Free Vicious Little Darlings by Katherine Easer Page A

named Finn—a naked Yalie with curly red hair and chewed-up nails—who’s kind of dull and looks like a cross between Richard Simmons and Little Orphan Annie. But does that stop me from making out with him?
    Sadly, no.

8
    W hen I get home from the party, I find a cream-colored envelope on my bed. I tear it open. Inside is a note written in Agnes’s perfect cursive:
    Sarah,
    I need to talk to you. It’s important.
    Call me ASAP.
    Agnes
    I pick up the receiver on my desk and dial Agnes’s cell.
    Five minutes later, she’s at my door. She looks flustered and her white button-down shirt is slightly wrinkled. Right next to her nose is a huge zit, haphazardly covered with a big glob of cakey concealer. Funny, I didn’t notice that earlier. I didn’t think Agnes ever got zits. She must be stressed. I try not to stare at it (though it’s difficult)—not because it would embarrass her, but because staring at zits is a risky thing to do. If I so much as look at a zit, or even think about zits, I’ll wake up with my very own cystic nightmare the next morning. Zits are telepathically contagious.
    â€œYou’re looking at my blemish,” Agnes says accusingly.
    â€œNo, I wasn’t.”
    â€œI saw you looking at it.”
    â€œI wasn’t looking at anything,” I say, keeping my eyes locked on hers.
    â€œWell, don’t look at it.”
    â€œI won’t.”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œSo, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
    â€œNot here. Let’s go for a drive.”
    â€œIt’s late,” I say, yawning emphatically. “I don’t want to go out again. Can’t we just talk here?”
    â€œToo risky.”
    I feel a twinge of anxiety. “Why? What’s going on? Is it Maddy?”
    â€œMaddy’s fine. She’s sleeping. Let’s go to that diner next to the highway.”
    â€œNo,” I say a little too quickly. I can’t risk running into Scissorhands.
    â€œWhy not?”
    I shrug.
    â€œCome on.”
    â€œFine,” I say. But damn, he’d better not be there.
    Everything at the diner looks exactly the same, including the people. The same frizzy-haired waitresses. The same greasy truckers.
    The waitress leads us to our table. I scan the diner one more time to make sure Scissorhands isn’t hiding in a corner booth. When I see that he isn’t, I feel an unexpected surge of disappointment. I sit down opposite Agnes.
    â€œSo, are you going to tell me what this is all about?” I ask after we’ve ordered. Paranoid as ever, Agnes refused to talk about Maddy in the car. To Agnes, it makes more sense to talk about private matters in bright, crowded diners.
    She looks at me. “I wanted to tell you what really happened last week. You probably figured out we weren’t just furniture shopping the whole time.”
    â€œThat was pretty obvious,” I say.
    â€œWe did shop on the last day—yesterday. God, it feels so long ago. But the rest of the time we were in Vermont.”
    I think of trees and outlet malls and people dressed in L.L. Bean. “What were you doing there?”
    â€œWell,” she says, licking her lips, “remember how hysterical Maddy was that night she stormed off?”
    â€œYou mean, after you bad-mouthed Sebastian?”
    â€œI didn’t bad-mouth him. But I’m no fan, that’s for sure.” She looks out the window, then back at me. “I thought Maddy was having a breakdown that night. She can be pretty unstable at times. It worries me. Did you become obsessed with death after your parents passed away?”
    My right eyelid starts to twitch, and I blush with shame. “My parents aren’t actually dead.” I look away. “But they might as well be.”
    â€œI see.” She seems both unfazed and uninterested. Which means there will be no further questions. Thank God.
    The waitress appears out of nowhere