You call the shots. You want to keep it clean. Methodically, and without telling Brittany, you lay down some ground rules in your mind.
Rule one. Not too often. Once a month, tops.
Rule two. No talking during. You shush her when she tries.
Rule three. No talking about it. No calling it anything: not sex, not even fucking, and definitely not making love. You relent for "sweet lady kisses," which sounds so medieval—and so Brittany.
It's not a rule that you have to do it in the dark, but you always do.
This summer is nothing like last summer. There's cheer camp every day except Sundays. It's brutal. Britt still sleeps over sometimes, but you're both so drained that you just fall into your bed and tumble together into a sleep so deep you feel like you blinked out of existence. You wake up spooning her but can't remember when or how you got there.
Meanwhile, you can't figure out whether you and Quinn are really close or whether you really hate her. The two feelings aren't separated by much, when you think about it. Britt's finally learning cruelty, the way you might pick up a language from living in a country where they speak it. You can't decide whether you're proud or disappointed. At least you can gossip at your sleepovers—which now include Quinn.
So what's going on with you and Puck? asks Quinn, filing her nails as Brittany twists your hair around strips of rag. It took her forever to plead you into letting her, but you're enjoying the feeling of her fingers on your scalp as she sections off each future curl.
What do you mean, going on? I just sleep with him.
Quinn looks at you with that tight mouth that means she's judging you. Aren't you ashamed of just throwing around your body like that?
You shrug.
You must like him at least a little, she persists. The way you sleep with him all the time. You must have done something right to make him follow you around and curl around your ankles like a stray cat. She glances at Brittany, who huffs as she unrolls the curl she's working on and starts it again from the ends.
Whatever. I guess I like him a little. You don't know why you say it, but it's the right thing to say. Quinn smiles, a little smug.
You do? says Brittany. San, you never told me that. Fuck it all, Britt. You want to tell her to keep her mouth shut.
Quinn looks from you to Britt, from Britt to you. She must be wondering why you said it now when you don't talk about it with your best friend. But she lets it go.
Anyway, I think you guys should join the celibacy club I'm starting next year.
I don't believe in celibacy, you snort. It's for gay monks.
Why are you starting a club for a city in Florida? says Brittany, and you ignore the look Quinn tries to shoot you.
I think you mean Tallahassee, Britt, you correct her gently. Celibacy means promising not to have sex.
Why would you want to do that? You can tell by her voice that Britt is frowning.
Don't you want to save yourself for your husband? For Jesus? Quinn wheedles.
Wow, you want to do them both at once? You love to fuck with Quinn when it comes to that Jesus shit. That's kinky, Q. I didn't think you were that kinky.
Brittany giggles. Quinn rolls her eyes so hard you wonder if they're going to burst against the top of her skull.
When the new school year starts, you and Britt join up anyway, since all of the Cheerios follow Quinn, and you know they'll call you sluts if you don't. Anyway, the other cheerleaders are fucking boys too. Hell, two of them made out with Brittany.
Truth be told, it's kind of hot. You have to give Quinn credit: she knows how to tease boys, which can be as hot as torturing them in bed. A skill worth developing.
Since Quinn has been at your sleepovers, you and Brittany haven't had any sweet lady kisses. Under the watchful eye of Quinn, you're afraid to sleep in the same bed and risk your reckless dreams.