Playing with Fire

“Oh, snap,” Reign hiccupped, giving Tess a piggyback ride without breaking a sweat. “Before I forget. When we get to the truck, check out the chick who takes your order. Gail or Gill or whatever-the-fuck. The entire left side of her face is disfigured. Purple as a grape. Got a nice Rice Krispy complexion, too. Like, you can’t really see all of it because she puts hella makeup on, but it’s there. Apparently, people ’round here call her Toastie.”

Reign didn’t mean for me to hear it. He was clearly trashed. Not that it mattered. Bile rose up my throat. The sour taste filled my mouth. I was facing another take-the-bandages-off moment, and I wasn’t ready.

Tess slapped the back of his head. “Her name’s Grace, you moron, and she is super nice.”

Easton glared at Reign. “Seriously? What’s wrong with you, jackass?”

“He’s right, though.” Tess dropped her voice, forgetting the echo the vastness of the nothing around us created. “We have the same major, so I see her all the time. It’s sad, because otherwise, she is so pretty. Like, imagine what it feels like to almost have it all. She can’t even do any of the practical theater stuff, she is so ashamed of her face.”

Tess was referring to that time I walked into an audition freshman year, and broke down in front of the director when he asked me to do my lines. It was very public, very embarrassing, and very much the talk of town for that semester.

“Aww,” Blondie, next to Easton, put a hand to her heart. “That’s so sad, Tessy. You’re givin’ me goose bumps.”

“I wonder what happened to her,” another girl murmured.

“Ground control to Major Shaw? Are you with me?” Karlie poked her head behind my shoulder to see what had turned me into a salt statue.

They stopped in front of us. I trained my face to appear calm, bored, but my heart was thrashing so violently inside my chest, I thought it was going to blast through my bones, cracking its cage in half.

I pinched Karlie’s wrist under the window, signaling, they’re too late, praying she’d let me send them away.

Karlie slapped a hand over her mouth, like the entire Kardashian clan had stopped by.

“Bro, we’re serving ’em. We have plenty of ingredients left. You know Momma Contreras doesn’t play when it comes to leftovers. Besides”—she pinched me back—“it’s them!”

We lived in a small college town, where everyone knew everyone, our D1 football team was worshipped like a religion, game days were church, Easton Braun and Reign De La Salle were holy saints, and West St. Claire was God. We couldn’t refuse them, even if they arrived at three in the morning and paid in human hair.

“Howdy, Grace!” Tess unloaded herself from Reign, drum-rolling the neon-teal truck as she scanned the menu under the window.

“Hi, Tess. Y’all havin’ a good night?”

“Fab, thanks. Reign here says you have margarita slushies with gummy bears. This true?”

So many customers were disappointed by the fact we called them margaritas when there was no tequila inside. “Sure do. Virgin, though.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else from you,” Reign deadpanned, hiccupping again. The girls burst out in laughter. For the sake of keeping my job—and my butt out of jail—I ignored his jab.

Tess punched his arm. “Don’t mind him. Can we have ten to go? And twenty tacos, por favor.” She gave her shiny hair another toss. “Oh, hi, Charlie.”

Karlie waved at Tess behind me, not bothering to correct her. I hated being the one working the front window, but Mrs. Contreras and Karlie insisted on it. They wanted me to get out of my shell, face the world, yada, yada.

“Soft or crunchy shell?” I asked.

“Half and half.”

“Right quick.”

I got to work, snapping and popping a pair of black elastic gloves. I started with the crunchy shells first. They were harder to work with. They kept breaking all the time, so I liked getting them out of the way. Grandmomma always said people were like tacos—the harder they were, the easier they broke. Being soft meant being adaptive, more flexible.

“When you’re soft, you can contain more. And if you contain more, the world can’t break you.”

I felt everyone’s eyes on my face as I shoved shredded lettuce, cream cheese, and Mrs. Contreras’ homemade guac into the tacos’ tiny mouths. Karlie flipped fish on the grill, bouncing on the soles of her feet excitedly.

In my periphery, I could see Reign shoving his elbow into some girl’s side, jerking his head toward me.

“Psst. Domestic violence?”

“Arson,” the girl suggested, trying to figure out how I got the scar.

“Bad plastic surgery,” a third coughed into her fist. They all snickered.

Heat rose up the back of my neck.

Five more minutes and you’re done. You went through physiotherapy, surgeries, and rehabilitation. You can survive these idiots.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, West St. Claire finally decided to see what all the fuss was about. He took a step closer to the truck. His eyes zeroed in on the left side of my face, noticing my existence for the first time in the two years we’d attended the same college, even though we shared three classes. I swallowed, trying to push down the baseball-sized ball of puke in my throat.