#in the newest behind the scenes she's also wearing a triangle

[wendibird]

A Witch with a Sandwich on a Sandy Picnic

Summary:   Rowena decided a picnic was in order, and a certain exclusive golf course had a beautiful patch of sand just perfect for the occasion. Of course, ulterior motives were at play, and she and her Road Trip buddy, Charlie, were up to some mischief, but what does one expect from two fiery red-heads like them? Characters: Rowena & AU Charlie, (Sam mentioned) Ships: None explicitly stated (though if you DO ship Rowena/Charlie, it doesn’t outright deny it) Word Count:  1536 Cross-posted to AO3 at: https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/14961677   Author's Note: This is actually my response to the GISH puzzle challenge titled "We Put a Spell On You" where we were supposed to find any creative way we wanted to depict the answer to the riddle. The answer itself is the title of my piece, and what you see here is the result of me picturing a certain red-headed witch eating a sandwich at a picnic someplace sandy. It went through a few variations, (originally, it was MUCH more bloody, but, I figured present-day Rowena is trying to turn over a new leaf and all,) and I hope people enjoy it for the fun piece it's meant to be. (I also hope the PTB at GISH will accept this as my artistic rendering, since I kind of suck at drawing anything other than trees and rocks. *LOL*)

Also, this takes place sometime between the end of episode 13X22 and most of what happens in 13X23.

The sun which beat down with unrelenting intensity was reflected back up again by the bright sand and would have proven horribly uncomfortable for the ginger-haired witch if it weren't for the large, colorfully striped beach umbrella under which she lounged on a blanket. Just next to her was a little wooden table on which perched a cocktail, the glass beading with condensation as well as a small plate with tiny cucumber sandwiches, all de-crusted and cut into dainty triangles. 

She languidly selected one from the plate, her nails, the deep red of scabs, complimented the plum-colored dress she wore, and took a bite, savoring the cream-cheese spread used, seasoned with dill and a hint of roasted red-pepper. "Och, Peter, I must say, your chefs here are quite up to par." She then laughed a little at the unintended pun as Peter, a tall, tanned, dark-haired young man smiled in a manner that could only be considered solicitous.

"We all strive to do our best, Miss Rowena," he responded, bowing his head a little, the earpiece that had formerly been in his left ear now dangling from where it emerged from under his shirt collar. He had also loosened the straps on his utility vest which had SECURITY in large, white, block letters emblazoned across the back.

On Rowena's other side another man in security clothing waved a large fan towards the witch while a third man wearing the clothes of a golf caddy was busy peeling a small bowl of grapes.

A few others in various clothing ranging from security personal to caddies to waiters all seemed engaged in some task or another for the red-head.  Some fetched food, one was plumping a pillow behind her, and a middle-aged, somewhat plump man who was wearing expensive golfing clothes was quite busy giving her a foot massage.

From further off, yet another security man cautiously approached the sand trap on which Rowena had set up her little picnic, the brilliant green grass of the golf-course contrasting sharply with his black attire. He tilted his head a little as something apparently came to him over his earpiece. "Negative," he responded in a low tone, "still no indication as to why Jones and the others haven't apprehended the... security risk," he finished, not seeming too sure of what to call her exactly. "Moving in now."

As he drew a bit closer he paused, a look of confusion blooming on his face as he got a better look at the scene before him. "Um... the Senator has been located. He... uh... he seems... er... it appears he's giving the "security risk" a foot massage." He winced a bit as a sharp response came over the earpiece. "No, I am NOT making this up!" he loud-whispered. "Everyone else is accounted for. No one appears to be injured but... no one's... well, acting right. I'll try to move in closer to see if I can make contact."

As he indeed moved closer he crossed an unseen barrier, one formed by the 5 hex-bags Rowena had placed around her little beach oasis amongst the rolling fields of green, and his eyes briefly flashed with a violet light before his entire demeanor changed. Where before he had been tightly wound, like a cat stalking its prey, he now relaxed, holstering his gun as a somewhat vague but happy smile spread over his face. When the voice on the other end of the earpiece continued squawking at him, he simply pulled it out as the others before him had done and continued walking towards the sand trap at a leisurely saunter.

Rowena looked up, lowering her sunglasses a bit to better appraise the newcomer approaching them. "Well, aren't you a tall drink o' water?" she observed of the man who flashed her a cheery grin. "Why don't ye help Julio over there with the grapes?" she suggested as she gestured towards the shorter man.

Nodding, the man hopped down into the trap and walked over to Julio who moved over just a bit to give the other guy room. Just then, the distinct tones of "Scotland the Brave" jingled from her little clutch-purse and with a world-weary sigh, Rowena retrieved her phone and answered. "Yes Charlie dear, everything's going splendid. Have ye finished with all your computer-y mumbo-jumbo yet?" She waited as the voice on the other end of the line chattered away for a few moments. "Excellent! I'll just wrap things up here and meet ye at the rendezvous in five minutes."

With that, she ended the call, dropping her phone back into her clutch purse. Seeming to know what she wanted, the Senator had already started putting her glitzy, bronze-looking sandals back on her feet, and once that was done, she beckoned Peter over who gave her a hand standing back up again. The one who'd been fanning her set about retrieving the blanket and after he and another shook the sand from it, they folded it up carefully. Julio and the newest addition to her appropriated "staff" eagerly presented her with the bowl of peeled grapes, which she happily took, along with the blanket which was draped over her other arm. Someone else had already collapsed the beach umbrella and now they handed her that too.

Seeming satisfied, she fished a 6th hex bag out of her clutch-purse and muttered an incantation. Everyone who'd been under her spell all started yawning before apparently deciding it was a great time for a nap and began laying down wherever they stood. Once everyone was down and out she dropped the hex bag and said a few more words in Latin and that one, along with the five others arrayed out around her burst into flames. She then sauntered away, heading for a gap in the fencing through which she'd entered the golf course in the first place.

Waiting just on the other side was a little yellow Prius with the hatch already popped open. After depositing the blanket and umbrella inside, she closed it and went around to the passenger side, climbing in. Extending the crystal bowl of peeled grapes to the other red-head, she removed her sunglasses and quirked an eyebrow, smiling mischievously. "Well, that went well."

Charlie giggled and happily plunked one of the grapes into her mouth before hitting the gas. "Definitely! I was able to hack into ALL of that douche-bag's tech he had with him. His phone, his tablet, his laptop. You would not BELIEVE the things he's kept on that, by the way."

Rowena sighed happily and enjoyed one of the grapes herself, leaning her head back as her co-conspirator rattled on.

"I got his passwords for his porn subscriptions, especially the VERY illegal ones, texts between him and his mistress, his account info for the rather expensive escort business he patronizes regularly, not to mention all the e-mails talking about the bribes for this, that, and the other-" Rowena made a shushing gesture as she finished chewing a grape.

"Yes, yes, I get the picture. Lots o' dirt on the filthy blighter... though, I will say he gives a good foot massage, but now what are ye goin' to do with it?"

Charlie grinned as she reached over, taking another grape herself. "Already done. While I was still connected to their server, I uploaded it to several news outlets as well as a bunch of online forums. That way if they try to trace any of it, it'll just lead back to the golf course. Which, by the way, is owned by our supreme ruler-in-chief."

Rowena just smiled as Charlie got them onto the freeway, heading for the open road. "So..." Charlie hedged a little, "Your distraction sure seemed to work. No one even noticed what I was up to. But, everyone's okay, right?"

Rowena rolled her eyes a little but nodded. "Don't be worryin' about that. None of em'll remember a thing, and no one got hurt. They're all takin a nice nap, and should be wakin up..." she took a moment to consult the gold, locket-like pendant watch hanging around her neck, "eh, in about five more minutes."

Charlie smiled with relief. "Good! Cause, they're all just-"

"Doin' their jobs." Rowena finished for her, chuckling a little herself. "I know, I know. Trust me, Samuel already gave me "the talk" before you an I left."

Charlie nodded emphatically. "So... what's next on our itinerary?"

"Ah, I don't know." Despite the attempted bored look she was affecting, mischief glinted from the witch's green eyes. "There's a certain Orange Baboon that could stand to be taken down a peg or two from what I hear."

Charlie grinned. "Oooo... Secret Service. You're actually gonna make me flex my muscles on this one."

"Practice makes perfect m'dear." Rowena sing-songed. "I have my witchery an' ye have yours. An clever witches can make strange magic happen in the world."

Charlie titled her head a bit, a contemplative look on her face. "Does this make me a technomancer?"

Since Rowena wasn't quite sure what that was, she just chuckled and popped an Enya CD into the player, and the ladies drove on towards the next destination on their extended adventure.

[theofficialcunt]

Adore walks in on Courtney and Bianca making out, Bianca goes after her (during this Courtney excuses herself and leaves to let them sort shit out) and Bianca tries to explain herself to Adore/ say this wasn't what it looks like... it somehow ends with Bianca and Adore smut lol

Well this definitley ended in some smut, so I hope you enjoy!!! This turned out to be a little more angsty then I anticipated. I also really like how i wrote Courtney in this one (I think I’m getting better with her characterization, lol). TW: Sex. Enjoy ✨

Adore was anticipating it.

But she never thought it would happen like this.

It was no secret that Adore, Bianca, and Courtney had a cat vs mouse relationship. Except it was a giant fucked up love triangle, not just a game of cat chasing the mouse.

Anyone within a 50 mile radius knew Courtney had a thing for Bianca. The way she liked to slyly mention her name in her livestreams, or throw her name out there randomly during her shows. She even talked about Bianca to her friends in Australia, and would occasionally gush to random fans on twitter about her. Most people wrote it off as admiration, but Adore always knew there was something more.

Because Adore used to do the same thing. When Bianca first won drag race, she would constantly repost her club appearance posters and encourage her fans to go see her. She would make any excuse to take a selfie, or a stupid video of them dancing together, and would even crack a joke or two.

Bianca would do the same for her, always posting about how proud she was of her music videos. At one point, their instagram and facebook feeds were full of pictures of the two of them together - which probably made Courtney feel left out, but Adore didn’t care. For the first time ever she had made friends, real friends that wouldn’t hesitate to tell her when she looked like a complete idiot.

Maybe that was why she had respected Bianca so much. She always told Adore whenever she looked like shit, or was embarrassing herself, without caring about upsetting her ego. Bianca really did her best to look after her; unlike the majority of people nowadays who will say they’ll tell you when you’re doing something wrong - but really anticipate your next fuck up more than Lindsay Lohan’s next DUI.

But Adore lost all respect for Bianca tonight.

She was walking down the narrow hallway backstage, after finishing up her last song - I Adore You. The infamous “biadore” song, as some of her fans called it. She would never confirm or deny it.

She had been so excited to see Bianca too.

She swung her dressing room door open, whistling happily to herself but then stopped dead in her tracks when she observed the scene in front of her.

Bianca was sitting on the dirty black couch in the corner of the room, their suitcases still ajar from earlier. Clothes spilled lazily out of them, piling onto the floor in a heap of sequins and tulle. The soft light from the vanity’s on the opposite side of the room illuminated her face softly, giving her red wig the appearance of melted bronze cascading softly down her chest and over her shoulder.

Her face was cupped by the sunkissed hands of Courtney Act, equally as beautiful in a white blonde wig that was lazily thrown in a messy updo. Her cheeks were perfectly pink, contrasting beautifully with the austrailian flag dress she was wearing.

Their lips, mashing together in unison - were now coated the same shade of candy apple red that Bianca usually wore.

And Adore was crushed.

Bianca pulled Courtney closer, tugging on the small of her back. Courtney gasped, clearly surprised by Bianca’s assertiveness.

Of course, she thought bitterly. How could she not see this coming? Courtney had liked Bianca just as long as she had. They both lived in LA now, and Adore had been gone to Seattle for a year.

They always hung out. Courtney cooked for her, they hiked together, and Bianca would even style her wigs for her.

Why wouldn’t they be together? It was only logical at this point.

She hated herself for even thinking that whatever chemistry they had 2 years ago would still be there. They hadn’t seen each other more for then 24 hours in months. There wasn’t much to lust after if you can’t even give yourself time to deepen feelings.

For some reason, Bianca opened an eye and saw the raven haired beauty standing in the doorway.

“Shit.” Bianca muttered, pulling away as she wiped the runny lipstick off of her face with her sleeve.

“Why’d you stop?” Courtney asked sultrily. She looked at Bianca whose eyes were locked with Adore’s, and then mouthed ‘oh.’

“Please, by all means don’t stop on my account.” Adore snapped, a little too bitterly. She went over to her vanity, grabbed the remainder of her makeup and threw it in her nearby suitcase.

“I, uh. I’m going to go grab a drink.” Courtney stammered awkwardly, standing up from the low couch and shuffling quickly out of the dressing room.

Courtney shut the door as she walked out and the room was silent. You could still hear her heels clicking backstage, until they faded away slowly. The room was thick with tension, with words unsaid. Adore felt like she was choking with how uncomfortable the energy was.

“How long were you standing there?” Bianca asked.

“Long enough.” Adore muttered, collecting the rest of her things. She bent down and zipped up her suitcase, propping it up so that she could drag it behind her.

“It’s not what you think.” Bianca sighed.

“Then what is it? Because you were clearly making out with Courtney.” Adore exclaimed exasperated.

She just wanted to leave. She wanted to cry herself to sleep and shove a slice of leftover cheese pizza down her throat. Adore didn’t want to hear about their love story, she just wanted to go home and wallow in her depression.

She should have made more of an effort to talk to Bianca. Hell, maybe she should’ve name dropped her on her newest single. Maybe that would have helped.

Adore should have just told her how she felt when they were on tour together.

Instead they drifted apart, and stopped talking to each other as much.

Instead, here she was - standing in a dirty dressing room frustrated and heartbroken.

The kiss kept flashing through her mind like a broken film reel. Courtney cupping Bianca’s face gently. Bianca smiling and moving her copper hair away from her face. Their lips locked.

Adore clenched her fists tightly, trying to stop herself from breaking down like an idiot in front of Bianca. She bit her tongue to prevent a sob from escaping her.

It was all just so pathetic.

“She kissed me, Adore.” Bianca murmured.

Adore nodded her head slowly, avoiding her eyes.

“I only kissed her back, because I was imagining it was you.” Bianca admitted, almost whispering it. She sounded scared, almost afraid to admit to herself that she had feelings for her.

Because it was scary. She was in the prime of her career, planning her third solo tour. She couldn’t let a relationship get in the way of that.

But she was in love with Adore Delano.

Adore, who was 14 years her junior, who had lost her dad and tapped out of drag race the second time around. Who lost weight, and changed her hair from red to black, and stopped wearing blue contacts so much,

She was too old to give a fuck anymore.

Bianca had a serious relationship end almost a year ago. She didn’t fully commit herself to it, which was why it ended after a short amount of time.

Roy had gotten his dick wet with trade over the last year. Rarely, but it would happen when he was desperate enough.

No one made her smile like Adore did. She could be so stupid, but in a sincere way that made her heart soar. She always felt so happy after hanging out with her, and her only.

Everyone else would drain her, always asking for advice on how to make it big, or for a picture, or an autograph. She’d find herself drained by the end of a long night out, even if it was just her and a bunch of Ru girls.

She never felt like that with Adore.

Thats what was it, she had realized. The common denominator was Adore. It had always been, ever since she met her on drag race.

She just couldn’t shake her.

And she was so tired of being alone.

“Y-you what?” Adore stammered, voice shaking. She sat down on the chair in front of her makeup station overwhelmed.

Bianca stood up, and walked calmly over to her side of the room.

“I’m tired of lying to myself, and to everyone else around me. I’m tired of being in dead end relationships. I’m in love with you, Adore.” Bianca said gently, moving a strand of her long dark hair out of her face and behind her ear. “Whether you wear bright red hair, or ripped tights, or band t shirts. I love you.”

Adore didn’t realize she had been holding her breath, until she sighed happily. Relief struck her right in the chest, as she realized her feelings were reciprocated.

The great Bianca Del Rio was in love with her.

Bianca waited patiently in anticipation for her answer, her eyes flickered from her clasped hands in her lap to Adore’s face impatiently.

“Oh right, sorry man! I love you too Bianca.” Adore exclaimed, grasping B’s tanned hand.

Bianca giggled, she was amazed that Adore could turn a confession of love into something more lighthearted.

“You’re amazing.” Bianca murmured, leaning in.

Adore smiled and met her in the middle, lips touching for the first time. Suddenly, Adore was the one pushing Bianca’s hair out of her face. She sunk her thumb into her dimples, smiling as she rubbed it softly over the indentation.

The energy shifted and Adore became even more desperate for Bianca’s touch. Standing up, she grabbed Bianca by her dress and pushed her lightly into the chair she was just sitting in.

Straddling her, she lifted up her plaid skirt revealing a very much untucked cock ready for action. Bianca felt her throat tighten at the sight of it as Adore adjusted herself on her lap.

Bianca clasped Adore’s ass firmly as she crushed her lips against hers all over again. She slapped it, eliciting a surprised gasp out of Adore. She always loved Adore’s plump ass, and would do anything to spread her cheeks like butter.

Almost as if Adore read her mind, she threw her long raven hair gently into her suitcase.

“It’s expensive, I can’t trash that wig.” Danny muttered as he pressed his lips to Bianca’s.

Undoing the intricate pins, Bianca released her sweaty head from her elaborate hair piece. Her wig was made up of 3 hair pieces or more, which was proving to be a pain in the ass as she struggled to undo it all.

“Here.” Danny giggled, lending a helping hand. Swiftly, he managed to neatly remove the remaining bobbi pins and laid the wig neatly on the makeup station.

“Thanks.” Roy smiled shyly, pulling Danny back into his lap.

The kisses became more frequent, more of a desperation behind them as they tugged at each other. Roy growled as he pulled Danny’s skirt down harshly, throwing it to the side of the room as he caressed his ass.

Danny moaned, tearing Roy’s shirt off and pulling him up. As they stood in the middle of the room together, they tore each others clothes off frantically touching each other as if it was the last time they would ever see each other again.

Danny was naked, with Roy.

And it felt so good.

“This is room is disgusting, but I don’t even care. I need you inside of me.” Danny whined.

Roy pushed him playfully against the filthy black couch in the corner, towering over the usually taller Danny.

“Enjoy this moment, it’s the one time you’ll tower over me.” Danny mumbled.

Roy cackled loudly, his signature laugh echoing around the hollow dressing room.

“God I missed that laugh.” Danny smiled, looking up at Roy with adoration in his eyes. Roy smiled softly, his brown eyes smoldering into Danny’s green.

Grabbing the lube from his nearby suitcase, Roy slathered his cock in it generously. He then poured a tiny amount over his two fingers, making sure they were saturated before slipping them in between Danny’s soft cheeks.

Danny gasped at the contact, then adjusted himself so that he was more comfortable. Roy pumped his fingers softly inside of him, exploring gently around his walls. Danny bucked his hips up, already ready to climax. He had been wanting Roy inside him for so long, it was almost too much to wrap his brain around him being inside of him.

“Not yet baby.” Roy growled, releasing his fingers from his ass.

“Ugh.”  Danny groaned frustrated.

“Patience my princess.” Roy whispered huskily. He lowered himself, pressing the tip into Danny’s ass slowly.

Danny moaned and his body shuddered with anticipation.

This was really happening, Danny thought. For the first time in his life, he felt whole. Roy gently grabbed his cheek and kissed him as he pushed himself further inside. Danny groaned with intense pleasure, feeling his stomach fill with butterflies as he gazed into Roy’s eyes.

Roy had never let his guard down like this. Usually for him it was a quick fuck and he was done.

But Danny was different. He was always different.

Roy could gaze into Danny’s green eyes for hours. He could get lost in the different shades of green, he loved to dive straight into them like he was looking at a multi colored meadow.

He pushed softly, and watched Danny’s facial expressions change from content to euphoria all within a few minutes.

He decided to finish him up, and began pumping quicker and quicker. In return Danny arched his back higher and higher and began to moan loudly. His nails raked against Roy’s back as he finally lost control and orgasmed. A stream of thick hot liquid hit Roy’s stomach, and he released inside of him shortly after before he pulled out.

Danny held Roy in his arms as they both regained their composure. They were both sweaty and hot, and probably looked horrible from all of their melted makeup on each others face but neither one of them cared.

“That was amazing.” Danny finally said after he caught his breath.

“I agree.” Roy said sleepily.

Suddenly, a loud knock at the door broke them out of their bubble.

“Can you guys stop smashing so we can go get food? I’m starved!” A drunk Courtney Act yelled from the hallway.

Roy and Danny shared a look of annoyance before smiling.

“Well, duty calls. Are you going to explain this to her or am I?” Roy asked.

“You can.” Danny smiled, blowing a kiss at Roy.

“I guess that’s fair.” Roy smiled, blowing a kiss back at Danny.

Leave it to Courtney to bring them back to reality.

[krissysbookshelf]

Enjoy An Exclusive Sneek Peek Of: Dress Codes for Small Towns by Courtney Stevens!

As the tomboy daughter of the town's preacher, Billie McCaffrey has always struggled with fitting the mold of what everyone says she should be. She'd rather wear sweats, build furniture, and get into trouble with her solid group of friends: Woods, Mash, Davey, Fifty, and Janie Lee. But when Janie Lee confesses to Billie that she's in love with Woods, Billie's filled with a nagging sadness as she realizes that she is also in love with Woods...and maybe with Janie Lee, too. Always considered "one of the guys," Billie doesn't want anyone slapping a label on her sexuality before she can understand it herself. For Billie—a box-defying dynamo—it's not that simple.  

LEARN MORE

  THE SHORT PART before PART ONE

  That’s the way things come clear. All of a sudden. And then you realize how obvious they’ve been all along. — MADELEINE L’ENGLE , The Arm of the Starfish

  NINE YEARS EARLIER

Three-hundred-year-old oaks were good for two things: hiding from playground fights and kingdom-watching. Billie McCaffrey climbed skyward and settled into a sprawling fork to observe her classmates. Over by the four square concrete slab, Janie Lee Miller sat cross-legged with her nose in a library copy of A Wrinkle in Time. Across the field, Woods Carrington was campaigning for a kickball game. Just below, two third-grade boys, Mash and Fifty, fought over a fourth-grade girl in blue bows and light-pink sunglasses. Other boys swung from the monkey bars while a herd of girls huddled, giggling and happy, around the adults. Their teacher, the center of the girls’ commotion, was dressed in a plain denim jumper and wore a bouquet of smiles. She produced from an ugly black handbag her newly awarded Corn Dolly. “Ooooh,” said the little girls. “Ahhhh,” said other teachers, who asked if they could hold the doll. They treated that decorated corn husk like Billie’s daddy treated a Bible.

Billie oooohed and ahhhhed like everyone else, her voice barely above a whisper. No one even glanced up.

Before the end of that school year, Billie had learned from her daddy that if she wanted friends, she couldn’t stay in tree forks. So she stopped climbing up, up and away, and befriended every boy in her grade by either brute force or voodoo charm. Woods, Billie’s new best friend, claimed it was her kickball skills. By God, that girl could kick a ball farther into Mr. Vilmer’s cornfield than anyone in the class. Even the most competitive boys loved her for it. The girls were a different story. They didn’t quite know what to do with her. And Billie didn’t know what to do with them.

Late summer brought water-gun fights, fishing at the quarry, and biking to and from the dam to skip rocks along the mirrored surface of Kentucky Lake. All this good fortune sparked a happy question from Woods.

“Hey, B, will you come to mine and Janie Lee’s wedding tomorrow?”

Billie chomped on an apple they’d smuggled from Tawny Jacobs’s orchard. Juice ringed her lips. “Do I have to wear a dress? ”

“Nah,” Woods said. “You’re my best man.”

After passing the last bite to Woods and wiping her mouth with her shirtsleeve, she considered his request. Seemed fair. Seemed important. “Sounds good to me,” she said, even though it sounded worse than awful.

“Promise? ” He looked concerned that she might go back to her tree-climbing, avoiding-everyone ways.

“Promise.”

She made the mistake of spit shaking. That night she asked her dad, “Will I go to hell if I break a promise? ” He’d assured her that hell did not work that way. But she didn’t know which way hell worked yet, so she tore up all the notes she’d written asking Woods not to marry Janie Lee.

The next day, Woods Carrington stood behind one of those sprawling playground oaks and wed Janie Lee Miller with a grape Ring Pop and a peck on the lips.

Billie wore her cleanest jeans and stood by Woods’s side.

She looked up to her old perch and thought this friend thing was very hard.

  PART ONE HEXAGONS ARE TRIANGLES

First say to yourself what you would be; and then do what you have to do. — EPICTETUS

  1

  I’m waffling on my tombstone inscription today. Elizabeth McCaffrey, born 1999—d. ? R.I.P.: She found trouble. Or. Elizabeth McCaffrey, born 1999—d. ? IN LOVING MEMORY: Trouble found her.

“This is a bad idea,” Janie Lee tells me. Which is her way of saying we’re going to get caught.

“We will not be contained by a grubby youth room and pointless rules,” I reply.

Janie Lee peers down the hallway. There’s no sign of my dad, but her expression indicates she’s voting for retreat. The dingy carpet beneath her feet is patterned with repeating arrows that all point the way back to our assigned sleeping room.

I tickle-poke her in the ribs. She giggles and leans into the tickle instead of away. “I’ll protect you,” I tell her.

That’s enough prompting for her to skitter down the hall with me—two handsome thieves on a wayward mission.

We stand in front of a door labeled Youth Suite 201. It’s 3:12a.m. Janie Lee is wearing a sweet pink sweatshirt, flannel pants, and UGGs, which always make me ugh. I am wearing a camo T-shirt, jeans I stole from Mash last weekend, and combat boots that I found at a local army surplus. Clothes I can sleep in. And, well, clothes I can live in.

Elizabeth McCaffrey, born 1999—d. ? IN LOVING MEMORY: She died in her boots.

I perform the prearranged triple knock.

Davey props open the door, and behind him the rest of our boys offer various greetings. He’s the newest of the gang and we’re all still learning him. There’s an awkward pause while we work out whether we’re supposed to fist-bump or shoulder punch or hug. I up-nod, and that seems to be acceptable enough for him to duplicate.

I turn my attention to the rest of the room. I’ve just noticed that Einstein the Whiteboard is leaning against the mini fridge when something hits me. It’s Woods, tackling me to the decades-old carpet.

“Hello to you, too,” I say from beneath him.

He licks my face like a Saint Bernard and then pretends to do an elaborate wrestling move that I don’t evade. (Even though I could.) Without warning, a two-person dog pile becomes a six-person dog pile. Davey hesitates, then lands near the top. He must be learning us a little. Boys really are such affectionate assholes. I am crushed at the bottom and Janie Lee is half-balanced on top of Davey’s back.

“Love sandwich,” she mouths at me.

It is. It’s not. It’s more. Labeling and limiting something as big as us feels somewhat impossible, but usually we call ourselves the Hexagon. On the account that sixsome sounds kinky and stupid.

“Up! We’re crushing Billie,” Woods says, because he’s always directing traffic.

Fifty farts in Davey’s face in a momentous fashion, and just like that, the jokes begin and the dog pile ends, boys sprawling onto the two couches as if it never happened. I digest the scene as I slouch against the door. Boys. My boys. I’ve been collecting them like baseball cards since third grade.

Woods. He’s not pretty, but he’s stark and golden and green like a cornfield under noon sunlight. Tennis shoes; low-cut, grass-stained socks; ropey calf muscles; blond leg hair; khaki shorts; aqua polo; and an unmatching St. Louis Cardinals hat tamping down floofy blondish-brown curls: he is these things. He is so much more. I know exactly what he’ll look like in thirty years when he’s sitting on our porch drinking peppermint tea.

Davey, elfin and punkish in smeared eyeliner, sits next to his cousin Mash, who looks nothing much like him. Fifty always appears a bit smarmy, and tonight is no exception. His dark hair is oily and he hasn’t shaved in a week. Janie Lee sits slightly apart, cross-legged and petite in a papasan chair. She takes up about as much room as a ghost. Then me. Knees up. Chin up. Happy. Taking their mischief like the gift that it is.

Some lock-ins are for staying up all night and playing shit-tastic games. This one is for parental convenience. The youth group is cleaning up Vilmer’s Barn tomorrow—early prep for the upcoming Harvest Festival—and Dad didn’t want to run a shuttle at six a.m. Tyson Vilmer, barn owner, patriarch of Otters Holt, grandfather of Mash and Davey, will be there waiting with his enormous smile and incredible enthusiasm. Despite the fact that we were supposed to be in separate rooms and asleep by two a.m., I am pretty damn excited to help. Two a.m. bedtime was wishful thinking on my father’s part. We are not true hellcats, but the Hexagon is particularly bad at supposed to when we’re all under one roof.

The other four can’t decide who will open the meeting: Woods or me.

I copy Dad’s southern drawl and say, “Let’s start with glads, sads, and sorries and then say a prayer.” They all laugh, except for Davey, who hasn’t been to enough Wednesday night Bible studies to get the joke. I gesture to the writing on Einstein the Whiteboard. “Dudes and Dudette, I predict this lock-in ends poorly.”

Woods will hear nothing of my prophecy. Einstein is among Woods’s favorite things on the planet—a medium-sized board that technically belongs to the youth group but practically belongs to him. Woods developed leadership skills in utero, and he thinks in dry-erase bullet points. Currently, Einstein says: THINGS TO DO WITH A CHURCH MICROWAVE. Five bullets follow, and most of them look like a one-way trip to a stark-raving Brother Scott McCaffrey, my father.

In the bottom corner, someone has drawn a sketch of a Corn Dolly being lifted on high by a stick figure. They’ve labeled the stick figure Billie McCaffrey, which makes me label them all idiots. The joke is so old it has wrinkles.

A Corn Dolly is only a corn husk that has been folded and tucked and tied into the shape of a doll. In the town of Otters Holt, the mayor handpicks this husk on the morning of the Harvest Festival, which is an annual event the town treats like Christmas-meets-the-Resurrection. The dolly is then assembled and bestowed during the middle of the Sadie Hawkins dance to the most deserving woman of the year.

Hence, the joke.

“Ha. Ha. Ha,” I say, slow clapping.

Woods is positive THINGS TO DO WITH A CHURCH MICROWAVE is suitable 3:15 a.m. material. “You say ends badly. I say ends brilliantly,” he says.

Fifty has an opinion on the matter. “The only thing farfetched is Billie actually winning a Corn Dolly.” He laughs at himself. Too hard. We are often forced to forgive this failing since his facial hair allows him a fake ID, which allows us the beer that comes along with that privilege.

I’m eye-rolling. “You asshole.” Just because it’s true doesn’t mean he needs to say it.

Fifty stands up as if to challenge me while Janie Lee buries her face in the nearest pillow and reminds us that teenagers don’t, won’t ever win the Corn Dolly—Gloria Nix, twenty-three, was the youngest.

I wave Fifty forward with both hands, ready to wrestle him down.

“Back to Einstein,” Woods announces before Fifty and I go for a real row. This may have happened a time or two in the past.

“Back to Einstein,” everyone, including Fifty, choruses. The merriment rises to previous levels.

“This microwave thing.” I point to the first bullet point: Cook Pineapple Bob. “I do like it.”

Woods is beaming proudly. “He’s had a good life.”

I agree. Pineapple Bob is, well, a pineapple. Frozen these three years in the youth fridge. Named by yours truly.

“We’ll burn down the youth room,” Davey replies. He doesn’t say it in a distressed way. It’s more of an FYI. Like he’s maybe done something like this before. I’ll light fire to that backstory eventually and smoke out some truth, but right now, it’s all Bob, all the time.

The youth room microwave is from the eighties, black as coal, and built like a tank. No doubt donated by some senior church member who moved to assisted living. Its smell is a mix of baked beans, ramen noodles, and burnt popcorn (with the door closed). So if we properly execute bullet point number three (Melt 50 Starlight Mints), its condition will drastically improve.

Janie Lee laughs nervously, her UGGs bouncing against the wicker of the papasan. She’s sipping hard on some vodka–wine cooler concoction Fifty has made. I give her a little fist-bump love for showing initiative. On both the rebellious drinking and the microwave. She doesn’t offer me a drink. I don’t need alcohol; I get drunk on schemes.

We begin.

The first three steps are disappointing. Pineapple Bob pops pretty loudly, as does the handful of Monopoly houses and hotels we’ve stolen from the game closet. The Starlight Mints have to be scraped off the microwave walls. It’s more eventful when Mash pukes up wine cooler on a half-eaten bag of Twizzlers.

“Come on, man,” Fifty says. “I wasn’t done with those.”

“You okay?” Janie Lee comforts Mash, which is pointless. Every group has a hurler: he is our hurler. He is used to puking. She is used to babying him. They are a very good team.

“Shhhhh with the upchucking,” Woods orders.

Woods and I turn our attention to step four, which is seeing How Many Peeps Is Too Many Peeps? The answer: more than forty. It’s messy and delightful.

Woods and I clean, reload, and move on to bullet five. Fifty moves on to more vodka. Typical. Step five involves boiling a used sock—Woods’s, because he has the worst-smelling feet—in Dad’s newly purchased World’s Best Preacher mug. Two minutes in, we’ve got gym smell and no action. It’s a little anticlimactic to be bullet five.

As we watch the mug-and-sock do its nothing, Woods says, “In basically three hours we have to be in the barn.”

Fifty lifts his head from a plank position on the floor and says, “In three hours, we could be walking Vilmer’s Beam.” This makes Mash throw a blanket over his own head. Everyone is tired of hearing Fifty bellow about walking the loft beam in Vilmer’s Barn. It was a dumb dare in fifth grade. We’re seniors. We’re over it.

I say, “I hate mornin—” and the sock catches on fire.

“Heck, yeah!” Mash says, too loud, and then laughs.

Janie Lee says, “The other room!”  Because there is a group of our fellow youth snoozing in Youth Suite 202.

The fire is small—barely more than a magnifying-glass-on-grass sort of spark—and entirely worth the four steps that came before it.

“Hot cup of sock, good sir?” I ask in a British accent.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Woods says, reaching for the microwave door.

Davey sits bolt upright. “Do not—!”

The moment Woods opens the door, the small fire becomes a larger one. The mug rockets out of the microwave and explodes on the carpet. The fire—well, most of the fire— lands on a fuzzy blanket. The flames poof. Woods snatches the other sock—the one whose mate is now ablaze—and beats at the fire. He only fans the flames.

We are all screaming. There is more fire. More sparks. Both shoot out of the microwave; the antique appliance dismounts the counter and lands on the carpet with an explosive bang.

I imagine my father sitting up down the hall, scratching his head, lifting his nose toward the ceiling, sniffing. A yell gathers in his throat.

“Give me something to beat it out!” I shout, and Mash laughs so hard that he vomits again.

“Puke on the fire, man,” Fifty says.

Davey shucks his jacket; Janie runs into the bathroom and returns with a damp towel. The jacket is working but not fast enough. Janie Lee throws the towel over the whole mess in a big Ta-da-I-will-fix-this fashion.

The fire is suddenly enormous.

“Was that the towel off the floor?” demands Woods as Davey rolls his eyes and says, “I’m calling 911.”

Janie Lee shrinks from Woods’s tone, nodding furiously. There’s commotion in the hallway. The counter, where the microwave previously sat, is also on fire. The alarm begins a high-pitched wail and the sprinklers descend from the ceiling as if they are Jesus in the second coming. We are all getting soaked as Woods yells, “We used that towel to mop up vodka!”

It’s hard to tell what is fire and what is smoke and what is microwave, but incredibly, I see the toe of the sock that started it all. Dad is going to kill me.

“Time to peace out,” Davey says, gesturing toward the exit.

The fire alarm continues to pierce our eardrums. Woods throws open the door to the hallway. “Abandon ship!” he shouts gallantly. Always directing traffic. He’s glistening with sweat. We all are, but he’s glorying in it.

Mash throws last week’s bulletin onto the fire before heading to the hallway. Fifty gives the wall a pound and yells, “Wakey, wakey. Church’s on fire.” Davey issues me a long look. He’s got some I told you so in those eyes. I’ve got some I know, I know in mine.

I grab Janie Lee in her sweet pink sweatshirt and UGGs and drag her behind me into the hall. She’s as soaked as the rest of us and not wearing a bra, and that’s gonna be a problem when we hit cool autumn air.

I think: I didn’t mean for all this to happen. I also think: I effing love Einstein the Whiteboard adventures. I have a moment of true fear when Woods plunges back inside the youth room. Before I even have time to process this, he reappears, coughing, and says, “Help me, Billie.” He darts into the smoky room again.

In I go to rescue Woods, who wants to save his precious whiteboard. Einstein is too near the fire. The edge is already melted, and I assume too hot to touch. “I’ll get you another one,” I promise him.

Not what he wants to hear. I drag Woods away and shove him toward the back stairs.

Around us, kids are evacuating. They’re carrying phones and sleeping bags and pillow pets. Two sixth graders are getting on the elevators while Fifty screams at them, “Take the stairs! Didn’t you learn anything in kindergarten?” A very familiar form is swimming upstream against the evacuees: Brother Scott McCaffrey. My tired and scared and angry father frantically counts everyone he sees. He flings opens doors, yells, moves to the next room. Precise words are impossible to hear over the fire alarm. But as I watch him check Youth Suite 201, I see he’s putting two and two together.

Likely conclusion: where there’s smoke, there’s Billie.

Janie Lee and I quick-walk toward the exit. She pulls me against her and says right in my ear, so I hear it over the noise, “Billie, I think maybe I’m in love with Woods!”

“Jesus,” I say, and hope it counts as a multipurpose prayer.

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