Page 95 of Vile Bastards
Liar.
On the inside, I’m panicking. I’m panicking because True is (at least partially) right.
Lemon did get caught up with the wrong crowd.
Lemon is dead and buried.
I am dick drunk.
But I wasn’t strangled to death by my own fallopian tubes: I knew Lemon was in trouble. I tried to get her away from Aspen yet … With her last gurgling breath, she chose Aspen. Reached for Aspen. Wanted Aspen.
I grab True by the front of her jacket and heft her up, slamming her down on her back on the cafeteria table. Trays go flying, milk spills everywhere, instant oatmeal cups go flying. This girl’s got a quality crew, I must say. Even knowing they’re committing the Prescott High social version of hara-kiri, they come at me.
Widow moves as if it to interfere, but Nisha holds out a hand, keeping him back.
“Down, fuckboy. The Queen’s got this.”
She’s right: I do. There are only three of them after all.
The first chick to come at me needs to realize that contouring for the Gram isn’t the same as contouring in real life. This bitch is painted. I swing at her, a nice solid punch that’ll hurt but won’t break any bones. Remember when I punched Ash, and I said I knew just how hard to hit? I’m a pro at this.
Contour Girl stumbles back, holding her eye and howling while another one of them comes at me from behind, pulling out a handmade shiv (we like toothbrushes here at Prescott almost as much as inmates in the penitentiary do) and angling it at my back. I duck down and swing a leg out, causing Shiv Girl to stumble. I’m up and coming at her before she can recover, snatching her hoops in my fingers and giving them a violent tug.
She screams as the earrings rip loose, dropping the shiv in the process of slapping her palms over her ears. The third girl is smarter than the other two, helping True up from the table so that they can come at me together.
True grabs for my hair—I should really cut it off, it’s impractical—giving my braid a tug and yanking me back several steps. I use the momentum to spin, shoving at her chest and knocking her back into her third friend. They both slam into another table, spilling more food as the crowd gets riled up, cheering and screaming, throwing oranges and apples with soft spots that are donated to the school by a local grocer.
Fruit pelts Shiv Girl and Contour Girl as they both recover and try to box me in from behind. I hop up onto one of the table’s benches and then onto the surface, kicking a full carton of milk into Shiv Girl’s face. It explodes as her buddy climbs onto the table with me, and I grab her in a chokehold, swinging her off the surface and sending her sprawling onto the dirty cafeteria floor.
I didn’t get to be the queen of Prescott by playing games.
True’s slightly more intelligent friend—let’s call this one A-Cup because, well, you know—moves to the opposite side of the table, so that I’ve got one girl on either side. She swings a tray at my legs as True picks up the fallen shiv and tries to stab me in the thigh with it. I allow the tray to hit me, focusing on snatching True by the wrist. I yank her up, and she scrambles to climb on the table lest I throw her belly-down over the surface of it.
With us both on the tabletop, I grab her by the front of her jacket and walk her back into one of the tiled columns that borders this particular table. It’s covered in graffiti—mostly more Sharpie penises—and slam her against it. I throw another good punch, hitting her directly in the face. Blood leaks from her nose as she tries to claw me off of her, nails digging into my tattooed skin and drawing blood. Don’t care. I hit her again, pausing only briefly to kick out at A-Cup, nailing her in the chest with my boot.
I yank True forward and then spin, slamming her onto her back on the table’s surface, sending stale bagels (also donated to the school from a local bakery) spinning across the floor. Straddling her, I throw another punch, and then another, another.
The girl is groaning and clawing at me, but her friends have realized how futile this exercise in rebellion is. Normally, I’d take it easy on girls like this. After all, they know I’m graduating at the end of the year. I’m sure they were just trying to find their place in the world.
Normally.
But I’m not in a normal mood right now.
Evelyn is dead. Lemon is dead. I was dead.
“When I say”—another punch—“that Lemon is off-limits”—another—“I fucking mean it.”
The cheering stops, the crowd goes quiet, and then Widow is wrapping his arms around my waist and hefting me off of True. He sets me on my feet and puts his hands on my shoulders. I’m shaking all over, and I can’t stop thinking about Lemon. If I’d fought harder for her, would she still be here, cheering me from the sidelines? She was always so tiny and dainty looking, she was chronically underestimated. Yet … she’d jump into any fight to pull my fat from the fire.
