Quinn Littleton was found facedown in my garage at nine in the morning on a Monday, her corpse dressed up like Malibu Barbie. Her boobs were crammed into a homemade coconut-shell bra that tied off behind her back with pink ribbons. She wore a hula-style grass skirt she’d trimmed so short it barely covered anything, and thanks to her unflattering final position of facedown, rump pointed at the garage doors, the first thing anyone saw of her corpse was a sliver of thong bisecting perfect butt cheeks.
Quinn Littleton was dead.
And it was sorta my fault.
Did I mention she’s my sister?
I probably should have explained that with the whole “dead in my garage” thing. Hot, popular girls don’t just die there like it’s some kind of suburban elephant graveyard. Quinn is—was—related to me. Sort of. She wasn’t my birth sister but she was for all intents and purposes my stepsister. The only reason she wasn’t my actual stepsister is our moms hadn’t married yet. So Quinn and I lived together, had rooms next to one another and were forced to endure holidays together all without an actual and factual sisterly bond.
I wouldn’t have wanted one, given the choice. We didn’t jell.
Quinn was a mean girl. We’re not talking “mouthy” or “occasionally moody” or “sharp around the edges.” We’re talking “full-throttle mega-mean girl with acid spit and laser eyes.” That’s awful to say about the recently departed, but you had to see her in action to understand. If she didn’t like you, she took insidious glee in decimating you until you were a twitching pile of pudding beneath her stilettos. Worse? She got away with it. People allowed a lava-spewing horror show to rule the school because she was hot and popular.
High school is gross.
It didn’t help that I’m one of those nerdy girls—brainy, glasses, I wear jeans every day and my morning beauty regime consists of washing my face, brushing my teeth and sticking my hair into a ponytail. It was mortifying for Princess Pedicure, who got up a full hour and a half before we left for school to make sure she had time to set her curlers, apply her makeup and match her underwear to her miniskirts.
There’s nothing wrong with investing in your appearance. There is, however, something wrong with telling everyone they’re disgusting because they don’t go on the latest kale-and-prune-juice diet to be “Africa skinny.” That’s a direct quote, by the way. Africa skinny.
Quinn’s worldview was severely limited.
* * *
Quinn and I met a year after our moms started hanging out. We had no idea that they were getting it on behind closed doors, but they hadn’t advertised it, either. They were two quasi-recent divorcées who had joined a women’s support group and found one another. It was martinis on Fridays, late-night conversation and a lot of texting. Which became a lot of shopping trips and dinner dates. And weekend day trips. And then full weekend getaways to Cape Cod and weeks in Maine.
Nine months later, my mother sat me down in the kitchen to inform me that she was dating Karen Littleton, who was a lawyer and “a wonderful person who makes me feel special.” I was surprised, yes, but not bothered. Mom’s business was Mom’s business. I didn’t want to think about her sex life regardless of the gender of her partner. But Karen had reported that her daughter, Quinn, “who is the same age as Emma and I’m sure they’ll be fast friends,” took it poorly. There was yelling and screaming and a lot of “how can you do this to me?”
I was a peach by comparison, especially since the only reaction I could manage was, “Her daughter needs to calm down” and “Man, Dad will be pissed.” Which she did, and he was, and I predicted all that because I’m smarter than the average bear.
Three months after the big reveal, Mom and I had another sit-down talk because Karen and Quinn were moving in. I hadn’t met either of them by that point—Mom had kept her relationship separate so I wouldn’t get hit with shrapnel if things went bad. But a romantic week in Aruba and the happy couple determined it was time to take the next big step. I wasn’t super excited about living with strangers and I said as much. Mom apologized but it was pretty clear it was going to happen whether or not I liked it. When I told Dad, he offered an open door, but...
I love my dad. It’s just that he took the divorce to mean open season on thirty-year-old females. I didn’t want to have to deal with seeing him as the Godfather of Skank, nor did I want to be home by myself the rest of the time—he was a pilot and out of town a lot. Stuck between two bad situations, I picked Karen and Quinn.
To this day, I’m not sure that was a smart decision.
* * *
The first meeting of the East and West Side lesbian families was “interesting.” My mom is short, curvy and olive-skinned thanks to her Sicilian heritage. The hair at her temples is graying, but the rest of it is a beautiful chestnut that hangs to her tailbone. She has round features and her eyes are a pale, pretty brown. She’s an art teacher, so she spends a lot of time picking paint and clay out from under her fingernails. Karen is her absolute opposite. Tall, lithe and imposing, she wears suits and carries a briefcase and actually owns more than one pair of high heels. She’s a Nordic empress with blond hair, blue eyes and skin so pale she makes paper look tan.
From the moment Karen stepped out of her silver Mercedes with the black leather seats, I was uncomfortable. She was dressed in her version of casual—khakis and a white shirt—but she obviously had money and she comported herself like it. I grew up blue-collar middle class, and seeing her polish made me feel grubby by comparison. I fidgeted as she approached, her capped teeth gleaming in the sun.
“Hi, Emma. I’m Karen. So glad to finally meet you.” She flashed a smile before settling into Mom’s side. Mom shifted her weight, her cheeks flushed. She was nervous, though I didn’t know if that was because I was meeting Karen for the first time or because she was finally meeting Quinn. To Karen’s credit, she noticed my mom’s discomfort. She grazed her fingers across Mom’s biceps. Then she glanced at me to see if the contact freaked me out. I was more impressed that she cared about Mom’s welfare than to sweat a display of affection.
“Hey. Hi,” I said. “It’s... Yeah. Cool.”
I sounded like a stammering moron. But what if Karen turned out to be Cruella de Vil? What if she hated me? What if she made my mom unhappier than my dad did after that whole midlife-crisis flight-attendant-humping fiasco?
“Quinn incoming. I’m sure you two will get along,” Karen said, motioning at the Mercedes. “She’s worried about going to a new high school in the fall.”
Karen sounded so very certain, like an Emma-and-Quinn friendship was a preordained thing. I had a momentary flash of hope that Quinn and I could watch Doctor Who together or maybe nerd out about CW shows. If she was a reader, I had four bookshelves in my room loaded with comics and trade paperbacks and all The Dark Tower books.
Maybe this won’t be so bad, I said to myself. Maybe it’ll be cool. Then Quinn stepped out of the car. She was perfect. Her strawberry blonde hair hung to her elbows, her skin so flawless it’d make a model weep. I was short, chubby and dark. She was tall, willowy and golden. I wore three-dollar flip-flops. She wore Gucci pumps that cost more than my entire outfit. Her makeup was perfect; my lip balm was a dollar-bin find. I held a book in my hand, she held—
—a purse dog. A Chihuahua, to be exact, that I later found out was named Versace.
She