Page 121 of Vile Bastards
Nobody bothers me again.
After school, I drive back to Emma Jean’s, sitting in the Barracuda and opening the box of strawberries. I had Scarlett’s friend put them back in the fridge for me, much as the idea of that bothered me.
They stare accusingly up at me. I do love chocolate-covered strawberries. My mother used to make them with me when I was a child, and we’d eat them together while the chocolate was still hot, laughing and dripping everywhere. I never cared that my shirt was dirty with chocolate, that my face was smeared with it, that my mother and I would laugh until we were crying salty tears. Papa would come in, and he’d pluck a fresh strawberry from the tray, offering it up to my mother’s waiting lips. She’d eat it while gazing into his eyes, and I knew then that love was real and that it existed.
They had it. I want it. I’ve always wanted it.
I take one of the strawberries out, biting into it, and groaning in sadistic pleasure. Goose bumps break out over my body, and I find myself clutching my crotch, squeezing my hard cock through the fabric.
I’ve never tasted anything so delicious in all my life.
I eat the entire box, jack myself off into the panties—I’ve been handwashing them, of course—and head up to Emma Jean Thompson’s kitschy little apartment.
“Oh good, you’re here,” she tells me, standing up from her spot at the small, round dining table. I see an iPad, a laptop, and a notebook open to a blank page, just waiting. “I thought now might be a good time for you to give me your story?” Her eyes glimmer with eager excitement, and I curl my lip.
Right.
The sooner the family finds me, the better.
I won’t make it long in this pastel dungeon.
Scarlett
My mind refuses to acknowledge the horror of Thanksgiving until midday on Wednesday. I’m sitting on the school’s front steps, one of my girls blasting an old-school boombox while the others take turns dancing on the sidewalk. We call this a fuckboy fish.
Boys gather on either side of the front walk, clapping their hands and bobbing to the music. If they like a girl, they have to get out there on the next song and dance with her. Obviously, I don’t participate. Last thing I need is another goddamn fuckboy.
We’re all wrapped up in oversized jackets, most of which are thrift store finds and give new meaning to the term vintage. The tan puffer jacket that Basti’s decked out in came from his great uncle’s box of effects. Ya know, the sort of depressing boxes they give out at care homes after somebody dies.
It’s that sort of vintage.
Frosty clouds drift in the air as I exhale, putting my face in my hand and trying my best to control my temper. Won’t lie. I’ve had a few fits today. I threw a girl’s breakfast tray at the wall for mentioning instant cream of wheat, the kind with fucked-up freeze-dried peaches in it. Because Lemon liked instant cream of wheat with fucked-up freeze-dried peaches in it.
That sorta vintage, that sorta day.
The girls squeal as a boy jumps in and grabs Tuesday around the waist, the two of them grinding on one another as KMZI 66.6 blasts. We’ve all been listening to it nonstop, the fear of the station being shut down a miasma that taints the entire school—the entire neighborhood. Even my grandmother mentioned it this morning.
I can’t imagine Prescott without the station. Without the party house (the one that’s already been demolished). Without the speakeasy (set to be demolished). Without the Flesh and the Devil Music Hall (hasta la vista). Without the moonshiner tunnels (hello tourists). Without Friday and Saturday nights at the track (please don’t let us lose our car culture along with everything else). Without the Crimson Crew (even if I hate the name) and the title of Nightmare, without fuckboy fishes and quirky septuagenarian librarians and all the little special rachet-ass touches that make Prescott a haven as much as a hell.
What a bleak place it’d be. I’m sorry Stacey Langford, I think, because she’s the only middle schooler that I really know. One day, being queen of this school won’t be quite the diamond-in-a-pile-of-shit duty that it is now.
“It’s not all bad, Scar,” Nisha says, putting her hand on my shoulder and trying to shake me out of my funk. She knows what it’s about. Because tomorrow, she’ll drive an hour and a half north to Oregon wine country with her mom so they can spend the holiday with her wealthy aunt. The woman hawks gas money over so she can rub her fancy McMansion and her Range Rover in her little sister’s face. Never once helped out with rent, but hey, what’s Thanksgiving for if not to show off?
