Kass
Kass set her keys on the front hall table, slid off her shoes, and placed them neatly on the shoe rack in the closet. The house was blissfully silent, i.e., no loud music or loud laughter or loud sex, which meant that Kamille wasn’t home yet. Good. She would take advantage of the peace and quiet to get some much-needed R & R. It had been a long night at the restaurant, and she couldn’t wait to kick back with a mug of hot apple cider and a biography of Abraham Lincoln she’d been dying to read.
Thank God she’d said no to an evening out with Kamille and her little entourage. It would have been different if it had been just Kamille and her, hanging out at home with some Ben & Jerry’s and an old black-and-white movie. But the idea of clubbing with Kamille and Finn and Simone and Simone’s latest accessory . . . well, frankly, Abe Lincoln was way better company.
First of all, Kass really didn’t understand the appeal of clubs. Who wanted to stand in line for an hour at the mercy of some rude doorman, just to pay a fortune for a watery drink, shout to be heard above bad pop music, and get hit on by losers? (Not that Kass got hit on much—or ever—but still.)
For another thing, Kass loathed Simone. She’d always felt this way about her, ever since Kamille and Simone (inexplicably) became friends in sixth grade. Kass knew Simone was trouble the first time they’d all had a sleepover at the Romero house. Kass was thirteen then, and Simone and Kamille were twelve, and there were several other kids at that particular Taco Bell and horror-movie marathon, including boys. Kass got her period for the first time that night (speaking of horror), and she spent hours in the bathroom trying to figure out how to insert a tampon. (This angle or that angle? Was it supposed to feel like a torture device?) She’d finally resorted to pads, which were so huge and bulky, like diapers, but at least they didn’t hurt.
Unfortunately, the next morning, their old dog, Valentino (God rest his soul), managed to fish several discarded napkins out of the bathroom wastebasket, gnaw them to shreds, and leave the bloody remains scattered all over the house. The she-witch Simone gleefully pointed them out to the sleepover guests; she also identified them as Kass’s, chanting stupid songs about crimson waves and cotton ponies. Kamille had actually laughed along with everyone else—for a second, anyway, before yelling at Simone to shut the fuck up and helping Kass to clean up the mess.
Simone had always brought out the worst in Kamille.
And as for Finn . . . Kass had made it a point not to get too close to any of Kamille’s boyfriends because she went through so many of them, so quickly. Pretty much one every three months, like a new diet trend or a new workout routine. Each time, it was the same, with Kamille announcing ecstatically that [fill in the blank] was absolutely and undeniably The One. Then some major drama would happen, and there would be a tearful, devastating breakup . . . after which the pattern would repeat itself.
Kamille never had a problem getting a boyfriend. With her deep blue eyes, voluptuous body, and wild, curly auburn mane, she was drop-dead gorgeous. (When the Romero girls were growing up, people would call her the “pretty” sister, then hastily add that Kass was the “smart” one, as though that was supposed to make up for the implied insult.) Kamille’s problem was getting (and keeping) a boyfriend who really and truly cared about her. Why did she always seem to attract jerks with commitment issues?
Kass sighed. Relationships really were more trouble than they were worth. It was a good thing that she herself had chosen to focus on her education. Straight A’s were forever. Men most definitely were not.
Her cell buzzed. It was a text from Kamille.
SO FUN HERE CUTE GUYS COME MEET US!
“Right, uh-huh,” Kass muttered. Heading down the hall, she lied-slash-typed: SORRY IN BED ALREADY. LOVE U!
No response. Whatever. Kass tucked the phone into her jeans pocket and proceeded through the living room, randomly picking up empty coffee cups (Kamille’s) and Baja Fresh bags (Kamille’s) and a pair of red stilettos (Kamille’s). The decor of the house exactly represented the total split in the two sisters’ personalities, i.e., part flea-market vintage (Kass) and part Z Gallerie (Kamille). Kass hated wasting money; why spend two hundred dollars on a new chair when the same item could be had for five dollars at a garage sale, slightly used? Conversely, Kamille hated “other people’s old stuff,” claiming that they always came with mystery stains and nasty smells.
In this way, the two of them had been arguing and compromising and sharing the cute little Spanish-style bungalow for the last year. Okay, so Kamille wasn’t always easy. And she really did need to stop putting all her energy into men and start focusing on what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. But she was Kass’s sister and best friend. They shared everything: their secrets, their hopes, their dreams, and their frustrations, especially about the other members of their family. Kass absolutely couldn’t imagine not living with her—dirty coffee cups and skanky friends and all.
Kass woke up to the sound of very, very loud sex.
“Oh my God, yes!” a female voice cried out. “Oh, yeah, faster. Faster!”
Kass sat up and peered groggily at the alarm clock: 3:32 A.M. The sound was coming from the living room. Kamille and Finn must be at it on the couch. Really, was this necessary?
But the voice didn’t sound like Kamille’s.
Then Kass heard another sound through the other wall—the wall that separated her bedroom from Kamille’s. It was the steady, rhythmic squeaking of a mattress. More sex. Wait—did that mean two hookups were going on simultaneously?
“Oh . . . my . . . God!”
“Oh, yeah, that’s it!”
“Mmmmmm . . .”
“Harder . . .”
Kass squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears with her hands, trying to block out the stereophonic X-rated noises. She tried, too, not to think about that other time, back when she was sixteen and Kamille and Simone were fifteen. Kamille and Simone had dragged Kass to some house party way across town in Hidden Hills, and it hadn’t ended well, with Kamille and Simone drunk out of their minds and the girl who had given them a ride to the party, Willow, completely passed out. Kamille had somehow convinced Kass to drive them all home in Willow’s parents’ Mercedes minivan, even though Kass only had her learner’s permit and had never driven on a highway. Kass could still recall how terrified she felt, driving down the 405, convinced that she was going to get pulled over any second—or that she was going to crash the superexpensive car—while Kamille made out with some boy in the backseat, and Simone did more than make out with a second boy (Kass could see her grinding away on his lap in her rearview mirror), and Willow slept way in the back in the Burberry dog bed, her snoring mingling with the two couples’ moaning and groaning . . .
“Shit,” Kass whispered to herself.
Why did everyone else always get to have all the fun?