Dead Little Mean Girl. Eva Darrows
the walls, a few shots of the paintbrushes drying on the window ledge. I didn’t understand why until Nikki snorted, looking down at her half-finished painting of a goat. Other people painted pandas or parrots or ponies, but my new best friend picked a goat. Because she was weird.
“She’s burying the pictures. This can’t go well for him,” she said.
The ramifications didn’t occur to me when Quinn returned the phone to the desk. Nor did they occur to me when I went home from school. No, I didn’t quite get it until the next Monday when I walked into art class. Standing at the front of the room was a woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty-six or twenty-seven with Principal Ahadi at her side.
“Everyone, this is Miss Glass. She’ll be taking over for Mr. Riddell for the foreseeable future. I assure you, you’re in great hands. Any questions, you know where to find me.”
My stomach dropped to the floor.
She ratted him out. Those pictures got out, or she told someone about them or forwarded them and now he’s gone.
I didn’t want to believe that Quinn could be so catty as to compromise a guy’s job for scolding her, but when I saw her sit back in her seat in the front row, her arms folding over her chest, her smugness a living, breathing thing threatening to gobble all the space in the classroom, I knew she was responsible.
“Oh. Oh, wow,” I whispered, sinking into my seat, my face flushing hot. “I cannot believe she did that.”
Nikki shook her head so hard her silver cross earrings smacked against her cheeks. “I can. That girl makes Hannibal Lecter look like a saint.”
“If you tell the school about the Riddell thing, I’ll end you.”
One minute I was shoving a bologna sandwich in my face at the kitchen table, a book open before me, the next Quinn loomed over me in her workout pants and tank top like a perfumed vulture.
“That’s nice. You’re in my light. Move?”
She batted my book away. The pages rustled and settled somewhere in the middle that was distinctly not my place. It irritated me. I was at a really good spot, when Katniss... It’s not important. You don’t mess with my The Hunger Games and she messed with my The Hunger Games and for that I wanted to snap her like a twig.
“You don’t have to be a dong about it.” I snatched the book and tucked it beneath the table where her grimy tentacles couldn’t touch it.
“You’re not listening to me, Emilia.”
This was a new thing, the Emilia bit. I have no idea where she got it from, but it was stupid.
“I am listening. Don’t tell anyone about the Riddell thing. Now can I go back to reading?”
“No, see. You don’t get me.” She leaned down, until her lips were an inch away from my ear, her breath lashing at my skin. I could feel her body heat against my back. “If you tell anyone, I will make you so miserable at school, you’ll wish you were dead.”
She was threatening me.
Awesome.
Faaaaantastic.
I rubbed the back of my neck, unwilling to admit aloud that her unleashing her winged monkeys scared me to death, but that was the truth of it. I liked my low profile. I liked hanging out with Nikki and Laney and Tommy, and being ignored by my classmates. It was safe. Being Quinn’s target dummy outside of the house as well as in? Was the anti-safe. “Whatever, okay? I’ll leave it alone.”
Satisfied with my cowardice, she wandered off to the bathroom. I heard the radio blare followed by the rush of water. I tossed the book onto the counter and headed out the door, my hand plunging into my jeans pocket in search of my cell phone. Fifteen minutes later, I arrived at the Bouncing Bear Coffee Shop on the corner and Tommy Naughters was pulling into the parking lot in a Jeep Cherokee so old it looked like it was held together with duct tape.
Tommy was an old friend, like since-grade-school old friend. Tall and knobby at the joints, he had dark brown hair and hazel eyes and an Adam’s apple that bulged from his neck like he’d swallowed a baseball. He was nerdy like me with his video game T-shirts and black trench coat. We’d dated awhile but it hadn’t gone anywhere. Part of that was his propensity for writing emo poetry. I liked him too much to laugh in his face at what was supposed to be a romantic gesture. But know this: I stilled his soul, granting him the respite given only to those in the tomb.
I still giggle thinking about it because I’m a jerk.
The other part was my mad crush on Shawn Willis, a guy so out of my league it wasn’t even funny. Every time Shawn walked into a room at school, my mouth went dry and I lost my train of thought. Like, midsentence I’d go silent. Tommy noticed The Shawn Effect. He didn’t appreciate it, and our gropey fumblings and makeouts weren’t so good he couldn’t walk away from them.
We stayed friends despite the split, and things were better than ever with him dating my other friend, Laney. She worked at that particular Bouncing Bear, though Tommy said she had the day off and wouldn’t be joining us on account of a family thing. Laney adored Tommy, emo poetry and all, because dead roses were more a goth chick’s scene and Laney was all about her pleather and fishnets.
Tommy clambered from the Jeep in his usual coat, jeans and combat boots, a Dungeons & Dragons book tucked beneath his arm. Seeing me waiting inside at the corner booth, he waved.
“I got a new adventure for us next week,” he said.
“Cool. I’m digging the cleric. Hopefully I won’t blow this one up.”
One of the common threads of our friendship was a mutual appreciation for tabletop role-playing games. This fact had never and would never make it to Quinn, who would have laughed herself to tears that I was one of those kids. My diatribe on how storytelling was an ancient art form celebrated in hundreds of cultures and Dungeons & Dragons was simply a modern extension of a time-honored tradition would be wasted on her.
“What happened with the Evil One now?” Tommy sat across from me. I slid him an iced coffee I’d ordered from the woman behind the counter. Tommy would pollute his with a mountain of sugar, but I liked mine black.
As black as my twisted soul, my sweet Ophelia.
Poor Tommy.
“She’s threatening me about what happened in art class,” I said. “That thing with Riddell I told you about? She says she’ll ruin me. I don’t know what that means, but I’m guessing she’ll tell people stuff about me. Or, well, make stuff up. I’m pretty boring.”
Tommy tossed a straw my way, his fingers tracing over the cover of his book. “Were you planning to tell anyone about what happened? Was that even a thing?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that. Had I considered it? Yes. Planned? No, not really. After Quinn screwed over Nikki, I’d rushed to make nice with the girl who would become my best friend. Once again I felt compelled to repair Quinn’s damage, but I didn’t want it to become a habit. Quinn was Quinn. She owned her asshattery. I could apologize or tattle, but didn’t that set a problematic precedent?
And in this case, it would be at the expense of my own neck.
“I dunno, should I?” I swirled my drink around inside the plastic cup. The ice clicked and whooshed against the sides. “I feel like maybe I should because he’s not a bad guy, but there were thirty other kids there, too. They could say something and take less of a hit from the inevitable Quinn bomb. She’s two doors down from me, you know?”
Tommy nudged my foot with his own.
“There you go. It’s not on you to fix her shit. You worry about you. She worries about her. I’m sure it’ll work out for Riddell.”
“Yeah,”