Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Maybe she liked the force. Some girls did. Whatever the case, she didn’t complain.
“Need a ride?” I asked her. “Beefer’ll be back soon.”
She shook her head and tucked her hand into the crook of Cesaro’s arm. “No. I’m going with Cesaro.”
“You sure? I could run you home.” I’d never offered that before, but giving her over to Cesaro didn’t feel right.
“She told you she’s coming home with me. Get your own bitch, Priest.” He said the word with a sneer.
I dismissed him. “Let me give Arturo a call so he knows where you both are.”
“He knows and approves. He’s happy that I’m with a man who can please me.” Mary turned her face into Cesaro’s biceps and laid a kiss against it.
I had no choice but to let them go.
I waited in the darkened restaurant until Beefer came back. I debated not telling him, but if it were me, I’d want to know.
In the end, I didn’t have to say a word. He’d walked into the restaurant, saw me sitting alone at the table in the stockroom and knew immediately.
“Mary came, didn’t she?”
I nodded.
He cursed. “I can smell her. She still wears that damn Gucci perfume I gave her all those fucking years ago.”
I didn’t know if I should apologize or sympathize or what, so I kept my mouth shut. Beefer closed his eyes, squeezed the bridge of his nose between two fingers, and let out a string of curse words. When his outburst was over, he gave me a sheepish look and asked me to drink a beer with him.
I tried not to look impatiently at the clock, but it wasn’t easy. He finally called it a day when the morning staff showed up to do the food prep. I ran home. Literally sprinted all the way home.
Next to me, Bitsy tenses and mumbles something in her sleep. Something like, “I’m not fuzzy” followed by “yours sticks up.”
“Shh, shh,” I whisper, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. She feels fragile under my palm.
She rolls toward me, her small fingers curving around my forearm. The tension of the night fades with her light touch. No, not for anyone would I trade my life with Bitsy. I place a hand over the top of her head and fall asleep.
17
Bitsy
Three years later
“Isn’t school in twenty minutes?” Leka yells.
I stare at my reflection and dab a little more concealer over the zits on my forehead. I hate zits. Sister Ruth at St. Vincent’s Academy for Girls tells me that it’s just hormones and I’ll grow out of it. I pointed out that most of the other girls in my grade have perfectly clear complexions and Sister Ruth’s suggestion was to pray about it. Given that half of my classmates spend more time on their knees blowing boys than praying, I highly doubt that a few Hail Marys are going to clear up my face.
This is not a tidbit that I share with Leka. He’d have an absolute cow. No, he’d have a herd of them.
After applying the makeup, I give myself another once-over. Blech. Now my bumps look like they have a tan. I toss the concealer into my drawer and head for the kitchen.
It doesn’t matter what I look like. Today, I’m going to mete out the first prong of my revenge. Mrs. M’s advice to be creative in my problem-solving sprouted an idea. I might be smaller than rat-faced Felix, but I could be craftier.
He is going to regret ever harassing me. I reach under the sink and find the plastic baggy I put together last night while Mrs. M was taking a bathroom break. Carefully, I open one end of it. Tears sting my eyes. The combined stink of the day-old fish and egg nearly knocks me over. Quickly, I zip the bag shut.
I tuck it into the side of my backpack. I’m in the process of swinging the pack onto my shoulder when a voice behind me says, “Hold up there.”
I yelp and jump straight up. A big hand reaches out to steady me.
“Jesus Chri—stopherson,” I exclaim, revising the swear words at the last second. “You scared the stuffing out of me.”
Leka’s free hand comes up to cover a huge yawn. “Sorry. What time is it?”
I give him a once-over, taking in his rumpled hair and the hooded lids. “You look like you got an hour’s sleep after a night at a rave.”
Or bonking some girl’s brains out. He did come home super late last night and took a shower before he collapsed on the bed. You only shower when you don’t want people to smell your sins. That’s what Sister Ruth says, at least. Which, if you think about it, is a total contradiction to the whole “cleanliness is next to Godliness” thing they all preach.
“What do you know about raves?” He glowers.