Pretty Reckless
Yup, I think. That would be me.
While you were worried about me
I fucked your friend from cheer
She gave me a BJ and a beer
I still hate you, make no mistake
And would love nothing more than to see your pretty neck break
I kick the small pile of cigarette butts aside and light a new one.
Technically, I was supposed to quit smoking by the beginning of senior year. Coach Higgins threatened to kill me if he found out I broke that promise. But technically, I will no longer be playing football or get to lead my team as captain, seeing as I have nowhere to live—not even a car—so school is definitely not a top priority right now. Getting a full-time job, on the other hand, is. Now it’s just a matter of finding out which bridge I can crash under until I scrape together enough to pay for a motel.
Happy fucking birthday to me.
The thing about living on the wrong side of the tracks is that your friends live there, too, and they all have a good excuse why they can’t take you in. They’re too poor, their places are too small, or their stepdads are also dicks. Boo-fucking-hoo. Still beats my current situation as I sit on a stair leading to Rhett’s front porch with my duffel bag, in which he packed all my worldly possessions.
I shove my bag to the side. Light as a feather.
I let the lit cigarette dangle between my lips as I scroll through the contacts on my phone. Glass half full: I’m so worried about where I’ll sleep tonight, I don’t even feel my swollen face, cut lip, most likely fractured rib, and growling stomach.
It’s the little things in life and so forth.
Crashing at the Ortiz girl’s place again tonight is a big, fat no. For one thing, her parents are coming back from their Caribbean vacation. For another, sleeping my way to a roof over my head is bullshit. Not the actual fucking part, obviously. Just the feeling like a whore portion.
I’m just about to hit the call button on Kannon’s name—his parents have a backyard shed—when a brand-new Range Rover rolls to the curb and stops in front of me. I don’t lift my head. It’s probably Rhett’s boss collecting drug money. I hear the driver’s door open, and five seconds later, a woman in a floral sundress and mud-colored hair is standing above me, staring at me through huge sunglasses. The kind that makes chicks look like flies.
“Can I help you?” I squint up, billowing a cloud of smoke directly in her face just to be a little fuck. It’s high time I justify the pet name Rhett gave me.
“Unlikely, but I can help you. Grab your things. You’re coming with me.” She takes her sunglasses off and looks at me as if she’s been waiting for this moment her entire life or something.
I slant my head, gliding my eyes along her body. What the fuck is her deal? I probably ask it out loud because she actually answers.
“We met once. My name is Melody Followhill. I was your sister’s ballet teacher. My daughter told me your mother passed away yesterday.”
She then tells me that she is sorry for my loss. That she understands it seems out of left field, but she always loved my twin like she was her own kid, blah, blah, blah. Bottom line: she lost Via, and she doesn’t want another Scully kid to fall through the cracks.
What a fucking saint. Mother Teresa—right behind you.
A lot of things are going through my head. The first one being I don’t need her pity. The second one is that, technically, I do. The third one is I hate her daughter and taking anything from her family would feel a lot like selling my soul to the devil. The fourth is living under no roof is going to suck even more ass than sharing a house with Satan. Fighting shit is my MO right now. It’s in my system. I trust adults just a little less than I trust a drunken, crystal meth-using gambler. When given an offer or opportunity, I always look for the minefields. This woman can’t blaze into my life with her expensive ride and save my ass without expecting something.
“Mrs. Followhill, have your children ever gone missing at the mall or in a park?” I call her Mrs. Followhill because if I inherited one thing from my runaway crazy-ass grandma, it’s good manners.
“Of course.”
“How long did it take you to find them?”
She pauses before she answers because she knows where this is going. I lift a questioning eyebrow.
“Twenty-five minutes,” she admits. “The worst half hour of my life.”
“Then it suffices to say you didn’t love my sister like she was your own. She’s been missing for nearly four years now, and your ass showed up only two minutes ago, making grand announcements like a presidential candidate.”
“Four years.” She looks around her, drinking in the torn chain-link fences, cracked concrete, and boarded windows. “You still don’t know where she is?”
After the truancy officer poked Mom, Rhett finally came up with a story about Via moving in with my dad. It’s an interesting angle, considering no one knows where he is, least of all Via. Rhett went as far as faking a shit-ton of paperwork. Then he proceeded to beat my semi-unconscious mother for recklessly giving birth to kids she had no intention of raising. “As motherly as a stray cat,” he spat in her face while tromping his way out the door. The fact was, Via disappeared with zero repercussions from the system, thanks to Mrs. Followhill’s daughter. And me.
“Take a wild guess.” I flash her a sardonic smile.