“They’re pretty cool,” she said, and somehow I didn’t feel so stupid for staring at them.
I imagined Janie sitting before the tank, the small frown-crease on her forehead disappearing as she watched neon colors dart around. Her gnawed fingertips resting on the table, still.
“What are you thinking?” Cyndra asked.
I shrugged. “My sister, Janie. She would love this.”
Cyndra leaned forward and brushed her hand down my arm. “We’ll bring her next time, then.”
My cheeks burned. Why was she trying to make me feel like we could be something?
I pulled my arm away. “Forget about it. She wouldn’t want to come here.”
Cyndra’s eyes tightened and she glanced away. She crossed her arms. It was like she was saying, Fine. If that’s the way you want it.
“I’m sorry, Cyndra. I didn’t mean—” I stopped myself. The orange-and-white fish darted into a swaying plant. “It’s just . . . why act like we’re going to be friends? This isn’t about that.”
She crossed her legs away from me and stared at a tube overhead. “Right. It’s about the cash.” Her voice was flint.
My chair scraped as I shoved it away from the table. I leaned back, stretching my legs out and crossing my arms and ankles.
I watched the fish.
We sat silently. Finally, Michael walked over, depositing Chinese noodle plates in front of us.
“Dinner, as promised.” He stroked Cyndra’s hair. “If you’re going to get any shopping done, you’d better get a move on, babe. Don’t forget Iceman’s curfew.”
Cyndra sat up, straight as a razor. Her silver chopsticks clinked against the china plate as she ate.
The food smelled wonderful. My stomach rumbled as I glanced at the chopsticks laid across my plate. The corners of my mouth twitched up, and I returned to watching the fish.
After a while, I didn’t even smell the food. Mostly. There was a large white-and-black fish with trailing fins that was real tough. Anytime another fish happened by, no matter how big or how small, man, that white-and-black fish just charged at it. That fish had a whole corner to itself. It just sat there, charging at any other fish that maybe got a little too close.
Cyndra got up and carried her plate away.
I was not looking forward to the shopping.
Cyndra sat back down with a scrap of paper and a pen.
“What size shirt do you wear?” she asked.
I shrugged and fingered the T-shirt I was wearing. “This is a large.”
She wrote down M or L.
“What size jeans do you wear?”
I pulled on the leg of my thrift-store jeans. “How should I know?”
She shook her head. “Would you mind standing and holding up your shirt so I can see the waist, please?” She sounded like a waitress or an operator.
I pushed my chair back and stood, hitching up my pants before lifting my T-shirt.
“Well, those are clearly too big,” Cyndra said, eyeing me. “Would you come here, please?” She stopped writing and twisted sideways in her chair.
I stepped forward. Her hot hands grabbed my waist and pulled me a half step closer. Laughter from the other table rang over us. She was face level with my stomach and only a dip away from my crotch.
My head felt light as I stared down at the top of her head. She messed with my T-shirt, instructing me to hold it a little higher. She lifted my jeans and pinched the sides until her fingers lay flat against my sides.
I glanced at the others. Dwight circled his thumb and fingers and brought them to his mouth. He tongued the inside of his cheek rhythmically.
I looked away.
Cyndra let go of me, and I sat down before I embarrassed myself. Curled over the table, hands clenched on my legs.
She wrote something on the paper.
She smiled. “Well, from what little I saw of your abs, Monique was right.”
I stared at the fish.
“Shy, huh? You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”
I stared at the fish.
She sighed and drummed red-tipped fingers on the table. “Sorry. I shouldn’t talk sometimes. Here.” She handed me a fork and walked away.
I ate the noodles.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It should have made me happy that Cyndra thought I had nice abs, but it just pissed me off. I didn’t really know why, though. Maybe because of Dwight’s gesture, maybe because I wasn’t really part of their circle. I was bought and paid for.
And because it all brought me back to the shirt thing.
Which had to do with control—and what they didn’t know about my life at home. My dad may be crazy, but he’s not stupid. Usually. And so it’s fists and you keep your head together and it’s over and you’re okay. Live to fight another day. No real marks and you can pretend it never happened or that it’s going to stop—like my mom used to.
But once it was a broken bottle. Something had gone wrong, some buddy narc’d. Something. And I did my part, because I knew he was going to go off, and sometimes it’s better to get it over with. But I didn’t know how much he’d already drunk. I thought it would be like a pot on the stove, and he could just boil over a bit. Take the pressure off. And then it would be done.
It didn’t work out that way. He exploded. Broke the bottle he’d been drinking from against the table and came at me with the neck curled in his fist like a roll of quarters and the jagged end hanging out past his thumb and forefinger. It started out just fists but ended up a slashing arc across my back with me curled away from it. Which just made the gash worse.
Afterward, Janie patched me up. I lay out a bit, and it was like it never happened. Except for the scar. And I’ll be damned before I parade it in front of a bunch of cheerleaders.
I finished the noodles and thought about The Plan. I imagined putting the money I’d earned today into the coffee can, imagined buying Janie a little stuffed animal or necklace before going home. She’d probably rather put all the money in the coffee can, like a responsible little adult, but I liked the idea of surprising her.