Page 6 of Darling Venom
The voice was familiar, but I didn’t let myself hope, because if it was her, I was definitely hallucinating.
Then there was silence.
I wanted to jump.
I hadn’t come this far only to come this far, so to speak.
I hadn’t chickened out. But I was curious to know what she’d do next because…
Well, because she’d just walked into a shit show.
The person behind me spoke again.
“Crass doesn’t sell hoodies. They’re anti-capitalism. Nice brain fart, dude.”
Dafuq?
My head bolted in her direction.
It was her.
Holy hell, it was Charlotte Richards in the flesh.
With the thick chestnut bangs and big green eyes and emo anime attire. Which was basically American-porn attire. Kilts and AC/DC shirts and knee-high socks under Dr. Martens.
She was not a popular kid, nor a hermit. But she had this air about her. I don’t know. She made me want to get to know her.
Pacing toward me on uneven shingles, she shoved her fists into her jacket. “You made this hoodie yourself? That’s lame.”
I pretended to ignore her, hurled the empty beer can into the dark jaw of the school’s backyard, and grabbed a fresh one from my backpack, cracking it open.
It pissed me off that she’d called me out on my bullshit, even if I was crushing on her.
People our age were too dumb to know British anarchist punk bands from the seventies don’t sell merch.
But of course, I had to go and want the one chick who actually had brains.
“Can I have one?” She plopped down next to me, hugging the chimney with an arm for security.
I blinked at her.
Nothing about this situation rang real to me.
Her being here.
Talking to me.
Existing beside me.
She must have known that I was a social pariah. Nobody spoke to me at school… or out of school, for that matter.
And I didn’t mean that as a figure of speech.
I wondered how much she knew about my circumstances. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t l
ike I’d date her or even deal with her tomorrow morning.
That’s the beauty of quitting life—you don’t have to hand in a notice.
