Trust

“Okay, have fun with that,” I said, shrugging her off. Presumably this was my new school’s version of Kara. Funny how every school seemed to have one.

Except then she turned to Hang to spew some more of her venom. “And if you think Anders is serious about you, you’re dreaming, you slope-eyed twit.”

“Whoa now,” I said, voice firming. I inserted my hefty self between her and Hang. “None of that racist bullshit, thank you.”

“Shut up, you stupid fu—”

“I mean, why can’t we all just get along? Wouldn’t life be better without this judgmental, small-minded crap?” I asked. My voice was cool, nonchalant even. It was as if Chris’s gun had been able to reach deep inside my mind and trip some crucial circuit-breaker. And just like that came the nightmares, and the insomnia, and the impatience. But that same switch had changed whatever hold people like Kara had ever had over me. I still didn’t like being the center of attention, but I couldn’t remember what if felt like to actually be scared of them. It was just gone. “Right, Hang?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she confirmed.

Bitchy girl just sneered at us.

“And it’s so boring,” I drawled, rolling my fingers into fists. “You’re a slut because you like to wear your skirt high and have sex. While your other friend there must be a frigid bitch because she likes to wear her clothes baggy and I hear she turned some dude down. And on and on it goes, all of it superficial and meaning absolutely nothing. They’re just pointless, insulting labels that don’t even come close to who any of us really are as people!”

“Actually,” said Hang, “that’s a valid point.”

“What the hell are you on about?” asked the bitch queen.

“Everyone should just do their own thing without assholes like you giving them a hard time,” I said. “Would that honestly be so bad?”

“What did you just call m—”

“You’re not even original about it,” I said. “God, the fat thing. Do you have any idea how often I’ve had that flung at me? I mean, what if I only take the word as being a descriptor? Then you’re screwed. But I bet if you tried, you could make up much better insults. Give it a try; I’ll wait because your opinion really, really matters to me. Whoever you are.”

Her mouth opened, anger turned into confusion before morphing into rage.

And there was my moment. Fists made correctly this time, I drew back, ready to swing. A strong hand gripped my arm, halting the whole process.

“No,” he said, forcing my fist back to my side.

“Uh-oh,” said Hang.

“John.” The girl nervously flicked her hair. “Hi.”

“What’s this about?”

I cleared my throat. “I believe your girlfriend was just staking her claim or something.”

“Christ. We screwed a couple of times, Erika. That’s it.” The look he gave her was grim. “Don’t hassle Edie again.”

“But—”

“I might not be around next time to stop her from knocking you on your ass.”

Eyes wide, the girl pulled herself up as tall as can be. Not particularly impressive. I could take her, easy.

John picked up my book, handing it to me with a nod.

“Thanks,” I said.

With a final displeased glance at the girl, he ushered me into class. His fingers brushed against my lower back, something I liked a little too much.

“That was exciting,” said Hang, following behind. “I’ve never nearly been in a fight before.”

I gave her two thumbs up. She’d stayed by my side, right up until John’s intervention. That deserved respect.

“Fighting at school again? Seriously, Edie?” said John.

“She started it.” I slipped into my seat, shoulders rounded. Feeling like the naughty child did not go with my outfit.

“Yeah, and you were about to end it.” He took the desk behind me, face still distinctly unhappy. “The amount of shit that hitting Erika would have landed you in is not worth it. You know that.”

“I should have just let her insult my friend?”

“You’d made your point. You didn’t need to throw any punches.”

“Right.” I turned back to face the front. He didn’t understand and I wasn’t in the mood to explain. Someone like him had probably never been bullied in his life.

“What happened to not caring what people say, hmm?” he continued. “I’m trying to get things together here and I’ve already got a record. I won’t get dragged into your bullshit again, understood?”

Outraged, I turned back. “My memory must be faulty. John, can you run the bit by me where I asked for your help?”

The blue of his eyes turned ice cold. He likely thought “bitch.”

I definitely thought “asshole.”

Lucky for all, the teacher walked in then, calling for order. The weight of John’s pissed-off gaze drilled into my back throughout class, however. What with him not being my keeper, this did not impress me at all. Neither did the niggling idiotic, completely wrong feeling of guilt.

We got lucky with the job hunt. A new smoothie place was about to open at Rock Creek Plaza. Hang and I got there just as the manager began sticking the Help Wanted sign in the front window. Talk about timing. The store consisted mostly of shiny stainless-steel juicers and blenders and the like. Giant pictures of fruit and lots of eye-bleedingly bright orange trim.

Bouncing on the balls of her feet, Ingrid, the manager, told us to come back the next afternoon for training. It turned out she did a lot of bouncing. I don’t know if she was snorting sugar or just high on life. Either way, Ingrid had energy to spare. I liked her, even if just watching her did wear me out.

“This is the Summer Sunrise,” said Ingrid with great enthusiasm, waving her gloved hands around as she spoke. “A handful of raw squash and pumpkin pieces, some orange segments, a squeeze of lemon, a couple of leaves of lettuce, a cup of ice, and a sprinkling of chia seeds.”

Hang studied the lumpy concoction with an impressively straight face. “Awesome.”

“Isn’t it?” With practiced ease, Ingrid put the ingredients into the commercial blender and the blades whirred to life. “It only needs thirty seconds. Any questions?”