As they circle each other, I see Wick’s face for the first time. It’s all sharp edges—razored cheekbones, a pointed chin. She looks like the kind of girl you’d cut yourself on.
“What’s going on here?” It’s a female voice, pissed off and loud. Immediately, everyone starts to scatter. “Don’t. Move. Any of you.”
People to my right jostle as an older woman steps into the circle. “What is this?”
Jenna’s breathing hard, one hand working through her hair to smooth it. “Nothing. We were just messing around.”
That’s her excuse? I almost laugh. No one’s going to believe . . . wait. Wick’s nodding. She’s smiling like it’s the truth, and when she tucks hair behind her ear, our eyes meet.
Linger.
Say something, I think. Do the right thing and tell the teacher what Jenna did to you.
“Is that true, Wicket?”
Wick turns. She has to tilt up her chin to face Jenna. “Yeah, just messing around.”
Typical. I’m more disappointed than I should be. She’s too scared to do what’s right. She’s too—there’s a twitch of movement at Jenna’s back. Wick has her arm around the girl and is digging her fingers into Jenna’s rib cage, making the taller girl smile through the pain.
“We just haven’t seen each other all summer,” Wick continues, and her hand twists, knuckles going white.
Damn. That bruise Wick’s leaving will match the ones Jenna gave her. Even from here, I can see how the skin along Wick’s collar is purpling. It’s going to match her hair.
“All of you”—the teacher jabs a finger at us—“get to class.”
Everyone shuffles off, going in ten different directions at once. Ben grabs my upper arm and hauls me toward the stairs.
“Welcome to the Bubble,” he says.
“Are all the girls like that?”
“Like Jenna?”
“No, like the other one.” I don’t want to say Wick’s name. For some reason, it feels personal, like I would be giving Ben something to use against me. “The purple-haired girl.”
“God, no. She lives near that new place you’re going to rent. Couple streets over.” Ben’s gaze slants to mine, brows raised. “She’s probably an easy hit if you want it.”
“That’s not why I asked.”
He snorts. “What else would you want with her?”
I have no idea how to explain it. There was just something about the way Wick looked at Jenna and the teacher and, hell, at all of us as we stared. She didn’t look scared. She looked like she was going to set something on fire.
No. No, that’s not right. I’ve seen plenty of pissed-off chicks over the years. It’s the way she looked alone. Surrounded by all those people, she was still alone. I get that.
I feel it all the time too.
So, yeah, that’s how I came to Peachtree-freaking-City, that’s how I got to know my cousin, and that’s the first time I saw Wick. Stupid if you think about it, but I haven’t been able to look away from her since.
1
Yesterday . . .
So the thing is, my mom won’t get out of bed again. This is the worst it’s ever been—four full days now—and I don’t know what to do. My dad’s still looking for work, we’re almost out of food stamps, and her work’s called twice. I told the manager, some guy named Sipkins, that she had the flu.
“There are a lot of people out there who would like her job, son.”
“I know.” I stare at my mom’s bedroom door, remembering how she complains about this guy. She’s right. He is a mouth breather.
“I’m being very generous here.”
“We really appreciate your patience, sir.” I hate how I have to suck up to him, act grateful for a job that pays only half our trailer rent. At most. Even though we’d be even more screwed without the money, I’m instantly pissed at Sipkins. Then again, I should probably be more pissed at myself. I suck up easily. I’m good at it—especially with people like him. I’ve had way too much practice.
“Well.” Sipkins heaves a heavy sigh. “I’ll let her slide this time.”
I grit my teeth. “Thank you, sir. We’re really grateful.” I hang up, but can’t seem to let go of the phone. If we go on much longer like this, Sipkins won’t even be able to call us. If I picked up another lawn-mowing job, I could probably—a car pulls into our driveway, parks.
My heart jerks into my throat. Is that Dad? Is he home?
I part the flower-patterned curtains above the sink and sag. It’s not my dad. It’s my cousin Ben, and I have to take two long breaths, pretend Sipkins never happened so I can get through the next fifteen minutes.
“Griff?” Ben shoulders through our flimsy metal door, paper grocery bag tucked in the crook of his arm. He bumps the door closed with his hip, bumps it again because you can still hear the wind whistling around the frame.