“Tia West is off limits. Don’t make me tell you twice, Scarface.”
That’s it? All he’s got? Well fuck, he’s disappointing. I’m debating how much shit I’m willing to take from these generic assholes, when I hear a familiar bad muffler. The rusted pickup wheeling into the parking lot makes more noise than a circus act, but I’ve somehow gotten used to it, and I couldn’t ask for better timing. Reading the situation without needing a word from anyone, Mut moves up to stand next to me, rubs his hands together and even laughs a little. “Is there a problem here? I hope, I hope. Tell me there is.”
“Yeah,” says Prick. “Get a straightjacket on Scarface here or I’m gonna be forced to teach him a lesson.”
“Thank you,” Mutt tells him. “Sincerely. It’s been a rat fuck day and I need this. Your participation is appreciated.” He tosses his head side to side, cracking his neck, then shakes out his fingers. “All right, let’s go.”
“What?” Prick is confused.
“Wasn’t I clear? I’m not interested in conversation, buying you dinner or tickling your sack before I jack you up.” Mutt shrugs with his smile in place. “I’m asking nicely but only saying it once. Either take off the dress, get down to it or get lost.”
“Fuck you,” Right Ball throws back, taking a step closer.
“Shhh, the adults are talking.” Mutt hones back in on Prick. “C’mon, pretty please, throw down with me dicktits.”
Prick and Balls don’t want any part of this. The plan was to trade insults, not punches, and maybe bully me with some three-on-one action. This is a whole new game of crazy, right here in the high school parking lot, and they don’t understand the rules. Because there aren’t any. I’ve got next to nothing to lose, and Mutt doesn’t give any kind of a shit. It makes him dangerous in a whole different way.
They slink away, lobbing a couple of limp “Fuck offs” our way, and Mutt is disappointed. He tosses me a granola bar, because he expects me to be hungry. I ask, “You stoned?” because I expect him to be high.
“Not yet. Thanks to this little detour. Want in?”
Hells yeah. After the slow avalanche of this shittastic day, I need to dig myself out. Mutt’s always got the best weed, and I don’t have anywhere to be until tomorrow. No work, but I do have the tracking device from Step-Douche the Super Tool.
“Gotta stop home first,” I answer. As long as the phone gets where it needs to be, I should be good.
Mutt checks out the bike. “Christ, Gibby, what the hell happened?”
I shrug. Explaining would require more words than I’ve got in me. He lowers the tailgate, and we set up the ramp.
“You are testing my abilities,” he mutters. “This heap is more of a lawn ornament at this point, but I’ll see what I can do with it.” We push the bike up into the bed of his truck and start strapping it down. “Sooooo … You gonna tap the blonde hottie in the minivan or is she up for grabs?”
There’s a reason we call him Mutt. He’s a dog.
It takes me a good minute to put together who and what he’s talking about. Barbie is so out of my tapping range, I’d laugh if I remembered how.
CHAPTER 10
Tia:
I sit in a miniature chair. My butt cheeks hang off the edges and my knees are bent at sharp angles. I should be forced to sit in this chair whenever I eat ice cream. I would never take seconds.
Mrs. Hardick, fifth grade teacher, seems super comfy at her grown-up sized desk. She looks familiar and yes, that is actually her name. I double checked the nameplate on her desk and am expecting a full year of penis jokes from the twins. Awesome.
Tully, the littlest of the West tribe, bounces on my lap, and she’s slippery as a pumpkin seed. She keeps squirting free. If I let her roam, she will get into trouble.
My brothers, Tanner and Tristan, sprawl on the chairs to my right. They’re all arms and legs, hugging battered skateboards, and since we missed school shopping this year, their pants are too short, sneakers ratty and pale blonde curls too long. They’re on the verge of returning to the wild. I’m tempted to tag their ears to keep better track of them.
Way back when, we started calling my little brothers May and Hem, because that’s what they cause, until Tanner complained over May sounding too girly. My dad then switched to calling him Ten, the jersey number of former Buffalo Sabre, Brad May.
I scowl at the pair, trying for appropriate parental disappointment, even though I really couldn’t give a flying fig what they did, because neither one is bleeding, so hooray and let’s call it a day. But I say, “Seriously guys? First day of school?”
“Yousa point is well seen,” Ten tells me. And smirks.
I am now on red alert.
“When are yousa tinkin’ wesa in trouble?” asks Hem. Snicker, snicker.
They’re throwing out movie quotes. I see it now and cringe. Hopefully Mrs. Hardick has never taken a long hard look in the mirror, never noticed her unfortunate resemblance to the character who single handedly destroyed Star Wars, because she is Jar Jar Binks. Where are her friends? Why has no one warned her away from that hairstyle?
She shoots death glares at the boys and snaps, “You two hold your tongues!”
Ten and Hem look at each other, grab their tongues, and choke on their laughter.
Slapping a hand against the desk, the teacher turns on me. “We really need a parent here.”
I totally agree. We need a parent. How about both? I’d like some help from mom and dad, but I’m all there is and positive thinking only goes so far, and certainly didn’t stop the twins from hiding my phone in Booger’s litter box this morning.
I force a smile and say, “That’s not possible right now. I believe you’re aware of the circumstances.”
Hardick shuffles the papers on her desk. “Terek West is listed as an alternate contact.”
“Are we done here?” Tully interrupts, sliding off my lap.
“Soon,” I promise and pull her back into my arms. “Terek is my older brother. He’s at work right now.” Since Terek hasn’t been home in the last three days and refuses to answer his phone or return my texts, I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing. He’s about as mature as a two-week old puppy. He no longer pees on the carpet but would probably high five the twins and drop an f-bomb at some point, so she should be thankful she’s getting me.
Hardick scowls.
Tully twirls sticky fingers in my ponytail and says, “I can wait.”
“Good girl.”
Ten burps. Hem hiccups. They aren’t good enough actors to make their bodily noises sound natural. I consider grabbing them each by the piece of skin right between their nostrils.
“How long are you gonna make me wait?” Tully wants to know.
“Not long.”
“Can I be done waiting now?”
Just so we’re clear, Baby Sis, aka Tully, aka Tullia, is the most precious person on the planet. So when Hardick huffs and gives her the stink face, it’s strike one against her.
“To be blunt, Miss West, the administration hoped to place your brothers in separate fifth grade classrooms to lessen their impact. They are together again this year because I was the only teacher willing to take them on. After one day of instruction, I am questioning my generosity.”
“Hmmm, yes, that’s quite a pickle isn’t it?” I mumble. What else am I supposed to say to that? Doing her job doesn’t seem all that generous. She gets paid. I’ve taken on the twins for free.
Beside me, Ten bends over to tie his shoe. I nudge him to pay attention. Tully pokes me and points at the floor. My spidey senses tingle, and as I curl forward to take a look, Tully escapes and I realize my brother has tied my shoelace to the chair.
Hardick clears her throat. “Miss West, are you listening?”
“Of course.” I straighten, smile some more and reach over and pinch Ten. He yelps and Hem says, “How wude.”
This is our matinee act and tips are appreciated.
The teacher finally starts
talking. Ten spins the wheels on the skateboard balanced on his lap, causing a high-pitched ear-bleeding squeak, while Hem constantly twitches like a recovering coke addict, making his chair rattle. Their poor teacher flinches, sweats and jumps on a rant about the importance of starting a new school year, how the twins are incorrigible, and please tell me something I don’t already know. She beats her high horse to death and drags the carcass across the finish line. I glance around and find Tully at the back of the classroom, pulling art supplies off a shelf. Is that paint? And glitter? Why not just leave gasoline and matches lying around? This is taking way too long. My butt is falling asleep. Theo’s nearly done with hockey practice, and Mora’s finishing up cheer practice. Hopefully they’re catching rides home, but there’s still homework, dinner, a dog and cat to worry about.
I raise my hand.
Mrs. Hardick is not happy about it. “Yes, Miss West.”
“What exactly did the twins do?”
“Let’s start with this.” She places a pink princess lunchbox on her desk. “They brought this for show-n-tell.”
“That’s Tully’s!” I blurt. “I spent half the morning looking for that. Now if I could just find the grape that got away, I could die happy.”
“There was a live chipmunk inside.”
“Oh.” I channel my inner Meryl Streep and combine shock and outrage into a one-woman show, but here’s what I’m thinking. Finding the princess lunch box makes Tully happy. There’s no longer a chipmunk in my kitchen, which makes me happy. And most important, no one’s headed to the hospital. There are no damages to pay. This is a win for Team West.
“Do you have any idea how much damage a chipmunk can do?” she demands.
“Um, they do tend to scamper about, don’t they?”
“He pooped on Polk,” Ten supplies
“He crapped on Carter,” says Hem.
They’re delighted. I’m confused. Hardick explains, “The chipmunk in question defecated on our Loci Method Presidential Fun Mat!”
“I gotta side with the chipmunk on that one.” I snort at my own joke. The twins join in. Hardick isn’t amused.
“I was forced to call in Animal Control. The children were terrorized.”
Ten chooses that moment to screech, “Not the younglings!” And Hem follows with, “Patience you must have my young padawan.”
Hardick points at them, a vein in her neck throbbing, and snaps, “I’m sciurophobic and allergic to fur!”
Sciuro what? Fur? Seriously? Let’s look on the bright side here. My little brothers managed to pack a wild chipmunk into a very compact pink plastic lunch box without injuring themselves or their hostage. That’s both ingenious and impressive. So maybe it’s time to schedule surgery to have the stick removed from Mrs. Hardick’s ass. Which I know is an unkind thought and unfair and also reminds me, Mora owes a quarter to the swear jar.
“Fur! Oh that’s scary stuff,” I offer. It’s obviously the wrong thing to say, but I’m slightly distracted by a quick glance to locate Tully, and let’s just say, it’s raining glitter.
“And then there’s this.” Mrs. Hardick holds up two drawings.
“Well, um, Theo is the artistic one of the family.”
“Clearly the twins are unusually creative. What do you see here, Miss West?”
“Is that a rocket ship?” More like a star-spangled penis. But I look to Ten for clarification.
“It’s an erect missile,” he explains, barely holding it together, while Hem practically convulses.
“And this?” Hardick demands, shaking the second drawing at me.
“Um … a banana and two apples … wearing a grass skirt?” Yup, a dick with hairy balls. My brothers are more frustrating than a terminal yeast infection.
“This behavior is entirely unacceptable,” Hardick snaps.
“Most definitely.” I nod and nod and nod. “This won’t happen again.” I say this with confidence because the twins don’t do repeats. They will come up with brand new mayhem for the next round and Mrs. Hardick should invest in a Hazmat suit.
I promise to handle my brothers. The twins promise to be good. Tully, who is suspiciously covered in purple paint and glitter, says it’s OK her lunch box smells like chipmunk poop. We are all lying.
I figure I’d better hustle the herd to The Ark before the teacher decides a stern warning and five hundred word essays of apology aren’t enough to redeem the twins. I jump up and … did you forget I’m still tied to the chair? I sure did.
CHAPTER 11
TAZ:
This party’s lame. I’m standing in the cold, wet grass of somebody’s backyard, listening to shitty techno music turned too loud, with a bunch of douchebags slurping piss warm beer. And I’m one of them.
Mutt got me in. The dude is friends with everybody. Since I’ve already lost him to some chick, I’m alone. I am the fresh pile of dog shit and nobody’s stepping within a five foot radius. I should have ditched this suckfest an hour ago.
I hang close to the fire, dangling a red solo cup from my left hand. If Mutt’s weed hadn’t dulled my edges, I’d be gnawing at my wrists with my teeth. There’s too much noise, too many voices here, and the fingers of my right hand are overworked. I check again for Sasha. Where the fuck is she? I wanna get laid. Can’t get one without the other.
Across the bonfire, a flash of pale blonde fishhooks my attention. What the hell is Barbie doing here in an infant sized shirt and her ass hanging out of a pair of shorts? It’s a school night and this group isn’t saving the otters or masturbating monks or whatever do gooders do.
“Hey.” The voice comes from behind me, jerking me sideways and tipping my cup so that beer splashes my toes. It’s too goddamn cold for sandals, but that’s what I’ve got. And if Sasha sneaks up on me again, she’ll be wearing my solo cup as a muzzle.
I play nice and nod. Sasha dips her chin, sticks out a hip and smiles. I nod again. That’s about all the foreplay I can manage. I grab her hand and hope she’s cool with me bending her over the picnic table in the side lawn. It takes a certain kind of girl to handle what I need, the way I need it. Sasha’s my answer.
Laughter calls me back to Barbie. I step to the left for a better look. Firelight and some asshat’s paws are all over her, sliding through silky blonde hair, cupping her ass. She stumbles and he pulls her in tighter. More laughter. I take a sip of warm, flat beer and my fingers start to spasm but get tangled up. I’m holding hands with Sasha. I forgot about her.
“Wanna go somewhere?” She runs the tip of her tongue over her lip and tugs on me.
I give Barbie one last look. I know better than to have expectations but somehow let her trick me. That’s my fault, but I blame her. She’s been mind fucking me since this morning. She’s like one of those advertising jingles, and I’d gladly take a lobotomy to get her out of my head.
“C’mon.” Sasha leads me. I follow my hard on for three steps then reverse our direction. Which is a very bad idea.
By the time I circle the bonfire, push between various dudes and come up behind Barbie, Asshat has one mitt stuffed down the back of her shorts and the other crawling up her shirt. She’s swaying on her feet and shouldn’t be here. So I drop my cup, drop Sasha, reach around and rip him off her.
“What the fuck?” Asshat staggers backward. Barbie whips around with a shriek and well, shit. It’s not Barbie. Looks just like her, same big eyes, same wide mouth, but she’s younger. Really young. Too young for the Asshat. Since I’ve wanted to bitch slap somebody all day, I wedge between him and Baby Barbie and knock him back another step.
“What’s your problem, Montana?” he shouts and shoves me.
We’ve got a movie buff here. Maybe the only movie I happen to know. Cuz it’s awesome and I wanted to understand the insults thrown my way, but this is already twice today and the Scarface shit is getting old. No points to Asshat for creativity. I shake my head and waggle a finger at him.
“What? Who the hell are you?” He pushes at me again, but I do
n’t budge. “Get lost, Freakshow.”
Freakshow? OK, that’s a little better. I hold off strangling him with his own tongue and even offer one more chance to win the lottery. My fingers still at my sides, my brain goes buzz, buzz, buzz, and I manage two whole words, “Walk away.”
He pops me. In the fucken eye. Which is probably gonna bruise. How am I supposed to hide that shit from V for Vivian or Step-douche the Super Tool? What a giant Asshat. But I gotta admit, I’m downright tickled we’ve skipped arguing and gone straight to pounding the piss out of each other. I like this.
My turn. I stomp his toes and when he curls forward, I lace my hands behind his head, jerk hard and fast, and lift my leg. I crack his face off my knee. That’s all she wrote. Asshat turns ragdoll, eyes rolling back, nose gushing blood. But I’m not done. Cuz Baby Barbie’s pitchy screams are nails scraping down my chalkboard and it’s been a shitty day, a shitty friggin life, and I need a little something, something to get through it. So I follow him down to the ground and punch him, punch him, punch him some more, and now everybody’s screaming and pulling at me, but I’m busy forgetting where I am, who I am, just feeding the monster salivating in my brain and it’s goddamn awesome.
CHAPTER 12
Tia:
Moonlight filters through my bedroom window, giving me a perfect view of the water stain on the ceiling. It started out looking like a map of Rhode Island but has grown into Ohio. Before we get to Texas proportions, I need to do something about it. I am seventeen. I don’t want to worry about the cost of a new roof.
I yawn, my eyes water, and I check the time on my phone. If I fall asleep right this second, I’ll manage four hours. I blame Taz. He’s the wheel and my brain is the hampster.
The scars. The twitchy SOS of his fingers. The mix of anger and near panic in his eyes. I can’t decide if he’s the result of whatever happened to him in the past or is still happening now. Either way, I want to help. Need to help. And round and round we go.
Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1) Page 4
