Battle of the Sexes

2. The Offer

"Why do you girls love to oversleep?" Mom asked Jess and me the next morning as we slumped in our seats over breakfast.

"Oh, I don't know," I sighed, with a glance at my sister. "Why, Jess?"

She gave me a dark, warning look in return. 

Wow. What a lovely show of gratitude.

"Did you have a nice time with Layla and Adam at the skating rink?" Mom asked, speaking to my sister.

I barely bit back a laugh. The skating rink?? That was a story if I'd ever heard one; Jess didn't even know how to roller blade or ice skate. 

"Yeah, Mom," Jess answered sweetly. "Thanks."

"Abby, you got in a little late last night."

"What??"

"Your curfew is eleven. You got in at eleven fifteen."

Oh, she was talking about before the whole fiasco at the Sub Lime. "Mom, I was just next door at the Delgados'."

"A curfew is a curfew, no matter where you are."

I scowled, shooting a glance at my sister, but she pretended to focus on her cereal.

"You should take a page from your sister, you know."

"That's rich," I muttered before I could stop myself, and Mom did that thing where her cheeks puffed up like an angry blowfish.

I let her lecture me for a few minutes while I ate my eggs, waiting until she'd run out of steam. As soon as she was done and had walked out of the kitchen to go clean something, I turned to Jess. "You owe me."

"Yeah, yeah."

"That's on top of how much you already owe me. Do you even remember what happened last night?"

"Of course I do."

"Really?"

She stopped for a moment, worry creasing her brow. "What? Don't play your little head-games, Abby, or I will pound you."

I couldn't resist. "Well, if you must know, it's all over Facebook."

"What! What's all over Facebook?"

"Why don't you go find out for yourself?" I said coolly. I got up, waltzing out through the back door while she whipped out her cell phone to check.

I trotted out onto the back porch, sprawling out on one of the recliners to watch the rise of the the Saturday sun. I knew it was mean, scaring Jess like that, but with any luck, that would teach her not to drink so much next time.

I could feel the sun on my skin, like a gentle caress. I looked to the recliner next to mine, imagining a hot guy – like the one from the club last night, lying there, tanned and toned, with a smile only for me.

Why couldn't I get a guy like that?

I knew the answer to that. It was because I was Abby Davis, short, unassuming, with plain brown hair and no sexy clothes and no fancy talents other than maybe I was awesome at laser tag. Unlike Jess, I'd never had boys ask me out before, unless you counted twelve-year-old Tyrell-with-a-crush-on-me from down the street. So yeah, I'd never dated, much less ever been kissed. 

I'd tried asking Jess once to describe what French kissing felt like, and she'd just laughed and asked, 'Why? Who do you want to kiss, huh?', followed by her making a bunch of ridiculous smooching noises.

In truth, I'd wanted to know not for myself, but because I wanted to know how to write about it in my books. Judging from how well my stories had done though, it looked like I'd done a pretty OK job. It's like that saying: 'fake it till you make it'.