Free Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love by Maryrose Wood

went our separate ways, I asked Kat and Jess what they thought of Trip’s insane proclamation that Randall was in love with me. I mean, Randall? Please.
    “Oh my GOD! I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before!” exclaimed Jess. “Randall is ALWAYS so nervous around you! It explains a LOT.”
    “But, but but—” I sputtered. “But RANDALL?”
    “He’s very smart. And not a show-off, like other boys,” murmured Kat. Was she thinking of Trip?
    “And he’s CUTE! But of course, you’re SO not interested! I mean, you’re in love with Matthew. So put it OUT of your mind!” said Jess, neatly solving this problem, as she does all others.
    Oh! It was my turn to look like a cartoon of a surprised person. Did my Kittenpals think Trip was right? And do they actually consider Randall to be potential LovahDawg material?
    I mean, please! RANDALL?
    Randall’s X is obviously misfiring, that’s the explanation. His signals are getting crossed and confusing everyone. Or maybe Trip really is a spoiled thug and was teasing me, and the Kittens are mistaken. It could happen.
    I decide to follow Jess’s advice and put the whole Randall thing out of my mind, which is already TOO FULL! With thoughts of Matthew, of course. Now that we’re spending so much time together, the flame under my krazy Kittencrush has been turned up, up, up. What was a steamy simmer is now a constant, rolling boil. Not that he’s given me the least sign of encouragement. He doesn’t have to. He’s Matthew Dwyer, and that seems to be all it takes to put my X-receptors into overdrive.
    “Hello!” Mrs. Dwyer says brightly when I arrive at Matthew’s apartment—whoops, I mean house, in Park Slope, Brooklyn, on Friday evening. I had suggested we interview
Mère
and
Père
Dwyer together at a time when his dad would be home from work, and Matthew, though a bit lacking in enthusiasm, agreed.
    “You must be Matthew’s friend! Come in!” she titters. Brownstone houses in Park Slope, for those who do not know about these things, are nice, very nice, MUCH nicer than where my mom and I live. I start to kick off my shoes, because we never wear shoes inside at home, but then I see that Mrs. Dwyer is in a pair of beige pumps. When in Rome, keep your shoes on.
    “Matty!” his mom sings out. “Your friend is here!” She walks backward into the dining room, smiling at me, making little follow-me gestures with her hands. I follow.
    There’s a tray already set out on the huge mahogany table, with a silver pitcher of juice and three glasses.
    “What a nice home you have,” I say.
    “Yes,” she agrees, pouring me some juice. “Do you and your parents live in Park Slope? It’s such a lovely neighborhood!”
    “No, my mom and I live in the East Village,” I say. She’s looking at me in a funny, intense way. “And my dad lives in New Jersey.”
    Her smile takes on a twist of sympathy, but whether in response to the divorced parents or New Jersey I can’t tell.
    Matthew appears in the doorway. He looks damp, like he just got out of the shower. “Hey,” he says. “Mom, this is Felicia.”
    “What a lovely name,” Mrs. Dwyer says. She keeps looking at me. I wonder if I’ve got bird poop in my hair or something.
    “Where’s Dad?” says Matthew.
    “Oh!” says Mrs. Dwyer. “He had to work late.”
    “Right,” Matthew says. “We should get started, then.”
    “There’s no rush, Matty!” says Mrs. Dwyer. “I like chatting with your friend.” She takes a huge, heavy photo album off one of the bookshelves and hands it to me just as I’m about to sip my juice. I put my glass down so I can hold the album.
    “Mom—” Matthew says, sounding annoyed.
    Mrs. Dwyer ignores him. “You might enjoy seeing these!” she says to me. I flip open the book. Baby pictures! I’d recognize Matthew anywhere.
    “Bald as an egg till he was three,” Mrs. Dwyer confides. I flip the pages forward. Now Matthew is in kindergarten. He’s holding a trophy that’s