When Miranda came out, Sibby had wedged herself in the window with her body and legs outside the car and her rear hanging back into it, and was deeply involved in kissing a blond guy.
«Excuse me,» Miranda said, tapping the guy on the shoulder.
He turned around kind of hazy, looked her up and down. «Hello, dream girl. You want a kiss, too? I could do something really special with lips like yours. You wouldn't even have to pay me a dollar.»
«Thanks, but no.» Looking at Sibby now. «I thought we'd agreed that-«
«-my butt would stay in the car. Where, if you bothered to look, you would see it is.»
Miranda turned away so Sibby wouldn't see her crack up.
She handed Sibby the doughnuts and slid into the driver's seat. Once Sibby had wiggled back through the window, Miranda caught her eye in the rearview. «You were paying guys to kiss you?»
«So what?» Sibby glared. «Not all of us can get kissed for free.» More glaring, then, «You barely have boobs. My boobs are bigger than yours. It makes no sense.»
Sibby got quiet, not even eating her doughnut. From time to time she'd sigh dramatically.
Miranda started feeling a little sorry. Maybe she had been acting like a grandma. She looked at How to Get-And Kiss-Your Guy on the seat next to her. Maybe you're jealous she's four years younger than you but has already kissed more guys in one day than you'll probably date in your whole life even if you get a boob job and live to be two trillion.
Shut up, U-Suck channel.
She should be nice, make conversation. «How many kisses is it total now?»
Sibby kept her eyes on her lap. «Ten.» Looking up to add, «But I only paid six of them. And one of them I only gave a quarter.»
«Nice work.»
Miranda saw Sibby look up suspiciously, like she thought she was being made fun of, decide she wasn't, and start picking at her doughnut. After a while she said, «Can I ask you a question?»
«You're asking permission now?»
«For real, just please stop trying to be funny. It's painful.»
«Thanks for the hot tip. Did you have a question or-«
«Why didn't you want to kiss that boy back there? The one who wanted to kiss you?»
«I guess he's not my type.»
«What's your type?»
Miranda thought of Deputy Reynolds-blue eyes and cleft jaw and shaggy blond hair, getting up every morning to go surfing. The kind of guy who always wore sunglasses or looked at you with his eyes half closed and was too cool for smiling. Then pictured Will with his dark, maple-syrup-color skin, short curly hair, huge boyish smile, and abs that rippled when he stood talking, shirtless, with the other players after lacrosse practice, body glimmering in the sun, his laugh ringing out and making her feel like she felt when she saw butter melting on perfectly cooked Belgian waffles.
Not that she routinely jumped up onto the roof of the marine biology lab when no one was looking to watch this. (Weekly.)
«I don't know, it's more a feeling than a type,» Miranda said finally.
«How many boys have you kissed? A hundred?»
«Uh, no.»
«Two hundred?»
Miranda felt herself blushing and hoped Sibby couldn't see. «Keep guessing.»
They pulled up to the address she'd been given, an hour and fifteen minutes later than they should have, the first time she'd ever dropped a client off late.
When Miranda opened the car door for her, Sibby asked, «Is kissing a boy who's your type really different than kissing just any boy?»
«It's complicated.» Miranda was surprised at how relieved she was that she wouldn't have to go into it more, admit to this girl that, actually, she had no idea.
The place looked more like a government safe house for witnesses than a home, she thought, walking Sibby to the door. It was like the dictionary definition of nondescript, sandwiched between a house with Snow White and the Seven Dwarves enacting the Nativity on the front lawn on one side, and one with a pink-and-orange swing set on the other. The only thing you noticed about this house was that there were thick curtains hanging in the front windows so you couldn't see in, and a six-foot-tall solid wood fence blocking off the backyard so you couldn't get in. The street was filled with noises-Miranda heard BBQs sizzling, conversations, someone watching Beauty and the Beast in Spanish-but this house was silent, as though it had been soundproofed.
She registered a low humming coming from the side, like an air conditioner but not quite. Glancing up, she saw that none of the power lines connected to this house. None of the phone lines, either. A generator. Whoever lived here was living off the grid. All in all, the whole place was really cozy, if cozy meant creepy and cultish.