Spark (Elemental 2)

She hated these girls. Hated them.

But sometimes she desperately wished she were more like them.

Especially lately.

“I’ll come,” she said. “Seven?”

“We’ll come,” said Kara.

“Great,” said Taylor. “Bring something sweet, ’kay?”

Layne ticked down the minutes until her father would walk in the door. Another late night, as usual. She’d called to tell him that she and Kara were going to a friend’s house down the street, and he’d promised to be home before they left.

She and Kara had baked chocolate chip cookies, and they sat on a plate, covered in saran wrap. Kara was actually being nice for a change, and for the first time, Layne wondered if this was what a friendship was supposed to feel like: laughter and teasing and baking cookies.

Simon was upstairs, locked in his room. He’d worn a different shirt home from school, and when she’d tried to ask what his problem was, he’d given her a pretty universal sign of displeasure.

Kara was licking the spatula. “Are you seriously going to wear jeans and a turtleneck? To a party?”

Layne shrugged. “I think you’re showing enough skin for both of us.”

Kara was, in a spaghetti-strap top and skintight denim capris.

The pants were a little too tight, but Layne didn’t feel like opening that can of worms.

Kara dropped the spatula into the sink. “I have no idea how you got one of the Merrick brothers’ attention.”

“Me neither.”

“You don’t have to show skin to look sexy, for god’s sake.

What if you wore tights and a skirt? You could even keep the turtleneck.”

Layne hesitated.

Kara grabbed Layne’s hand and started dragging her toward the stairs. “At least try.”

Kara fished through Layne’s closet with abandon. Most of the clothes were older, grade-school stuff.

“Here!” She yanked out a pleated black and red plaid skirt.

Layne made a face. “Please. I used to wear that in fifth grade.

To church.”

She had. With her parents. They’d gone as a family, sitting together. Then they’d all go out for brunch. Everyone would smile and look happy.

What a joke.

“That means it’s perfect now,” said Kara. “Do you have black tights?”

Layne did. She wore them under her riding breeches in the winter.

She took a breath. “I don’t think ”

“Just try it. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t like it.”

So she tried it, in the bathroom, where Kara couldn’t see her change. The black tights were opaque; not even a hint of flesh peeking through. The skirt was short, almost indecently so. The pleats barely covered her backside. But the black tights made it less hooker and more . . . playful.