“If I were you, I’d bail,” Vee said, her four-inch heels stabbing down the steps behind me. “That’s what I do whenever I find myself in a jam. Call Scott and tell him your cat’s coughing up mice intestines, and you have to take it to the vet after school.” “He was over here last night. He knows I don’t have a cat.” “Then unless he’s got overcooked spaghetti for brains, he’ll figure out you’re not interested.”
DANG VEE
