13

Luckily Mom stays late at work, so I don’t have to explain why I’m home so soon. Her absence also gives me a chance to use the computer to conduct some quick Web research.

Measurements Jessica Alba.

Google announces a number of useful hits, and moments later I’m jotting down incredibly private information about Jessica Alba. I don’t exactly know how the site got hold of the figures—I can’t imagine Jessica Alba volunteered them—but there they are, big and bold: 34B-24-34.

Mom’s always telling me what a wonderful educational resource the Internet is, but until now I can’t say I believed her. I scan the list of other famous actresses whose figures are listed; there are even revealing photographs of some of them conveniently located just a click away.

I click.

This may be the most momentous evening of my life. I’m already imagining the next Rituals meeting, contemplating how I’ll present my findings to the guys. I even start to wonder if they’ll kneel down before me, which is probably why I don’t hear the door opening—

“Hi, honey. How’d it go tonight?”

I try to close the photograph as soon as it begins to emerge, but a little disk is floating around telling me the computer is occupied.

“Honey?”

“It w-was fine,” I say, or attempt to say; it comes out garbled on account of the fact that a naked woman is gradually being revealed on the computer screen.

“So what exactly were you doing tonight?” asks—

“Abby!” I gasp, spinning around. “What are you doing here?”

Abby points at the monitor. “What’s that?”

I look back at the screen, but thankfully the computer has decided it actually has time to close the window after all. “Nothing. Nothing at all,” I say, wiping sweat off my forehead.

Abby shrugs. “So you were going to tell me what you were doing tonight.”

I look at Mom. “I, er, had a meeting.”

Mom raises her eyebrows but leaves without contradicting me. Abby watches her go, then closes the door softly.

“So listen, I just wanted to come around to ask, well, you know … how it went.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on. I know who you met with today.”

I swallow hard. “You do?”

“Yeah, I do … Don’t act so surprised. It’s not exactly a secret.”

“It isn’t?”

“No, you twit, it isn’t. So, go on, did you do it?”

“Did I what!?” I can feel myself go bright red, and suddenly I really don’t want to be here having this conversation with Abby.

“Did you, you know … do it?” repeats Abby without a hint of embarrassment.

“Um, I … well, I really don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

Abby looks flabbergasted, like I’ve just landed a sucker punch in her gut.

“Okay, okay. No, I didn’t do it,” I assure her.

“What?” Now she looks even more horrified, which is really freaky. “Why not? Weren’t you up to it? Or, I know,” she adds testily, “maybe you just don’t have the balls for it.”

That’s the last straw. “If you must know, yes, I do have the balls for it, but it’s up to me whether or not I decide to do it, and it’s certainly got nothing to do with you.”

Abby cocks her head, stares at me with narrowed eyes. “Okay, I get it,” she says softly, her head nodding imperceptibly. “I guess I’ll go now.” She turns to leave, then pauses before the door. “Although, I want you to know that I only came here because I care about you. And don’t think I don’t know how difficult it must be to stand up to Brandon and his pathetic troop of losers, but I really thought you’d do it. After what I told you last night, I just figured … ” She shakes her head. “But you didn’t do it … I’m sorry if I made you feel bad.”

Oh crap. As she hurries away, my instinct is to chase after her and tell her I’m sorry and it was all a misunderstanding. But I can’t. Because although I am sorry, I’m also giddy with relief that she was talking about my meeting with Brandon instead of my date with Paige.

And then it occurs to me that even if I had realized she was talking about Brandon, my answers would probably have been the same—because I was too cowardly to leave the group, and I’m still too ashamed to admit it to Abby.

And that doesn’t feel so cool.