“I’ll pay you back.” No, you won’t.
“No, you won’t.” Smart girl.
“You’re right. I won’t.” I peered around and caught him flash that cocky smile at her. “What? At least I’m honest.”
“Why don’t you go ask one of your whores?” Damn.
“Because none of them love me as much as you do.”
“That stupid grin might work on every other female in this school, but you know it won’t work with me, so forget it.”
“Sarah, you know you’re going to give it to me, so come on.”
Sarah. I smiled. I couldn’t help but appreciate the absolute perfection of the name; bland, common, and wholly unoriginal. Best of all, it means princess.
She exhaled loudly and I leaned around to see her digging in her purse. Seriously? She’s going to give him money? He’s better than I gave him credit for. Maybe I just gave her too much credit. My self-respect may not be off the charts, but hers must be nonexistent. She took out a twenty-dollar bill and shoved it at him.
“Here. Just so I can get you to leave me alone.” He grabbed it and started walking away, but not before she yelled after him, “If you don’t pay me back, I am so telling Mom!”
Mom? Oh.
That little revelation was fun, though it does make me wonder if my observation skills are failing me. Did I really miss that? My brother, Asher, and I used to bicker with the best of them, but our animosity threshold was several levels lower than theirs.
I toss the last of the newspapers back on top of the pile and return to the computer, trying to come up with anything else I can do online to kill time. I’m not on Facebook or anything else anymore, so there’s no point in that. I could torture myself by using Asher’s name and passwords to check up on people I used to be friends with, but I decide against it. There’s isn’t anything I want to know.
The lightning is flashing incessantly outside the window, taunting me every time it lights up the sky. My phone is on my bed, whispering in my ear like a bottle of scotch to a recovering alcoholic, while the rain continues cackling at me through my window. I may actually be desperate enough to go out in this weather. I need to run that badly. More jumping jacks. Lift some weights. More push-ups. Lift more weights. I may not be able to get a treadmill in here, but a punching bag I think I can manage, even if it’s just one of those portable ones. I don’t think Margot will let me hang a heavy bag in her living room, but I’m not that picky. I’ll take anything I can hit right now.
Cookies. I need to bake cookies. It’s the next best thing to running. Not really, but I do love cookies and I don’t like the shit that they sell in packages, which is what Margot buys. Oreos are acceptable. Because they’re Oreos and no matter what you do, you can’t replicate them. Trust me on this one. I’ve spent more than a few days in my kitchen, trying to do just that. It’s never going to happen. So Oreos get a pass, but factory-sealed chocolate chip cookies that are shelf-stable for up to six months are another story. Life really is too short for that. Believe me, I know.
I rummage through Margot’s kitchen and I have no idea why I’m surprised that she doesn’t own any flour or baking soda or baking powder or vanilla or just about any ingredient that could possibly be required for baking. I do locate some sugar and salt, and miraculously, a set of measuring cups, but that won’t get me very far. I resolve to head to the grocery store this weekend. I won’t make it long without cookies. Or cake.
I give up, eat half a bag of jelly beans, leaving the black ones because they suck, and head to the shower to wash the shit that was this day off of me. I have a riveting conversation with myself while letting the conditioner set in my hair. I talk about my crap schedule. I tell myself about the unfortunate irony that is my music class and wonder if that tops the ridiculousness of Speech & Debate. I ponder, out loud, whether any female in the school, student or teacher, is immune to the charms of a certain blond named Drew. Then I answer—ME. Oh, and Sarah of course, though he seems to be able to badger her into submission. I have these conversations periodically, just to make sure my voice still works in case I ever want to use it again. Returning to the world of the vocal was always the plan, but some days I wonder if I ever will. Most of the time, I don’t have much exciting news, so I repeat names or random words, but today was noteworthy, so it warranted full sentences. Sometimes I even sing, but I save that for the days when my self-loathing is at peak levels and I want to hurt myself.
I crawl into my bed, which is covered in a sage green floral-print comforter, just like the one in my bedroom at home. It was probably more my mother’s doing than Margot’s. I think she has trouble grasping the concept that I was trying to get away from that place, not bring it with me. I lift up the mattress and pull out the composition book I’ve hidden there. I’ll have to find a better place for it soon. The rest of them are in the back of my closet, packed in a cardboard box, underneath old paperbacks and my middle school yearbooks. The one in my hands is black and white with the word Trig written in red marker across the cover. Like all of the others, the first few pages are filled with fake class notes. I grab a pen and I write. Exactly three and a half pages later, I slide the book back to its hiding place and turn off the light, wondering what fresh hell tomorrow will bring.
CHAPTER 5
Nastya
I live in a world without magic or miracles. A place where there are no clairvoyants or shapeshifters, no angels or superhuman boys to save you. A place where people die and music disintegrates and things suck. I am pressed so hard against the earth by the weight of reality that some days I wonder how I am still able to lift my feet to walk.
***
On Friday morning, the first thing I do is pick up my amended schedule from the Guidance Office. Ms. McAllister signed off on my teacher aide position for fifth hour, so I have now officially dropped Intro to Music, which means I get to spend that period making photocopies and handing out papers instead of wanting to bleed myself dry.
At this point, I’ve gotten better on the shoes, even though they’re too cramped at the front and my toes unleash a string of expletives at me when I put them on. I chose my second most appalling outfit for today’s endeavors – more black on black, because that’s really all I have anyway. I keep the thick black eyeliner, the red lipstick and the black nail polish. The stilettos, as always, are the exclamation point on an ensemble that screams Hideous! I am a slutty horror show. I think of pearl buttons and white eyelet skirts and wonder what Emilia would be wearing if she were alive today.