Page 94 of Vile Bastards
“Girl, it’s fifty degrees out,” Nisha remarks, taking in my black crop top with the keyhole cutout. It ties all cute in the front, but yeah, it’s cold. I won’t lie about that. She’s dressed more appropriately for the weather in a long, black coat with a turtleneck underneath, her pants a glitzy gold that catches the morning light. “Whatever. You wanna freeze your tits off? I’m not your mama.” Nisha looks over at Widow as he approaches, offering him a tilt of her chin before she turns back to me. “Rumors about Lemon are all over the school today. Not sure what sparked it all of a sudden, but you gotta get in there and beat some ass.”
“It’s that time of year, eh?” I ask with a heavy sigh. This happens on occasion, lil’ bit of rebellion. Could be because of Lemon’s ‘disappearance’. Could be because Widow is shaking up the social order. Could be any number of things, but hey, I’m used to putting out spot fires before they turn into a blaze.
First thing I do is slip out of my—well, Widow’s—jacket, and toss it over to him. Even though I just put my shades on, off they come, and I’m cursing and squinting at the light as I pound up the front steps.
I pass through the metal detector, holding my hand out to Officer Cum-for-Brains so that he can hand me my knife.
“What the hell’s happening?” Widow asks Nisha as the three of us breeze past Bohnes. He offers up a little wave, dressed in a trench coat with an umbrella perched on one shoulder. He knows what’s up. He couldn’t give a rat’s ass what goes on in Prescott politics which is why he’s never bothered to try for the position that Widow wants. He just isn’t interested in it, but he supports me which I appreciate.
I’m a little early today—Widow’s one of those people—so I head straight for the cafeteria where all the Prescott brats gather to eat the shitty free breakfast that’s handed out to low-income students (read: all Prescott students).
I shove my way through the swinging doors, plastered with stickers of unknown garage bands, gang symbols of students long-past, and penises. Lots and lots of Sharpie-drawn penises. Couple of tits and vulvas in there, too, which is impressive since vulvas are hard as shit to draw.
The room goes silent, and several of my crew members stand up.
I pause in the center of the cafeteria and let my gaze drift across the gathered students. Mrs. Robins is the teacher on-duty, but as soon as we make eye contact, she books it with her nineteen-year-old lover in tow.
“Who wants to talk about Lemon?” I ask, looking around. It only takes one ember to spark a fire, you know. “I hear there’s talk?”
“Your bestie is dead and buried, but you’re running around collecting fuckboys,” a girl with short blue hair says, standing up from her spot on one of the nearby benches. She’s a sophomore. Pretty sure her name is something androgynous, but not cool androgynous like Bernie or George, more like Apple or Geo. “We all know she ain’t just missing.”
I blink at her a few times, the hush of the room feeding into my quiet rage. My girls are on standby, but it’d be social suicide for me to let them handle this mess. I have to do this. I have to keep Lemon’s name out of the mud even if I couldn’t keep her body out of it.
Holy shit, that’s dark.
A panic attack threatens, but I can’t let these people see it. No, no, not people but wolves.
Prescott High is a den of rabid wolves, foaming at the mouths, hungry for blood.
“Name.” It’s not a question. I want to know it before I kick her ass.
“That’s True.” It’s Nisha that answers me.
Right.
Of course the girl’s name is True. What did I tell ya?
I move across the room while Widow stands there with his hands clenched, amber eyes sweeping the crowd, just waiting or the opportunity to jump in. He won’t get a chance. I get this shit done, and I do it quick.
“You think I don’t know where my girl is, True?” I know I shouldn’t really be picking on this girl’s name seeing as my bestie’s nickname was Lemon, and I’m dating guys named Widow and Bohnes, but eh. I’m gonna do it anyway.
“Actually, I don’t,” True retorts, getting right up in my face. She has more pins on her jacket than I have hairs on my head. They’re mind-numbingly stupid ones, too. I won’t even bother to regale you with the things they say; it isn’t worth either of our time. “I think your girl got caught up with the wrong crowd, and you’re too dick drunk to—”
I don’t freak out. I don’t break a sweat. I’m not even mad.
