Worth Telling

When Foster picked me up there was a boy in the backseat. He was a slightly more miniature version of Foster, backwards baseball cap and toothpick included. Foster introduced him as Jones, his younger brother by two years.

I threw my head back in laughter; tousling the curls that Luna (with all her beauty school knowledge) had spent an hour burning into my long, dark hair.

“What’s so funny?” they asked me as we sped down the road.

I was still laughing, tears were pricking the corners of the cat eyes that The Baby had meticulously drawn on with onyx liquid eyeliner. “You both have last name first names and you look like clones,” I laughed some more.

“Huh,” Foster said. “Last name first names? I never noticed.”

Jones leaned forward, into the front seat. “I’m much more handsome than he is.”

Then he stared straight down my (practically nonexistent) cleavage.

“Don’t be perv, Jones,” Foster said, pushing his brother backward with one hand.

“You know,” I put on the know-it-all voice that I used to correct teachers at school. “Women will be more likely to sleep with you, if you acted like you took interest in something other than their bodies,” I said like I knew anything about sleeping with anyone.

Jones blushed. Then he tugged his cap around and over his eyes.

Foster sniggered. “I just thought of something that’s actually funny…I’m in the car with Indiana and Jones. Indiana Jones. Get it?”

We all burst into laughter.

“Just don’t take us to the Temple of Doom,” I said.