Free Curse of Arachnaman by Hayden Thorne Page B

monthly thing."
    "That sounds menstrual."
    Peter raised a brow. “Are you forcing me to make you celibate for the rest of your teenage years?"
    I considered it while taking another bite of my turkey burger. “Can we have wild monkey sex on your beach towel first and then discuss that afterward?"
    "No."
    I set my food down and leaned forward, holding Peter's gaze because I was desperate. “Have you ever been to one of those movable potties in public parks? Do you know that they're actually, like, rifts in space that take you directly to Satan's lair? They're seriously inter-dimensional portals...well, the toilet seats and whatever's boiling under them, are. Bingo night's the less disgusting version of those. I'm not kidding, Peter. It's like purgatory on earth. And they serve rubbery hot dogs."
    "I like rubbery hot dogs."
    I sighed, feeling the hot, sweat-slicked hold of promised not-quite-full-on-sex—i.e., we'd never gone all the way yet—slipping away. I could never win in stupid moral arguments like this. It was so unfair.
    "Peter, I don't want to go!"
    "You'd do it for your grandmother."
    I figured as much.
    "Look, Althea screwed you over. I know that. But what about Grandma Horace? Remember all those little treats she used to make you when you and Althea were in grade school? And don't forget Mrs. Horace and her special jam..."
    I threw my hands up. “Okay, okay, fine! Fine! I'll go! God!"
    Peter broke into a broad, sparkly grin. “Atta boy. I knew you'd come around. Don't do it for Althea. Do it for her grandmother. Just think of it that way, all right?” He reached across the table and took my hand in his, giving it a tight squeeze.
    I sulked. “I'll have to sneak in some Jack Daniels or something. You know, I've got a feeling that you're really a closet Catholic, the way you work that guilt trip on me all the time."
    Peter merely laughed, gave my hand one more squeeze, and then prattled on about...well, whatever. His mood had improved, he seemed proud of me, and he dove into his now cold burger and fries with an appetite that would make Mom adopt him on the spot.
    By the way, we didn't shred the beach towel later that evening, but it sure was soaked. The location was perfect, too, with us tangling at our favorite little beach hideaway in full view of a clear night sky and a crescent moon.
    For all that, though, we still returned home virgins. Yay, restraint. Backward slash, end sarcasm. Someday, down the road, maybe I'd look back on this and laugh. How's that for optimism?
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Chapter 7
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    In spite of my previous wibbling over my journal—how bored I was, and how it was pointless to own a stupid blank book with stupid pens and a stupid oil lamp—I gradually fell into a nice pattern of scribbling almost every night. It was kind of nice, really, being able to unload like that, now that I really didn't have my friends to chat up the way I'd used to. I was still mulling over the online blog thing, though. I mean, come on. Earning money from people clicking on links? It was a brilliant idea! Besides, being online was the way to meet new people, and maybe I could create a new network of friends via my blog. But I guessed, if I'd spent Mom's money on my stuff, I might as well put everything to good use.
    The downside to all that private writing time was that my wrists grew sore after a particularly long and detailed journal entry, which was mostly about Scanlon Dorsey and how much garlic he'd cost my family so far. Yeah, I'd been keeping tabs. Mom had already begun noticing her dwindling garlic supply, but I wasn't about to talk. Well, not unless I got caught, anyway.
    First test for wrist strength came when Mom and I went to Uncle Chung's for some Chinese food dinner. It was payday, so, yay for us. No frozen pizza.
    "Good evening, Mrs. Plath!” Mrs. Zhang called out from behind her steam-filled counter. I wasn't sure if it was just me, but her little take-out place seemed