Page 4 of Dirty Chorus

“Have you ever heard of a rearview mirror? Or do you have a boyfriend who can talk to me?” I ask, with a bead of sweat skating down the side of my face. It came off douchier than I expected, but maybe my affirmations are finally working. I glare hard, and I can feel my eyebrows scrunching together. I make sure I win the unannounced staring contest, and the second she blinks several times, I allow myself to blink once.

“I’m sorry.” Trouble cups her hands together, holding them to one side, and she spins one foot around in a circle. That pose might work with her daddy, but not with me.

“That’s all you have to say?” I ask as the ball in my throat thickens.

“I really am...” She bats her long lashes at me.

I run a hand down my face to wash off my expression so she can’t read my emotions. “Are you sorry about the bathroom graffiti, too?”

“Okay, you should've asked if anyone was in the bathroom before barging in like you owned the place. Plus, I gave you my number.” There’s the eye roll and sass again. Good, now I have a reason to dislike her other than her friend hitting my truck.

“I scrubbed your number off my arm. You have a boyfriend. Remember?”

“Charlie, do you know him?” Her friend folds her arms.

“You remember when I said I met a guy?” Trouble leans into her.

The friend huffs. “I don’t wanna date anyone. I told you that.”

I step back, looking both girls up and down, and scoff.

“You’re kidding me. You gave me your number so you can hook me up with your friend?”

“Okay, and what if I did?” Trouble asks.

“Well, not only have you wasted my time scrubbing the stalls, but now I’m going to be buffing out the hood of my truck. I’m calling the cops.” I make a beeline to the driver’s side of the truck, throwing the door open and snagging my phone lying on the passenger seat.

“No, wait! Wait!” Trouble chases after me, leaping up on her tippy toes to grasp the phone in my hand. “I’ll do whatever you want! Just say the word!”

“No, I ain’t playing your games! You’re gonna be my thirteenth reason in my suicide note tonight!” My thumb hovers over the numbers on my screen.

“You’re not funny!”

“No, I’m hilarious! And it’s gonna be a real comedy show when the cops get here!”

“Please! Just say the word!” She extends her fingers into the air as if her five-foot self could steal the phone from my grip. She’s not even close to being tall enough to take me. “I’m begging you. My mom is going to kill me! I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll show you my goddamn tits!”

“You’ll what?” I raise a brow.

“I’ll show you my tits!” She reaches for the seam of her shirt.

I press my tongue against the inside of my cheek, and a brief laugh comes up. “Oh, yeah?” I ask, not that I wouldn’t mind being flashed by a pretty thing like her, but at the same time I’m not that big of a douchebag.

“Yeah...” she says.

“I’ll make you a deal. I won’t call the cops if you stop vandalizing the church. If I catch you with that damn Sharpie again, I’m gonna rat you out like a little five-year-old to that mommy of yours. Now hand over that marker!” I hold out my hand, giving her the motion to cough up the Sharpie because I know it’s in that purse of hers.

Trouble nervously laughs and walks backwards to her car, struggling to grasp the door handle. She flings open the driver’s side and with two hands she yanks her purse out, and it plops onto the hood of the Civic. She paws around what looks like pounds of makeup, gum wrappers, receipts, and whatever else girls hoard. Then she holds up the Sharpie caked with globs of eyeliner, mascara, and foundation smudges. She hands it over to me, and the second I take it, her makeup residue is on my palms.

“Give me your hand.” I use two fingers to motion to her, and she does as I ask. I pop off the cap, take her right hand, and start scribbling out my number.

“Call me sometime babe,” I mimic her girly voice from the other night and blink my lashes like a little preppy girl. Her mouth drops open as I push the cap back on the marker. I drop the Sharpie onto the asphalt below and walk back to my truck, getting in and shutting the door. Trouble stands like a statue, staring at the numbers on top of her hand as I ignite the truck’s engine to life, backing up and leaving.

Chapter 4

Charlie

“Just show me your phone!” I argue with Brody. So much for calling him my loving boyfriend. He combs a hand through his mopey, dirty blond hair. The air in his Camaro turns thicker than tar as his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.