4.


"Hey, I didn't like you either at first," Bianca opines, and this time she's talking to Fiona, not as Fiona, thank goodness. "I thought you were the ultimate material girl: high-maintenance and highfalutin and all that. Basically, a cross between Scarlett O'Hara and a French poodle."

Fiona scoffs. Then she's silent. Then she's scowling. "Imogen!"

Imogen settles into the seat opposite her girlfriend. "Yes?"

"Aren't you going to say something in my defense?"

"Something in my defense."

Fiona crosses her arms, boosting her bosom in the process.

No big deal—Imogen can talk and gawk at the same time. "What can I say, Fiones? She nailed you."

"No, that's your responsibility," Bianca reminds her.

"Don't worry," Imogen says, feeling a little sassy. "I always take care of my responsibilities."

Imogen winks at Bianca, but not at Fiona—she doesn't feel that sassy—and pokes another straw into the plastic lid of the cup she's holding. Across from Imogen, Fiona has unfolded her arms and is now sitting with hands clasped and ankles crossed, looking far too prim and proper for a girl whose tongue would be hanging out of her mouth if she weren't using it to lick her lips in that way that wets Imogen's, too.

Imogen crosses her legs, sliding the cup into the center of the table. She and Fiona take simultaneous sips, sharing the strawberry milkshake like a pair of sweethearts in a '50s diner. Imogen giggles, leaning forward until their foreheads are touching, and Fiona unclasps her hands in favor of fondling Imogen's fingers.

"That is so gay," Bianca mumbles.

"Aww, is the squeaky third wheel not getting the grease?"

Imogen would prefer to look at her girlfriend rather than her girlfriend's roommate, but it would be bad manners to ignore Drew Torres, no matter how great the temptation. "Greetings, earthling," she says.

Drew scrutinizes the couple. "Courting in the food court? Very original." He plants one on Bianca, snags a sip of her vanilla shake, and drops into the seat next to Fiona. "What's up?"

"Well, these seating arrangements could not be more appropriate," Bianca replies, surveying their little group. "We've decided to swap. I have to date Imogen and you have to date Fiona."

Drew frowns, his brow pleating like a paper fan. "Oh, so that's what the L stands for."

Bianca chafes at the affront to her middle name. "Dummy," she mutters, but coming from her, it sounds like a term of endearment.

Imogen and Fiona laugh, and Imogen strokes the bumpy surface of Fiona's ring. "You know, Drew, if you don't want to date Fiona, I will."

"You are."

"Just like I said I would. 'Cause I'm a woman of my word. Right, Fiones?"

"Right, Immy."

Drew shifts in his chair. "Yeah, um, I think my break is over, so…"

"You're gonna make a break for it?" Bianca supplies.

"They don't call you a Bright Spark for nothing." Drew leans across the table to kiss Bianca, but pauses mid-pucker. "You're not really getting rid of me, are you?"

Bianca shakes her head. "That was just lip service."

Drew kisses his fiancée. "No, that was just lip service," he says, grinning like a snowman.

"You guys want to walk around?" Bianca suggests after Drew's departure. "Try stuff on?"

"I'll only try stuff on that I'll look terrible in," Fiona stipulates, rising from the table. "Then I won't care if I can afford it or not."

Imogen goes to her side. "Poor Fiona," she says, patting her arm in simulated sympathy. "Most people go from rags to riches. But not you, my little rebel. Like I said, I always imagined you could do anything." She lifts her lips to Fiona's cheek and presses gently.

Fiona grins and grips Imogen's hand. Imogen giggles, feeling lucky and loopy and lovesick.

"When the two of you are done looking at each other like that—"

"Like what?" Fiona asks, taking their shake from the table. "Like we want to finish what we can't start?"

Fiona heard that whole conversation with Bianca, didn't she? You know, for someone in heels, that Miss Coyne is surprisingly stealthy.

"So, where should we go first?" Imogen inquires, but Bianca is already leading the way.

Imogen shakes her head. "If she got any farther ahead of us, she'd be in Prince Edward Island," she remarks, as she and Fiona trail behind Bianca like ducklings.

"Maybe she just wants to give us some privacy," Fiona suggests, rubbing her shoulder against Imogen's.

"Well, I guess when you really consider it, she is kind of considerate," Imogen says, curling her fingers to stroke the back of Fiona's hand. "I just don't like to think of myself as a follower, that's all. That being said, I'd probably follow you anywhere." Imogen hopes the levity of her tone will offset the gravity of her words. She wouldn't want Fiona to think she was pressuring her.

The way she thought Fiona was pressuring her.

"So, then, you'll follow me in here?" Fiona is asking. She stalls in front of a store, and since they're holding hands, Imogen also comes to a standstill.

Imogen regards Fiona. Her cheeks are the same shade as their strawberry milkshake and there's this tantalizing little twinkle in her eyes.

Okay, well, pressure's off, that's for sure. Looks like it wasn't even on in the first place.

Imogen looks in the store window. Inside, there are lacy things and racy things, things with straps and things with gaps.

Imogen feels a hand on her shoulder. Bianca is behind them now, lurking, smirking. As lovely as it would be to see Fiona partially clothed, preferably in that dolphin-gray negligee over there—the one with the tight fit and high slit and why is this a bad idea, again?

Because, Imogen recalls, sweeping the dirty thoughts out of her mind, she's never seen Fiona in any state of undress before. Any time Imogen sleeps over at Fiona's—or vice versa, because Imogen is no longer embarrassed about her father—they change in private. If they change in public, things will change. In public. And a shopping mall is hardly the ideal location to celebrate Fiona's half-birthday suit.

"We can't go in here with these," Imogen stammers, referring to their milkshakes. "No food or drinks allowed."

"I'll finish mine if you finish yours," Bianca offers.

Strike one.

"I thought you were only gonna try on stuff you'd look terrible in, Fiones."

"I am. That's why I'm putting you in charge of the selection process."

Strike two.

Wait, what?

"Fiona! Are you insulting my taste?"

Fiona takes a dainty sip of their shake. "Imogen," she scolds, trapping the straw inside her smile, "you know I love your taste."

Well, you will, anyway.

Imogen feels the blush rush to her face.

"What?" Fiona probes.

"Nothing. I just… thought I was thinking out loud."

"I'm not too big a fan of window shopping," Bianca pipes up, "so either we're in or we're out."

"We're out," Imogen declares.

"That's fine by me. And don't worry, Fiona. I've got her covered. So to speak."

So saying, Bianca pivots on her heel and resumes their game of Follow the Leader.

"Uh, you can't just say something like that and then be on your merry way," Fiona informs her, in hot pursuit.

Imogen tailgates, feeling like a little red wagon.

Bianca stops. "You're gonna love it," she says, sounding at once nonplussed and nonchalant, which just ruffles Fiona's feathers even more. "It's short and skimpy and red. As in ready. Ready for bed."

Fiona looks ready to pitch a fit. Or a milkshake. Imogen reaches over and plucks the cup out of her hand, just in case.

"Okay, so Bianca gave me a… garment," Imogen mediates. "It's no big deal. It's just fabric."

"Sex fabric," Fiona clarifies.

Imogen chokes back a chuckle, imagining how that entry would look in her dictionary.

sex fabric: noun. fabric that precipitates and initiates sex.

"She gave you bedroom attire, Imogen," Fiona persists.

"At least she didn't give me bedroom eyes," Imogen reasons, hoping her giggle will be contagious.

But Fiona is immune. Whoever said laughter is the best medicine had obviously never met Fiona Coyne.

Bianca laughs, though, so at least it's spreading to someone. "Fiona, I think you'd better double check my reputation, okay? See, I'm only a threat to girls with boyfriends. But if it makes you feel any better, it wasn't a gift. It was a re-gift. Some loser gave it to me and I didn't want anything from him, so I gave it to Imogen. Like a token of friendship or whatever."

"Aww," Imogen coos. "Isn't that sweet, Fiones?"

"She is such a button," Fiona says, more in mockery than in agreement. But her face softens and her eyes brighten. "I'm sorry for getting so… passionate. In all fairness, I did give Holly J something similar, so if I can have that back"—she reaches for the milkshake—"I'll need something to wash down that chill pill."

Imogen relinquishes the cup. She doesn't have much of a grip on herself, either. "You gave Holly J what exactly?"

"It was nothing. Just a hand-me-down."

"So… you wore it first?"

Fiona shrugs. "Barely."

"Fiona!" Imogen harrumphs. "You gave her something you wore barely? Something that touched your naked body?"

"Please—spare me the Sapphic details," Bianca implores, looking a little woebegone.

"I wasn't naked when I was wearing it," Fiona flounders.

"I didn't wear what I gave her," Bianca points out, surreptitiously siding with Imogen.

"It was a parting gift," Fiona splutters. "Just something for her to remember me by after she graduated."

"Like a token of friendship?" Bianca supplies.

"Yes! Thank you."

Imogen seethes, even though she isn't really irate, just irrational. But not in a bad way. In fact, she feels vaguely tense—and weirdly relaxed.

"Let me see if I can clear this up real quick," Bianca intervenes. "Fighting is a way of releasing pent-up sexual energy. See, you're not so much bothered as you are hot and bothered. Case in point"—she points to where they're still connected—"normal people do not hold hands and lock horns at the same time."

"Did you hear that, Imogen?" Fiona beams. "We're not normal."

Imogen brims with pride. "I know! Isn't it marvelous?"

They giggle and they kiss, nose-to-nose, and in that brief bit of friction, Imogen feels their signature spark. "So… this argument's over?"

Bianca rolls her eyes. "Duh, dummy."

"Okay, good. I'm glad we're in harmony about that."

"Yeah, I don't speak Care Bear." Bianca yanks the milkshake out of Fiona's hand. "Now would you please go ahead and finish making up? I don't have all day."

"Okay," Fiona says, and guides Imogen into her arms, until they're embracing so tightly, they're practically wearing each other.

They kiss, mouth-to-mouth, and Imogen's whole body takes note, each tingle mingling with the next in a symphony of sensations.

When they first started dating, Imogen was reluctant to kiss Fiona in public, especially off school property. She was afraid people would look and laugh and label her. Then she remembered that she could care less what people thought of her. And so she did—she cared less. And kissed more.

"Ew."

It's not like Imogen hasn't heard it before. And it only sounds slightly worse coming from someone else's mouth than it does coming from her own.

Bianca, a certified first responder, comes to their rescue. "You don't want to see my friends kiss? Then kiss off."

The recipient of Bianca's killer looks—and Imogen is allowed to notice these particular killer looks—is a teenage girl who's probably around their age.

"I'm not grossed out by your friends," the girl informs her. "I'm grossed out by the Boogeyman over there. See him?" She points past Bianca.

"The guy who's a little… nosy?" Fiona asks.

"And not in a Curious George kind of way?" Imogen elaborates.

"That's the one."

"Ew," the trio harmonizes.

"Yeah, that's what I said," the girl says, and smiles, shifting her shopping bag to her other hand. "And I'm gay, too, so I think it'd be a little unethical for me to be homophobic. Although would you mind waiting until I leave before you start kissing again? I'm newly single, so I really don't need to see that right now."

"Done," Bianca agrees.

When did she get promoted to smooch supervisor? Imogen wonders.

Apparently, the newly single girl is wondering the same thing. "You wouldn't happen to know any cute unattached girls, would you?"

"I'm engaged to be attached," Bianca replies, presenting the evidence.

"Lucky lady," the girl says, and her imitation smile wipes the grin off Imogen's face before it even gets there.

"Lad," Bianca corrects her.

"Just as I suspected: all the good ones are either taken or straight. Or both. All right, well, carry on, congrats, etcetera."

"Wow, Bianca," Imogen gushes when the girl is gone. She drapes an arm around Bianca's shoulders. "You are on everyone's I'd-Hit-That list. It must suck to be you."

Fiona looks like she's going to giggle, but Bianca has the last laugh. "I do give good headway," Bianca boasts, and demonstrates by putting one foot in front of the other, until she's progressed a considerable distance.

"She stole our milkshake," Imogen pouts, watching as Bianca disposes of their beverages. "I liked sharing with you." Fiona's dimple dents her cheek, and Imogen's heart knocks against her chest. Something else is knocking, too: opportunity. "While we're on the subject, um, of sharing, would you be… would you like to share a… a bed with me? Because I am ready, like really, really ready, to… experience you. Are you—"

"Absolutely," Fiona dittos without delay. Then, politely, contritely: "Sorry. I didn't mean to have such a… vigorous reaction."

Imogen rubs her nose against Fiona's. "I like vigorous reactions."

Fiona's blush brightens. "When? I mean, when would you like to… experience… me?"

Imogen considers the question. It's not a school night, but it was a school day. "Is tomorrow good for you?"

Fiona keeps her composure, but her eyes change color, like a mood ring. Like an I'm-in-the-mood ring. "Tomorrow is… yeah. Absolutely. Tomorrow is terrific."

Imogen grins, her head spinning like a pinwheel as she reaches for Fiona's hand.

The couple wanders around the mall, exchanging glimpses and giggles and intangible love notes. Every so often, Bianca glances over her shoulder, like she wants to make sure she doesn't lose them, and every time she does, Imogen and Fiona wink or wave or whistle, just to see Bianca do her darndest not to smile and—

"Enter!" Imogen commands, making a sudden stop. She steers Fiona into a toy store and Bianca trudges inside after them.

In her excitement, Imogen lets go of Fiona's hand and sprints toward a display of windup toys. Imogen plucks a plastic primate from a basket and proceeds to crank the knob in its side.

"Try not to get too wound up," Fiona cautions, as she picks one up, too.

"Monkey see, monkey do," Imogen teases. She sets her monkey onto the counter and squeals in delight as it performs a series of somersaults.

"You're bananas," Fiona giggles, looking similarly regaled.

"That's right. And I go ape over you."

Bianca mutters something that sounds like "Gimme one," so Imogen gives her one, and the three of them play together. Imogen loves reliving her childhood, but she can tell that Fiona and Bianca are living theirs for the first time.

Imogen focuses on Fiona's laughter. Her girlfriend has the kind of laugh that makes Imogen want to go running in the rain, splashing in all the puddles in her goofy galoshes and even goofier grin.

It takes a while for the excitement to wind down, but Imogen doesn't mind super slow speed when fun and games and a girl who's so stinking adorable she can't stand it, are involved.

They set out to explore the store, starting in the first aisle. Pink boxes with plastic people on one side, big boxes of bogus babies on the other. Girl stuff. Imogen smiles—not because of the sexist selection, but because of the song that's coming from the circle on the ceiling.

She recognizes it: an oldie by The Knack, probably a one-hit wonder, because she can't name any other song they've sung. It's not exactly kid-friendly, but she can make it work. She'll just have to tweak it a little, that's all. Personalize it.

Instinctively, Imogen grabs Fiona, catching hold of her wrists. "Ooh, my little pretty one, my pretty one. When you gonna give me some time, Fiona? Ooh, you make my motor run, my motor run—"

"And on that sour note," Bianca interjects, "I'll be leaving you two love birdbrains alone."

"What?" Imogen shouts. She doesn't need to shout. The volume hardly hinders conversation. But she's in a shouting mood.

Bianca makes like Drew and makes a break for it.

"Aww, look, Fiones—the third wheel is rolling away."

Bianca's wave morphs into a gesture that isn't a thumbs-up but should be.

"Turncoat!" Imogen taunts.

"Immy, they're gonna give us the boot," Fiona frets.

"Why? We don't work here. Anyway, you have enough boots."

"You're right—you are a big-time weirdo."

"Help!" Imogen shrieks. "I've fallen off my rocker and can't get up."

Fiona shakes her head, like she's found love with a hopeless case. Imogen gets giddy at the thought. She watches Fiona, who has the sense and sophistication to look scandalized, as if Imogen has just folded up the social ladder and forgot Fiona was on it.

She starts singing again, voice vacillating between shy and sweet and loud and proud. "Come a little closer, huh? Oh, will you, huh? Close enough to look in my eyes, Fiona."

Fiona does, and Imogen smiles when she detects the delight. She keeps her close, tipping her into an inelegant dip.

"Imogen!"

"Don't fight this, Fiona, or I will drop you like a sack of sorries."

At some point during the instrumental, while Imogen is swinging their joined hands back and forth, like one of those Kit-Cat clocks with the tick-tock tail, and Fiona has the rolling eyes to match, the store manager approaches. He's behind Fiona, and Imogen sees him first: a man with a white shirt, ponytail, and pointy nose—a combination, Imogen notes, that makes him look like a unicorn.

"Excuse me," the unicorn says.

"No, you may not cut in," Imogen informs him, pulling Fiona away.

"Girls, I'm going to have to ask you to give the horseplay a rest."

Imogen all but guffaws. "Check this guy out," she whispers to Fiona. "Not in a not-gay way."

Fiona looks over her shoulder. "Hi, sir."

Unicorn crosses his arms. "Close. Actually, it's 'Bye, sir'."

Imogen sighs, exaggerating her exasperation. "Let's go, Fiones," she chirps, dropping one hand but keeping hold of the other.

She belts out her parting words: "M-m-m-my Fiona!"

Let's broadcast it to the world.