Page 69 of Vile Bastards
I think.
Hope they don’t notice the wardrobe malfunction, eh?
“I’m weird?” I ask Basti, pausing in the hallway just outside the classroom. “You once made a three-minute compilation video of yourself licking thirty-two different flavors of ice cream, knowing exactly what sort of attention that video would garner on the internet. I am not the weird one.”
“Which is exactly why I’m still a virgin, and my cherry buddy abandoned me for greener pastures aka farm-fresh, homegrown Prescott dick.” There’s a pause there where Bastian mulls over whatever it is that he wants to say, letting his brown eyes swing back to mine. “Is it as good as they say it is? Prescott cock?”
“Better.” I hate to admit it. I even purse my lips, but I can’t lie. Prescott pussy is widely known to be the most choice of all pussy. And Prescott cock, while not quite as famous, I have to admit is under-hyped. “Hey.” I pause there, and the atmosphere gets weird and heavy all of a sudden, the way it seems to do whenever anything regarding Lem is brought up.
I miss her so suddenly then that I can’t breathe, that I feel the urge of a panic attack coming on. I put one hand up on the locker beside me and force myself back to a state of … well, not calm because Widow just left me covered in his seed in the school library, but something akin to a lukewarm chill.
“Yeah?” Bastian knows who and what I’m about to discuss. He deflates like a balloon, reaching up to adjust his baseball cap. “Just say it, Scar. What is it about Lemon that you want to know?”
“Any news from the club?” I ask, and he offers up a slight shake of his head.
“Not yet, but I’m bound to hear something. It’s just a matter of time.” He looks back at me, and swallows hard, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure if he should.
“You’re not hooking, are you?” I ask, fear spiking through me.
He gives me a look.
“I told you that I wouldn’t, didn’t I?” he asks, all saucy and snappy, and normal enough that I heave a sigh of relief. If he were, I’d know it. He’d get that glassy, empty look in his eyes that they all do when they succumb to the pressure and the promises, only to realize that it’s all bullshit. There is nothing good or worthwhile to be gained there. I don’t allow my girls to take up that sort of paid trauma. It’s much safer and mentally healthy to rob rich men at gunpoint. And that isn’t sarcasm; I’m not being facetious. “I want to tell you something about Lem.”
My chest tightens again, but I breathe through it, even as a bout of sudden tinnitus starts up in my ears, and I remember her bloodied face from my near-death experience in the hospital.
“Okay?” I wait there, the dirty clothes tucked under my arm, my heartbeat so loud that I can barely hear the chatter of a pair of girls waltzing down the hall past us. They both wave, and I offer up a mirthless smirk and a wetting of my lower lip that makes them titter. I don’t feel any of it; it’s just for show. “Tell me, Basti, before I lose my goddamn shit.”
“Right after she moved out of her aunt’s place, she called me and asked if I could go check the dumpster at the trailer park.” Basti stares at me, and I stare right back at him. “She said she threw some stuff away in anger and felt bad about it; she wanted me to see if it was still there.”
The box that Ash brought me.
The sleeping bag.
“Why couldn’t she go look herself?” I whisper back, my voice hoarse. Bastian shakes his head and offers up a shrug as he tucks his hands into his jean pockets.
“I don’t know. All I know is that I went there, and I didn’t find anything. When I told her that, she cried. She felt sick over it, Scar. She felt really bad about all the things that she said to you …” He trails off, and then we’re both just standing there in this thick, heavy silence that churns my stomach. “I promised not to tell you, but since she’s gone now …”
“The Care Bears sleeping bag wasn’t in the dumpster?” I ask, and Basti offers up another head shake in response.
“You know how that place is. People go through the trash there all the time, looking for stuff. Somebody probably took it to use.” He’s right. I know he’s right. Anything a homeless person can use—a sleeping bag, a tent, a camping lantern, a bicycle—is the first to go from a front porch or an open garage or yes, a dumpster.
