Her ears were already hung with tiny pearls. I bet if I scratched them against my teeth, they’d turn out to be real. She touched an earring self-consciously, like she could hear my thoughts. “I got these done with an ear g*n when I was seven,” she said. “My mom told me that she would give me ice cream if I didn’t cry, but I cried anyway.”
“And you want more holes because you think pain will distract you from all the annoying celebrating? Or because stabbing me will make you feel better?”
“Something like that.” She smiled enigmatically, went into the bathroom, and came out with a wad of cotton balls and a safety pin. After setting them down on top of the minibar, she pulled out one of the tiny bottles of vodka. “Go get ice from the machine.”
“Don’t you have friends—I mean, not that we’re
