I read the so-called Superflirt’s latest entry about her unwanted visitor—snore—and how she thinks Meghan’s daughters should help her find appropriate clothes. Yeah, right, whenever I try to get my mother to dress appropriately, she raids my closet for miniskirts. But even though Superflirt is probably just a pathetic, mousy wallflower living vicariously through the Internet, I have to agree—the way Meghan’s friend dissed her hair was a deliberate attempt to knock her down a few pegs, maybe because Meghan looked better than she did. It’s only one of many tricks we ladies play on each other.
    And if anyone should know about tricks, it’s me.
    “Enough with the blog, already,” Torrance whines, turning to the side and staring in the mirror with her back arched and palms clasping her hips. “Let’s talk about tonight’s party. I still can’t believe Blaine isn’t taking you, Sabrina. What’s his excuse this time?”
    Speaking of tricks.
    Torrance Jones’s favorite thing to do: display her passive-aggressive wit.
    However.
    After spending a miserable day with my father’s wife and her evil daughter, Angela, I’m not in the mood for Torrance’s potshots at Blaine. But it’s my turn to be the pre-party hostess, and drive, now that my car is fixed, so I keep my cool and say, “He doesn’t need an excuse, Torr. He has plans with his father.”
    And really, I didn’t mind when Blaine told me how he wanted to spend time with Larson. Tomorrow is Father’s Day, so I think it’s sweet. Still, I must have sounded icier than expected. “Relax, Sabrina, I didn’t mean anything. It’s just that he’s been breaking a lot of plans with you lately, that’s all.”
    Bridget knits her forehead in concern. “Did you guys have another fight? Torrance told me all about what happened at