Steamed

suspect?
    Josh thought my father’s crabfest story was hysterical. “You want me to make you soft shell crabs? This is your last chance before the season’s over.”
    “That would be wonderful. Ade and I love soft shell crabs. But Owen has some sort of seafood phobia that dates to a bad shrimp he ate ten years ago. He hasn’t eaten anything that’s lived in the ocean since,” I said apologetically.
    “No problem. I’ll make him something else, and you girls can have soft shells, okay?”
    According to BCGSSW’s policy on avoiding nonsexist language, girl was an unacceptable term for someone over the age of eighteen. Suggested nonsexist terms included female adolescent and woman. Obviously, You adolescent females can have soft shells wouldn’t do at all. You women can have soft shells? Possibly. But for really good soft shells, I’d have been willing to tolerate even egregiously sexist language, particularly because Josh, however manly, struck me as more boyish than as adolescently male, and his use of “girls” was clearly intended to convey affection.
    “I don’t want to be a bother...” I started.
    “Stop. I want you to have anything you want on Friday.” Hm. Double meaning there? I hoped so.
    We hung up and, even though I had a full day ahead of reading about the atrocities of the health-care crisis in this country, I did a happy dance around the kitchen.
    On Friday, Adrianna showed up precisely at three. For a minute I thought she might be going out of town: she had a three-piece luggage set with her. I looked at her questioningly.
    “Supplies.” She smiled. She lugged the suitcases into my room and started unzipping them. “Now, I wasn’t sure what you’d be in the mood for, so I brought a little of everything.” I sat down on the rug as Ade began showing me various outfit options for the night. Even though she was skinnier and leggier than I was, she wore her clothing even tighter and shorter than I did, so her things usually fit me well enough. “Okay,” she said. “Strapless black knee-length dress?”
    I shook my head violently. “Not unless I want to be flashing my boobs at Josh while he cooks.”
    “So, we’ll save that for your next date?”
    “Ha-ha. Keep going. And nothing white. You know I’ll spill food on myself.”
    We ran through a few more outfits before we settled on a stretchy, short-sleeved pale green top and a matching short skirt with tiny flowers.
    “Now we’re highlighting your hair,” she announced. “Your roots are disgusting.”
    I could always count on her for honesty, if not for tact. Adrianna spent the next hour weaving chunks of my hair into completely unflattering foil sheets. “If my hair turns green, I’m going to kill you,” I threatened.
    “Shut up. I’ve done this a million times. Besides, would I ever make you look like a freak? It would reflect badly on me.” She giggled and continued to torture me.
    When she’d finished glopping on the vile-smelling chemicals, I stood up and looked in the mirror. Aluminum foil stuck out all over my head. “This was not at all what I was going for,” I moaned pitifully. With my luck, Noah would show up at the door any moment and I’d have to answer it like this.
    “Then don’t look in the mirror until I’m done.”
    Within an hour, the foil and glop were gone. So were the dark roots. As if by magic, I had snazzy highlights in my red hair. After I’d showered and dried off, Ade blew my hair out. Twenty-five minutes of yanking, I was done. As she rubbed a defrizzing serum through my smooth style, she said, “It’s a tiny bit humid out tonight, and I do not want you frizzing up. Now,” she ordered, “start your makeup while I get dressed.”
    I turned on the oldies station while we finished beautifying ourselves. I listened to Adrianna sing along to “Don’t Pull Your Love (Out)” and was satisfied to realize that she was completely tone deaf. Ha! One thing she wasn’t good at!
    When she’d finished getting dressed, I said, “You don’t look like yourself.” She had on the kind of boring, conservative outfit she never wore—gray dress pants and a long- - i sleeved, button-down white shirt—and her newly brown ; | hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. I should have felt insulted. “I know what you’re doing,” I said, “and you don’t need to. I’m not worried about Josh trying to pounce on you.
    I want you to look like you again. Wild and hot. Okay?”
    “This is your