The books—alphabetized, standing straight, uncreased, each row sandwiched between two gilded fish-shaped bookends on the wall-mounted shelves; A-C on the top row, D-E on the second, all the way down to U-Z on the bottom row? The filing cabinet—grouped by student, by week, by last name; last names A-H in the first drawer, I-M in the second, all the way down to U-Z in the bottom drawer, with West missing and in its place on his desk? His desk—his shiny name placard reading S. T. Callaghan poised an inch from the front and an inch from the side, the black basket for turning things in velcroed down and perfectly straight, the red basket for late work velcroed down beside it and also perfectly straight, the clear basket of lined paper (college ruled) right beside that one and also velcroed down in a perfectly straight manner; his positive affirmation desk calendar, today’s square reading, I am enough, each day before stamped with an X, the X stamp placed beside it and the red ink pad resting beneath it; his clear container of paper clips, his clear container of pushpins, his clear container of staples, his stapler; the manilla folder reading West in neat, careful handwriting in the center of his desk? The board—five Expo markers, evenly spaced, on the polished whiteboard; the Expo cleaner spray in its case velcroed to the side of the whiteboard?
One seat in front of his desk; one seat behind his desk.
Yes. That was just right. God, it was nice to have everything just right.
Trevor drew in a deep breath. The past hour of working to get his classroom spotless and to make smell decent had paid off. The amount of “Hawaiian Breeze” air freshener was nearly suffocating, but it certainly drowned out the lingering scent of hormones, weed, and Axe body spray.
He was glad that he had never smelled like that. Jesus.
He stooped down next to his desk now, gingerly hiding the air freshener on the inside of his desk before grabbing his satchel. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He squinted at his image on the screen (Christ, these contacts were too damn weak) and brushed several loose hairs back into place. He smiled widely, tongued some green from his teeth, and then smiled again; checked his breath on his hand, shook his head, and pulled out some breath freshener from his pocket. Spritz, spritz—yes.
“Ladykiller,” he said under his breath, nodding approvingly at himself.
He pocketed his phone and quickly sniffed of his wrist. Only faintly could he smell his cologne. He quickly pulled the travel size glass tube of the cologne from his satchel and gave it a roll on his wrists and on his neck.
Smooth, smooth the creases out of his shirt; he made sure it was tucked perfectly into his pants. No scuffs on his belt. No spots on his shiny black loafers.
Perfect, perfect, perfect.
He drew in a deep breath, replacing his cologne in his satchel and setting his satchel back beneath his desk.
He checked his watch; two minutes until she was to arrive.
Two minutes—two minutes; he felt a smile playing at his lips.
Was everything in place? The books—the cabinet—his desk—the board—the chairs…
The books—the cabinet—his desk—the board—the chairs…
The books—the cabinet—his desk—the board—the chairs…
It was times like this that he thanked God for his neurosis; it was what kept him sane.
she'd said when the boys' high school called for the second time that week to let her know that they were both facing after school detentions, and failing their English classes. Again. Ash hadn't been given much time to argue back against this punishment, as someone stepped into her office. She'd quickly hung up the phone, promising that she'd be there after school was over, and then she'd spoken with her assistant that had stepped in.
Ash had plastered a smile on her face, made her way through the rest of her work day, and then she'd hurried out to her car to go and retrieve her kids from school -- although, the addition of needing to stop to speak with the twins' teacher meant that someone else would have to pick up Chelsea. She'd been hesitant to make the call all day, even briefly considering pawning it off on her assistant.
Ultimately, Ash knew that it came down to her.
"Hey," she greeted, as the phone was picked up. "So, umm... super funny story, actually, the boys' school called me and they're facing detention... so I need to go pick them up and speak with their teacher. I won't have time to pick up Chelsea. I don't know if you can get her, or maybe your sister, or like... one of our parents. The meeting shouldn't take too long, but..." here, Ash just let herself trail off, letting the words hang there.
There was silence for a moment on the other end. Finally, her husband spoke.
"Again?" was all he said, before silence followed once again, and then there was the click as he hung up.
Ash pulled the phone away from her ear, peering at the screen to see his name there -- CK -- with the call ended screen blinking.
She supposed she would take as a yes, as she tossed the phone into the seat beside her. It was a few more minutes of navigating after school traffic before she managed to make it to the school, where she parked her SUV (what -- she needed space with the whole three kids situation) and stepped out of the car. Ash paused momentarily after she'd locked her car door, staring up at the old stone building, and just contemplating how she'd never expected to spend this much time here following her graduation.
It wasn't her fault, though, or even the twins' fault. There was only one person who could be blamed for everything here, and his name brought a bitter taste of regret and denial to her tongue.
Trevor Callaghan.
When the boys had told her he was their English teacher, she'd had to swallow the surprise and dread that she'd felt -- but Ash had clung to some hope that Trevor had surely moved on from their brief fling in their senior year of high school. Or perhaps he just wouldn't recognize the boys as hers, especially since they didn't look much like her, and they didn't share her old maiden name.
She'd been wrong, as proven by her umpteenth trip to his classroom this year. At first, CK had attended some of the meetings but, as they continued on, it had trickled down to mostly falling on her shoulders.
With a deep breath, Ash grabbed her phone before she started up the sidewalk towards the front door of the school. Stepping in, she smiled at the secretary who didn't do a thing to stop her. She was on a first name basis with them by this point, as she pushed out of the office and started down the hallway, the sound of her heels clicking against the tiled ground echoing off the white cement walls around her.
By now, pretty much everyone had faded from existence in the school -- except that as she'd started to turn down a corner and come to the stairs that led up to the second story and, ultimately, Trevor's classroom, she was brought to an abrupt stop by one of her tall, dark-haired sons. Ash stopped, her lips pressing down into a frown, before she pushed past her son and continued towards the stairs.
"Mom, listen," he started as he trailed after her, "I'm telling you right now, we didn't do anything this time. Cross my heart, swear it. He's got it out for us, mom, I'm telling you. All I did was breathe-- here, here, here, like this, like this," he scurried in front of her, and took in a breath, before letting out a long sigh. "That's it! And Mr. Calladi-- Callaghan, he was all 'you, detention!'"
"Yeah, Jace, I know," Ash said as she pushed past her son. She heard something above them and glanced up briefly before she started up the stairs. "Donna, sweetie, don't sit on the railing like that. You're going to hurt yourself."
Jason was still trailing after her, and the chatterbox was still -- well -- chattering, but Ash didn't really hear much of what he was saying before they grew closer to the English teacher's door. Ash fumbled with her phone, bringing it up to her ear.
"Boys, wait here, don't, just... don't do anything stupid, okay? I'll just be a few minutes," she said, smiling at her sons as Jace dramatically collapsed onto the bench outside of Trevor's classroom. Satisfied, she stepped into the classroom, phone still held to her ear, and pulled the door closed.
She smiled, faking a laugh, as if whoever she was speaking to on the phone had said something so funny. "Oh, babe, I'll have to let you go. I just got to the boys' classroom, but I'll call you back when we leave." She paused, as if she was listening to whoever was on the other end. "That sounds lovely. Alright, bye. I love you, too, CK." And with that, she pulled her phone from her ear, and pretended to hang up before she walked towards the chair sitting in front of Trevor's desk.
"Can we make this quick?" Ash asked as she smoothed down her skirt before taking a seat, her hands with her phone coming to rest comfortably in her lap. Her eyes flicked down to the folder on his desk, which she noticed still said West."Do you not know their last name? It's Freud."
except when he was cheering his brother on, and then he heard the familiar sound of his mother's heels clicking through the hallways.
"Oh shi--" he'd hissed out, before he'd taken off down the stairs. And to get down there faster, Jay had tried to slide his way down the railing like they do in the movies. Except he got stuff about halfway down, and ended up having to hop off and then take the stairs two at a time, which was oh so easy when you were basically built like a giant.
Jay had been quick to try and explain his side of the story, but it felt as if his mother was mostly just dismissing him. But hey, better her here than their dad, 'cause if it'd been him, boy oh boy. Jay didn't even want to think about what it would be like when they got home later. His dad was always scary, but his dad was particularly scary on days that the boys had gotten in trouble.
Which again, was undeserved. But ever since the first day of school, it felt like he was out for them.
Their mom ordered the boys to take a seat outside of the classroom, and Jay gave her a quick salute. "Yes, ma'am," he said, watching as his mother disappeared into the classroom with the phone held up to her ear. And then he clasped his hands together, his shoulders drooping, as he started looking about the hallway around them. The floor, the lockers across from them, the ceiling, the burning white lights.
His foot started tap, tap, tapping against the ground.
"How long you think she's gonna be?" he asked, dragging his eyes away from the light to look at Donna. Jay then tried to peer through the tiny window on the door, just to see his mom with her back to them while she spoke with their asshole teacher. "Wish we had eggs. 'Cause ya know, no one's here. We could go egg his car real quick, come back. Mom would never know."
There was noise outside of his closed door, and Trevor’s brows raised in alarm.
Thinking quickly, he rushed to his chair and stooped down to busy himself with latching and opening and then closing and relatching his satchel over and over again.
He was a working man after all. He had to seem it.
The door opened; Trevor grinned to himself.
My back muscles look sexy, don’t—
There was a forced sort of laugh from the woman who had just entered through the door. Trevor’s grip tightened on his satchel. The woman’s all-too-familiar voice, slightly older than how it always sounded in his head, sang, “Oh, babe, I’ll have to let you go.” Trevor’s gnaw-nailed fingers cried out in pain as the hard leather fight to get beneath them; he grit his teeth. “I just got to the boys’ classroom, but I’ll call you back when we leave.”
Happy place in your mind, Sean, Trevor thought, relaxing his grip on his satchel but not straightening up to look at the woman. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth to make his ears rattle to drown out the noise. Happy place in your mind, happy place in your mind, happy place in your—
“That sounds lovely,” she continued after a pause. “Alright, bye. I love you, too, CK.”
Pain shot through his tightened jaw, warning him that his teeth might break with any more pressure. He was going to fucking vomit. He felt nauseated. He considered how bad the woman would feel to see him collapse on the floor, writhing and vomiting, all because of what she’d said.
Happy place in your mind, Sean, he reminded himself, relaxing his jaw slightly and drawing in a deep breath, closing his satchel and rematching it for a final time. He closed his eyes for a long moment, mentally slapping himself, tossing water on his face, and massaging his shoulders.
Ladykiller, he remembered. I’m a fecking ladykiller.
“Can we make this quick?”
With a roll of his shoulders and a long breath, Trevor straightened himself up in his chair and settled his gaze on—
God, she was perfect, wasn’t she?
He kept a straight face, by some miracle, as he watched her move. She was beautiful—like an angel—and her movements were elegant; the smoothing of her skirt, the way that her hands placed her phone so gingerly on her lap...
Her eyes moved down to the folder on his desk, which he, flattening his lips, placed his hands across, half covering up the name on the front, hoping that perhaps she wouldn’t notice the last name this time.
But of course, like every time, she, like a slap in his face, said, “Do you not know their last name? It’s Freud.”
Trevor’s eye twitched; to cover it up, he blinked his eyes a couple of times. “Mm,” he said. He cocked his head slightly, and then shook his head and looked down at the folder. Opening it up, he drawled sarcastically, “A hello would suffice for a greeting, but I’ll take what I can get.” On top was the incriminating evidence against the two interchangeable brats. He picked the thick packet of the past three weeks of tests up, and then, after sorting through the titles for the worst offenses, pulled out the two essays that had particularly pissed him off.
“I printed these off,” he said, “but they turned them in digitally.” He turned both of the papers her direction so that she’d be able to read them. How kind, I know.
At the top of one of the papers was a glaring red 8%; the other one had an even more abysmal 2%.
“I have the past month’s performance checks here, too, if you’d like to see them.” He patted the thick stack of papers that he’d just sat down. “But these essays…” He tapped the title of the essay, which read, I’ll come up with a title later mf.
Trevor leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I let that go, assuming that he’d meant to change it. I was even forgiving on the fact that the essay was supposed to be about symbolism in Fahrenheit 451 and one of your sons submitted their essay on why the book should qualify as military grade torture.” He reached forward to tap his finger on his desk. “But what I won’t overlook is the fact that your boys took my neatly organized bookshelf—“ Which he gestured to, because it really was perfectly organized. “—and turned all of my books upside down—and moved all of my books that start with U-Z into the sink.” He shook his head indignantly; he felt a headache coming on just thinking about this. “This is a repeat offense. And the fact that they put it in the sink—which may not work, but the fact that this used to be a chemistry classroom, and they moved the books into the sink that at one point had chemicals poured down it? This is unacceptable. Unacceptable behavior.”
It was incredibly difficult to stifle the smile on her face as she pulled the essays towards her.
First, she picked up Donna's, with the beaming grade of two percent on top. The title really didn't leave much up for the imagination -- Fahrenheit 451: A Guide to Military Grade Torture, and skimming through the pages just told her that it was... not good in the least bit. Still, he had complete sentences, so surely that should've earned him a higher grade.
Jace's wasn't much better, with the title stating he'd replace it later (which he clearly hadn't) and as she read over the paper, she realized that a good majority of the sentences had been copy pasted repeatedly to make the paper longer than it actually was. And of course, there was the lovely quote of "Burn, baby, burn" where Jay proceeded to argue that that song had been based on the book.
Truly, both parents were trash, but still -- Ash was here to be on her children's side.
She pushed the papers back across the desk.
"I fail to see how either of these papers are worthy of such low grades," Ash stated. "What's your grading criteria? Their sentences are complete, the paragraphs have opening and closing sentences, intro and conclusion paragraphs look great. And in a way, arguing that Fahrenheit 451 is military grade torture is kind of symbolic since it is a book about an overstepping government, isn't it?"
She'd only read the book once, when she was in high school. But clearly, she'd read it more than both of her boys.
"As for the books," she continued, "are you sure it wasn't some student making a statement? Just instead of burning the books, they placed them into a dry, empty sink as some kind of... symbolic gesture related to the book. Also, where is your proof that that was done by my boys, and how is something so small considered working of giving them both detention? They said they're innocent, and I'm inclined to believe them."
Ash was absolutely grasping at straws here, to try and wipe these things off of her sons' records.
He mirrored Jay’s salute, but with two fingers instead of his whole hand. His eyes laser focused on a spot on the ground a few feet ahead of himself as his mother’s heel clicks disappeared behind the shut door.
As soon as the door shut, he looked over at Jay and stuck out his tongue, doing a thumbs down. “Laaaame,” he whined. “Why’ve we always gotta get caught, man? We cursed or som’n’?”
“How long you think she’s gonna be?” Jay asked, craning his neck to look in the window of the classroom.
Donna scoffed, flopping his hand, his neon green silicone wristband sliding down to halfway down his hand. “Eh, she’s with Callaghandjob.” He rolled his eyes, adjusting his bracelet. “You know guy keeps her in there for an hour every time this happens, man.” He crossed his arms tightly across his chest. “What’s his issue, man? You think he’s got some, like, pervy thing for Mom?” He shook his head in disapproval. “That’s gotta be it, with how far up her ass he tries to be, man.”
"Wish we had eggs,” Jay said. “’Cause ya know, no one's here. We could go egg his car real quick, come back. Mom would never know."
“Yeah,” Donahue agreed glumly, but then he shook his head. “That’s kinda boring though. We’ve done that a million times, man. ‘Member, Ms. Reever? We egged her ass so hard, but that was, y’know, two years ago, man. Kinda getting old now.”
He looked down the hallway, and as he did, a door opened wide and the janitor, whistling, wheeled out a bright yellow cart and began to push it down the hall.
An idea popped into Donahue’s head—a genius one (like all of his ideas were)—and he straightened up on the bench, uncrossing his arms slowly, a grin beginning to sprout from the side of his mouth.
He slowly looked over to his twin. “Heyyyy, Jayyyyyy,” he drawled, slowly slinging his arm around his brother’s shoulder. He pulled him closer, leaning in closer to lower his voice and whisper, “I got an ideaaaa…”
Preparedness was one of the things that he prided himself on—and some people said he had a stick up his are, which was untrue, because really, if everyone was honest with themselves, it made him hot. It’s sexy, isn’t it?
“My grading criteria—“ And here, he reached over into his stack and retrieved two charts covered in bright red ink. “—is clear and obvious from the rubric here, which was made available to them every day during class as well as on their student profiles.” He smiled slightly, though not happily. “I found a copy of the rubric with DJ DeeRy Freud written on it—which I assume is one of yours—folded into a ninja star and sitting in front of my podium, so clearly, the boys didn’t utilize the resources made available to them.” He placed the rubrics in front of her. “And if Donahue wants to make statements, he can find another outlet—one that doesn’t affect his grade in my class.”
Her second argument, too, was something that was flimsy. “On the other note, any breach of the rules is not a small thing. It’s a breach of the rules regardless. It’s the principle of it.” He picked up a pen from his desk and held it between two fingers. “As for how I know it’s by your boys—they did it. They’ve done it before, they did it this time.”
He glanced at the sink, and the memory of the events of the day threatened to give him another headache; with a small sigh, he looked back to—
Oh, God, her face never got old.
He swallowed, continuing his statement, focusing on the pen in his hands. “If they’re making a statement, that misses the entire point of the novel. The theme of the novel is that book burning—censorship, truly, not specifically burning books—is a moral failure. I wrote my thesis on the theme of censorship, though it was about the great Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl”, which is a poem, though the angle at which both approach the theme is similar, so I think that I understand a thing or two about statements.”
Isn’t that sexy? I have a Master’s Degree. Bet your sonuvabitch husband doesn't, does he?
He leaned forward in his chair, placing down the pen. “I called you here to discuss maybe…” He straightened the pen, making it perfectly even with the edge of his desk. “I don’t know, something to be done for your boys.” He looked up at her face, and instinctively, his tone grew a bit more apologetic. “I really hate to have to keep putting them in detention, but…” He sighed deeply. “They continue to act out in my class and fail their assignments. The last thing I want to do is have to fail them, but…” He shook his head. “I’m afraid that if it isn’t fixed…”
A look of absolute disgust crossed Jay's face at his brother's words,
and he looked away from the door long enough to slap a hand against his brother's chest.
"Dude, bro, my man," he said, shaking his head. "The fuck would you say that for, huh? It ain't nothin' gross like that, he's just a uhh...." Jay peered back through the window, watching the movements of their greasy English teacher carefully, and his eyebrows drew together. "I dunno, maybe he's just real desperate 'cause ah... maybe mom's got a hot friend and he wants her number or something."
Behind him, Donna was talking, and insulting Jay's bright ideas. “That’s kinda boring though. We’ve done that a million times, man. ‘Member, Ms. Reever? We egged her ass so hard, but that was, y’know, two years ago, man. Kinda getting old now.”
"Nah, man," Jay started, before quickly ducking down when he thought Callaghan was looking in his direction. "There's nothin' wrong with the classics. It's like our ahh... signature move, or something." He poked his head back up once more, relieved to see that their teacher hadn't realized he was watching yet. "Shit, man, maybe we're starting to lose our edge."
Could that be true? Were the twins losing their edge when it came to pranks to mess with people?
... No, no, that couldn't be true. It was everyone else that were losing their edges.
“Heyyyy, Jayyyyyy,” Donna drawled, and his arm wrapped around his brother's shoulder. As Jay was tugged away from the window in the door, he blinked before turning his gaze onto his brother. “I got an ideaaaa…”
"Oh no," Jay whispered back, but then a smile spread across his face as he glanced around the halls, before his gaze settled on the janitor walking away. Twin telepathy or something was strong. "Janitor's shit?"
"DJ DeeRy Freud could be anyone, or it could be someone trying to frame my son,"
Ash tried to argue back, as she picked up the rubrics. She was only partially listening to the rest of Trevor's drawling, because something about him absolutely irked her these days.
Looking at him now, Ash had to wonder what had been wrong with her that she'd ever thought she loved the guy sitting across from her. Time had not been easy on him -- when they were younger, he'd been almost cute, but nowadays... well, he looked grimy. And he still smelled the same as he always had -- weed, too strong cologne, and desperation. She sighed all the same, puffing her cheeks out as her eyes perused the rubric.
"They met most of this criteria," she stated. "Obviously not all of it, but complete sentences are generally there. Their paragraphs are appropriate lengths, and the structure is sound. Surely that deserves a better grade than what they received. At least a solid F, maybe a D-."
Literally anything.
“If they’re making a statement, that misses the entire point of the novel. The theme of the novel is that book burning—censorship, truly, not specifically burning books—is a moral failure. I wrote my thesis on the theme of censorship, though it was about the great Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl”, which is a poem, though the angle at which both approach the theme is similar, so I think that I understand a thing or two about statements.”
"Congrats," Ash stated absently. She was trying to keep her gaze focused on the papers in front of her, instead of anywhere close to Trevor's person. "You wrote a thesis on a poem that no one has heard of. Unfortunately for you, this is high school, and you're expected to be holding them up to high school standards. Listen, Trevor," she placed the papers down, her hands clasping together on his desk as she finally looked at him.
She had to swallow her pride for a moment, and just remind herself of her sons, sitting so nicely just outside the door. Ash was doing this for them, even if it meant having to grovel below her high school mistake. So she had to bite her tongue, and try to keep the venom out of her voice, as she finally lifted her gaze from the papers to meet his gaze.
“I called you here to discuss maybe… I don’t know, something to be done for your boys.” He said, and Ash had to stifle rolling her eyes at this obvious lie. “I really hate to have to keep putting them in detention, but… They continue to act out in my class and fail their assignments. The last thing I want to do is have to fail them, but… I’m afraid that if it isn’t fixed…”
"They're both in football, and if their grades continue to be this low, then they're facing the possibility of being kicked from the team." Ash added, as if that was the most important thing to her regarding them -- and in a way, it was. Her own family had always put more pressure on the extracurriculars and in a way, CK's family had been similar, and she couldn't imagine what would happen if the boys failed so badly they were removed.
"I'm starting to wonder if perhaps the boys would be better off in someone else's class," she continued, holding out the whole because clearly, this is because you have a vendetta against me."If you're unable to properly teach them..." she shrugged helplessly, a frown pressing against her lips. {b]"I guess I would just have to move them, unless you have a better idea."[/b]
She couldn't keep doing this. Coming down here, putting her job and her priorities on hold, because Trevor wanted to make her life hell.
Her mom was a bitch who was even bitchier because she was pregnant and couldn’t drink. As per ushe. Her mom had to make some comment about her outfit for today—“did your dad actually let you leave the house like that?” or “did none of your teachers tell you that you needed to go put on shorts that you don’t need a magnifying glass to see?” or whatever it was today. As per ushe.
Her dad wasn’t around for her to say goodbye to. That was the same as always. Ellie wanted to come along, Mom told her to watch the brats—or “the boys”, as Mom called them, but Micky knew what she meant. Yada yada, whatever. It was the same every week.
Micky was just ready to get stoned and to get this weekend over with so that she could get back to cutting class and making out and smoking weed behind the field house with whatever boy or girl would join her.
Mom had stopped double-checking to see if Micky had her stuff at this point. For a bit there, a few months back, she’d made sure that, “Okay, Micky, are you sure you have your backpack all packed? I don’t want to have to come bring you stuff,” like she was turning over a new leaf of being a good mom or whatever, but Micky guessed that she gave up on that just like all of the other self-improvement shit she would periodically start. The answer was always, “Yeah,” to that question, anyway, even when it really shouldn’t’ve been, because Mom had to know that Micky really didn’t give a shit, so there wasn’t really any point to begin with. They’d just unceremoniously gotten in the clunker, Mom had popped open the window to pretend to hold a cigarette out of it, and they’d been off.
Her mother propped her foot up beside the wheel, frowning over at Micky, who was turning the radio to the rap station. “No headphones?”
Micky had forgotten them, but her mom didn’t need to know that. Her mom didn’t need to know anything. She could hear, through thick static, the soft sound of a rap beat, and she turned the volume up a bit more.
Mom rolled her eyes; her phone began to ring. With a sigh, she pulled her phone out of her pocket to check the caller ID. She gasped softly, then tapped the button to answer.
“Oh my God, I was waiting for you to call,” she said.
Micky rolled her eyes, tuning out.
Mom paused. “Oh, yeah, no, it’s, like, nothing now, but I was seriously effing heated before. Okay, so you know Micky’s dad, right? Yeah, ex-husband, like, yeah, sure, whatever. Total asshole. You know him.”
A pause.
“Yeah, mmhm. But listen, seriously, I’m telling you, he is getting worse, I swear to God. I text him—look, I text him, like, once every Friday, ask what time—“
A pause.
“Yeah, yeah, no, I used to, like, message him, ya know, every day, just to scope things out or whatever, but it’s been, like, at least…”
A pause.
“I don’t do it anymore! Like…that one time I woke up hungover and saw that I’d called him 46 times and then I had to change my number or whatever, yeah, that was it for me. But—“
A pause.
“Yeah, mmhm. But anyway, so I texted him, and guess what?”
A pause.
“No. Guess what?”
A pause.
“No, that’s next week. Guess what?”
A pause.
“Bastard left me on read. On. Read. So, I’m just bringing her at the usual time, and if he’s busy fucking his newest thing or whatever he can just get over it. No one wants his old dick anyway, and I—hello? Hello?”
Mom frustratedly dropped the phone. “God, this piece of—always losing my signal, goddamn it! Quit it! Seriously!” She shook her head. “I swear, I want to buy a new phone, but nooo, that’s a waste of money—screw you!”
“Do you ever shut up?” Micky muttered under her breath.
Mom glanced over at Micky. “Hm?”
Micky sighed, propping her chin up on her hand. “Nothing.”
The rest of the ride was as uneventful as every week—just a lot of dead silence to a backing track of old Fetty Wap, with Mom making the occasional offhanded comment that Micky honestly did not register (which was probably for everyone’s good, anyway).
Micky’s heart tightened in her chest when she saw her dad’s house. There it was, in all its…well, she wouldn’t call it glory. Jeez, you would think it would start to get exciting, ya know, just leaving Mom and…all that shit for awhile, but it never really did.
Well, except when Miles was home—
Oh, shit, Miles!
As Mom stepped out of the car, phone in hand, Micky threw open her car door and rushed over to the boy who was walking up the steps and into the house. “M!” she called, raising up a hand.
Nickie called after her daughter, holding her hand up, but Micky was already disappearing with Miles. With a sigh, Nickie threw her hands up and rolled her eyes. Like the kid would ever listen to her. Like her own daughter would ever give her the time of day.
She sighed deeply. Mason seriously couldn’t deny that kid was his.
The kid definitely wanted to act like she wasn’t hers, though.
Nickie glanced down at her outfit. A black top that made her look not-totally-fat, even with the damn baby belly, a cute skirt that was somewhere between church girl and slut. Her manicure was fresh and shiny; would he notice and get mad that she was treating herself? He’d be jealous of it all, and then—
Fuck, why did she give a shit. It was Mason. Her ex-husband. And she was pregnant regardless.
…but still.
She walked up the wooden steps and to his front door, then gave it a good knock-knock-kn-knock-knock…knock-knock.
As she waited for the door to be answered, she folded her hands in front of herself, feeling the familiar nerves creep into her system. She ran through the words to say for today—the same words that she always wanted to say:
”Here’s your daughter. I need her back Sunday night. Also, look how hot I am without you—don’t you want me? Oh, but, like, you can’t have me, because I’m, like, busy fucking my husband of, like, twelve or something years…unless you, like, really want me?”
It was a really good plan.
Toxic, sure. Nickie was old enough to recognize that.
such as the desperate need he felt to constantly be high. It was something that his uncle seemed to always have an issue with, and would consistently express his disappointment every time he realized Miles was, indeed, high.
It was something he'd felt somewhat bad about at first, 'cause his uncle was doin' a whole lot by letting Miles stay here with them. But every time he tried to drag himself away from the weed, something caught his attention and dragged him straight back into its grasp. It's why he was a little late today, actually, 'cause he'd stopped under the school bleachers to hit a joint before making his way home. Ari had been with him, and her nose had wrinkled up at the smell, stating that the act was disgusting, and as she'd preached her opinion, Miles couldn't help but realize how much like her dad she was.
Unlike her half-sister, Micky, who Miles sometimes felt way closer with.
As he was heading up the stairs to the house, he heard the all too familiar voice of Micky calling his name. Miles paused, briefly wondering if it was his imagination, until he glanced over his shoulder and saw his cousin pulling into the driveway. He gave a lopsided grin as she hopped out of the car and came running towards him. "Mick!" he said, smiling as he grabbed Micky's arm and pulled her in for a tight hug.
"Shit, this your weekend?" he asked as he let go of her and opened the front door, ushering her inside, and closing the door behind them without realizing that his ex-Aunt Nickie was on her way up the stairs.
"Who's home?" Mason's voice called from somewhere in the house.
"No one," Miles yelled back, before he started towards the stairs that led upstairs to the kids' bedrooms. Neither room was much to look at, but it'd always beat living in the backseat of his dad's car with him. Or... wherever Miles' mom was, he supposed. "Fuck, Mick-- did ya here? Tomorrow's some kinda of.... ahh..." he waved his hand in her direction as he turned towards his room, 'cause the girls' room was booo boring.
"Party, ya know. A huge ass bonfire," he said, wiggling his fingers like bonfires were supposed to be real spooky. "I've been workin' on tellin' ghost stories, ya know, so I can give everyone a real good heart attack." There was a confident nod of his head, as the boy fell backwards onto his mattress.
The opening of the door, soon followed by a lack of real response from Miles, was something that Mason had grown used to.
He supposed it was a fairly common occurrence when it came to teenagers, and at least when they were under his roof, Mason knew they were safe.
He wasn't really able to relax, though, as, after just a few seconds from Miles' entrance, there was a knocking on the door. With a sigh, Mason pushed himself up from the couch, and made his way to the door. He pulled it open, not sure who he was expecting to see, but it certainly wasn't Nickie.
Mason was about to ask where his warning had been, but then remembered the notification he'd received her -- which he'd quickly slid away and ignored until now. But he wouldn't let Nickie know that he was actively ignoring her, and that he would've blocked her number if it wasn't for the single thing that was still pulling the two of them together. That, of course, being their daughter.
"Can I help you?" he asked, his tone colder than normal as he rested one hand on the doorknob, and his arm on the doorframe. "Mick's inside, what do ya need, Nick?" He was trying to keep this cool, clean, cut, to the point.
Briefly, his gaze settled down to rest on her stomach, one eyebrow tilting up. Clearly, she was getting close to her due date or... whatever. She was fucking huge, although Mason was smart enough to keep that to himself.
Donahue confirmed with a few slow nods and a wide grin, tapping his temple. “Janitor’s. Shit.” He stood slowly, his eyes shifting over to the window beside the classroom’s door. “We gotta be stealthy with it. Don’t want Calladick to try and expel us from the United States or whatever.” And also don’t want Mom to rat us out to Dad, was heavily implied—but that was always implied.
Donna moved to stand beside the bench before suddenly slumping back against the wall, pressing himself as hard against it as he could as though he were being sandwiched between it and a giant rock—on some Indiana Jones type shit. He peeped the window again, and then looked back at Jay, ushering Jay forward with two fingers before plopping flat on the ground chest-down.
Now came the maneuver that only the real experts knew.
Pushing forward with the tips of his toes, Donahue quickly scooted his body across the floor—all five-foot-eight inches of it—past the window, behind his mom’s back and certainly below the line of sight of Callagdick—well, probably not out of sight for him, but he seemed like he was on drugs all of the time, so he could probably convince himself that it was a hallucination or whatever. As soon as he cleared the window, he flattened his body against the wall again, checked on his brother, and then casually walked away from the wall and began to stroll down the hallway, hands in his pockets.
It was the same concept as badasses walking away from explosions, except it was just a couple of badasses walking away from an explosive asshole.
He held up his hand for a high five from his brother as Jay caught up, and he casually looked around the empty hallway until—yeaaaah—his hand found the handle of the janitor’s closet and pulled it wide open.
The smell of cleaning solution immediately assaulted Donna’s senses. He coughed. “Lemon,” he groaned. “Gah.”
Sometimes, things in life changed as quickly as the seasons did.
One of those things was the involvement of Colby's biological father, who had entered and exited his life so many times over that Colby had stopped keeping count.
At some point, he'd learned to keep himself busy while he waited for his dad to come pick him up because, more often than not, his dad just wasn't going to show up. Lin kind of lived on his own clock, and Colby had grown to be alright with that. Although his alrightness had faded a bit with the birth of his younger half-sister, Laura, as his mother's doting immediately shifted towards his younger sister, and even his stepdad's attention started to fade from him.
Still, there were those times here and there when he'd get to spend quality time with his parents. Like when he was picked up by the police with Axel, and their dads would come down to the station to get them. He'd get so much attention when he got home, even if it was a lot of yelling and his mother being a bitch, acting like she gave a shit about him. Colby would just roll his eyes, promise not to do it again, 'cept he'd have his fingers crossed behind his back so they never knew his promises were fake as hell.
Unfortunately, it was Friday night but instead of doing anything fun, Colby was at home. Boo. He'd have really liked to be out tonight, fucking around town with Axel -- aka his best friend and worst influence -- but alas, shit had come up, and Axel was unable to hangout. Colby had brushed it off, acted all cool, as if he didn't really care, as if he hadn't really expected to hang with his friend that night.
So when his stepdad had found him hanging out on the couch, alone, he'd asked if Colby wanted to go out and toss the ol' ball around. Now, baseball wasn't something that he was particularly great at, but it was something he kind of enjoyed. He'd had dreams of going pro when he was little, but those died when he wasn't even able to make it onto varsity or... anything past the most basic of "this team just exists for the losers."
The ball was tossed in his direction, and Colby clumsily managed to catch it -- just barely with the mitt, and it had rolled out, but he caught it with his hand. There was a prideful look on his face as he straightened up.
"You're getting better," his dad called, and Colby grinned. "Nice job." And Zeph held up the mitt, ready to catch it.
Colby's tongue stuck out as he readied the ball, and then he tossed it back in Zeph's direction.
Trevor said matter-of-factly. “The number of students is at its maximum in every other teacher’s classroom, and switching students around sets an unrealistic precedent for all of the other students in the class.” He drew in a deep breath, picking the pen back up and holding it between his fingers again. “They are both in football, and I suggest that you make the consequences of their poor performance clear to them before your fear becomes a reality for them.”
He lifted his eyes from the table to Ash’s face again. Her eyes said she wanted to kill him.
Kill me.
The idea of that was so fecking hot. Her hands on his face, even if for a brief moment…and then, her crying over his limp body…
Every man’s fantasy—but, unlike every man, she was sitting right in front of him.
He slid back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap, the pen laced between his fingers, and he tried to will himself not to look down at her cleavage. He had a remarkable amount of self-control—it certainly didn’t come naturally. He frowned slightly, as though irked by the frustration that Ash expressed. (He’d also gotten okay at feigning like he slightly gave a shite.) He looked up, pretending to think carefully about the words that would next come from his lips. “Listen, I am an incredibly forgiving man,” he began slowly. “I really am. I think that I’ve demonstrated that with my patience with your boys. And your boys, though they prove themselves to be…troublemakers—they have potential.” He looked back at Ash and ignored the fact that his heart skipped a beat. “So I’m willing to let this be yet another bygone—if you make it clear to them the consequences of their actions. But, like I said, there are consequences for their actions. I can’t just give them the grade for free—that would be unfair of me as a teacher, and unfair toward them as students. I know you understand.”
Donna was super cool when he was sneaking 'round like this,
but Jay had never been able to mimic his brother's smooth movements. Growing pains were a son of a bitch, and Jay had sprouted pretty early on, and he was already fairly tall as it was, with no signs of stopping soon.
So he dropped to the ground, similar to his brother, but crawled across the floor on his hands and knees. His heart was pounding in his chest, worried that someone would see them, or his mom and Calladick would hear them and catch them red-handed. Sure, Jay was smooth enough that he was sure he could talk his way out of it, but as luck would have it, there was nothing to worry about.
As they passed the window, Jay jumped to his feet, brushing the dust from his hands and knees, before catching up to his brother, and meeting his hand with a quick high five -- you know, twin shit or something. He mimicked Donahue's movements, hands slipping into his pockets, shoulders casually relaxing backwards as they meandered forward.
Entering the janitor's closet, bleach quickly hit Jay's nose, and he wrinkled up his nose. "I kinda like the lemon," he commented nonchalantly, before he started to poke around. Cleaning solutions, cleaning rags, blah, blah, blah-- oh wait."Yo Dee, what do ya think 'bout ahh... makin' a stink bomb or somethin'? And we can drop it on top of Callahandjob's ceiling, right?"
He grew a little more excited at the idea, a smile growing on his face. 'Course, he wasn't really sure what they would use since cleaning supplies were typically known for smelling ya know... good.
Micky didn’t smile—that wasn’t what she did, really—but Miles’ face always made her burst into a wide grin.
“M,” she repeated as her cousin wrapped her in a tight hug. He really was the only one who made hugging not off-yourself-level icky.
“Shit, this your weekend?” he asked as she was released.
She followed in at his ushering, rolling her eyes and drawing in a sharp breath through her nose. “Yep. Every other Saturday,” she said. Wish it was all of the time, but I’ll take what I can get.
“Who’s home?” her dad’s voice called.
“No one,” Miles yelled back.
Micky flipped his voice off, accompanied by a forearm slap to the inside of her elbow showing him where he could shove it, as Miles started up the stairs. The syrupy, slightly sour scent of the house was an odd comfort to her, and she rolled her shoulders and breathed out a deep sigh as she followed her cousin upstairs.
Miles started, “Fuck, Mick—did ya hear? Tomorrow’s some kind of….ah…” Micky turned to go to her bedroom, but he waved a hand in her direction and started toward his own room; she got the memo. “Party, ya know,” he continued. “A huge ass bonfire. I’ve been workin’ on tellin' ghost stories, ya know, so I can give everyone a real good heart attack.”
As Micky entered Miles’ bedroom, Miles fell onto the bed backward, and Micky, with a slight laugh, went and sat on the barely-cleaned-off spot on his nightstand, cross-legged. “Yeah, I heard.” She rolled her eyes and scoffed. “From fuckin’ Ellie of all people. Dunno who invited the little bitch, but—where’s the good stuff, Miles?—I’m assuming that it was by accident.” She leaned her head back against the bedroom wall, comforted by the fact that she was finally out of that goddamn trailer for the weekend. “Guess I’ll go, too, though. I mean, I’m guessing if everyone’s there, there’s gotta at least be some free shit I can take, so I figured what the hell. Suck a dick, take some uppers, make out with someone whose face I won’t remember, skinny dip, whatever, right?”
Micky ran a hand across her hair, pausing for a moment at the end to play with her ponytail. She really needed to do another bleach job on the ends of her hair, but fuck knew if her mom would ever give her any more money and when her dad would be around for her to steal some off of him. Mom had moved her stash of money once she found some gone the last time, and fucking ripped Micky a new one, so Micky was over that shit.
She groaned slightly. “Jeez, you think that that bitch who’s obsessed with me—whatshisassColby? Kay? You think he’ll be there. I hate that asshole. Such a fucking desperate…little…” An insult that could describe him just right didn’t come to her head, so she just sighed again. “Where’s the good stuff, Miles?” she asked once more, holding her hand out this time.
It was out of instinct—that sort-of-sick state that her body slipped into every time that she saw his face. Like a pang to the heart, a scratch to the gut, the subtle feeling that she might vomit. Every time she saw him, he held himself as though he were so much older than last time, somehow, but he still had the musky, heavy scent of cigarettes hanging on him.
And his face…shit, his face—etched into her fucking dreams, living among her fucking nightmares. The face that she saw on the days that she sat and drank herself to a stupor in her bathtub; the face that she wanted to fucking knock in every time she saw it around time; the face that she imagined kissing when she felt like slamming her husband’s face into a wall; the face she felt like slamming into a wall when she was kissing her husband’s face.
Fuck him.
Fuck me.
God, she effing hated him.
The look on his face this time, at first, was one of surprise—genuine surprise. A vindictive smile crept across Nickie’s lips. “Hey, Mr. Rivera,” she greeted, her words dripping bitterness. Miss me, bitch?
...No, really, did you miss me?
“Can I help you?” he asked. His tone was cold, and it scratched at her stomach again.
Her smile stalled on her face. She felt herself shrink slightly. “Well, you know—“
“Mick’s inside,” he said. “What do you need, Nick?”
His eyes flicked down to her stomach, his eyebrow poising up.
Instinctively, her hands folded around her stomach, her elbows tucking in and conforming to the sides of her pregnant belly. The baby kicked, just a little flutter. God, fuck, she was so fucking huge. She really fucking was.
Fuck.
“Mason,” she said, but her voice was breathier than she intended, and sounded more hurt than the cold that she’d intended, “you left me on fucking read earlier.”
Yep, life was pretty damn cool for a badass, legendary guy like Lindsay Austen motherfuckin’ Kay.
What more to life was there than to see your badass, legendary name beside the words “Is An Overgrown Manchild Desperate for Attention” as the title to three hour YouTube exposés made byinsecure widdle desperate creators who just wanted to use your badass, legendary name as clickbait because their own name sucked ass and to have your book—which had your own badass, legendary name in the title, ‘cuz obviously it had to be—top the charts on both KindleUnlimited’s and Apple Books’ self-help sections? Nothing, Lin Kay would tell you; motha-effin’ nothin’.
Eat dick, Elon Musk; Lin Kay was coming for you. Not even 37 yet, but at the top of the motherfuckin’ social ladder, raking in that dough, really living up to that description in his bio of being a MF TRENDSETTER.
Anyway, he had a kid, too, which was okay, he guessed. Kind of sucked or whatever whenever people found out ‘cuz they always assumed shit about Lin, you know—filled in the blanks on their own, made Tweets about it, chased effin’ clout with it—but he really vibed with his kid, not even gonna lie. ‘Course, a lot of the time, he just didn’t have time in his schedule for the dude, which the dude understood, because, like Lin said, they really did vibe—really did mesh really well, ya know—so you know. But sometimes, Lin had a little bit of extra time, and, ya know, this weekend, besides hit up some Instagram models and maybe blow some cash on random shit from the internet (like this dope ass realistic lightsaber he just bought with twenty-seven realistic settings), he really didn’t have anything better to do than to stop by and pick the kid up to, ya know, do something or whatever.
So, Lin got in his Lamborghini—fresh off the rack and verde mantis green because that was, ya know, the hottest color and everybody wanted it—and sped through the streets of one city into the next, cutting the hour-long drive to his son’s house into a thirty minute one, and eventually, pulled up into the driveway purring like a motha-effin’ kitty cat. Meow.
And in the front yard, like some cheesy kind of movie scene or whatever, tall old whatshisface—emphasis on tall and oooold and also whatshisface because who the fuck did he think he was and who the fuck was he because Lin didn’t have the brain capacity to remember nobody failure traitor bitches—and badass-in-the-making Colby Major effin’ Kay were throwing around a baseball.
Lin took a long moment to open the car door, hoping that Whatshisface would look over here and get all pissy about how much his life sucked. He grinned as he stepped out, taking off his sunglasses and pocketing them, but he found, much to his disappointment, that the game had the guy hooked on it or whatever, so he didn’t even get a glance in his direction.
Lin, with a sigh, watched a couple of tosses back and forth between the dude and Colby, halting by his vehicle—and then, a great idea occurred to him. A grin spread across his face, and he waited for the perfect moment. He watched Colby ready himself to throw the baseball, and then—like in a movie of his own, only one way more effin’ badass—came running full-speed, shoving Whatshisface out of the way and catching the ball in his hands.
The ball stung on impact, but Lin cackled at the sensation. “Col-bee!” he yelled excitedly, running up to his son and—sort of gently—tackling him in a bear hug.
Donna half-joked, stepping into the closet to prod around, his back to his brother’s.
Fabuloso, Febreeze, Mr. Clean, that lemon-scented vomit cover sand… “It’s kind of more boring in here than I thought,” Donna said, frowning and continuing to scan the shelves. “Plus it fuckin’ reeks.” Why did kids even screw in here? And how? Unless they were freaks, this place was a total turnoff. Nothing said un-horny like bald guys who wiped off tabletops, no matter how much commercials tried to convince him otherwise.
“Yo Dee,” Jay cut in, and Donna responded with a, “Hm?”
“What do ya think ‘bout ahh…makin’ a stink bomb or somethin’? And we can drop it on top of Callahandjob’s ceiling, right?” Jay suggested, a smile growing on his face. "Or would we kill someone doin' that?"
Donna’s own smile grew on his face. “Kill someone?” he asked, and he cocked his head and looked at the shelves. Purple stuff, green stuff, clear stuff, blue stuff… He shrugged, flopping his hand. “Eh, it doesn’t look dangerous.” He grinned. “Plus, if we drop it on Mr. Uphisass, it’d be a public service. Like, we’d be praised, man. Medals that they give to the soldiers and everything, man.” He pretended to pin on a medal, and then he saluted.
With another quick glance to the shelf, he smiled too-sweetly at his brother and patted him on the shoulder. “But I, uh, only passed chemistry last year ‘cuz I paid off that one nerd to write my final paper for me, so…you’re going to have to do the mixing. But I’ll hype you up, man, I’ll hype you up.”
She huffed, lips pressing together into a tight line as Trevor insisted that she couldn't move them.
That was ridiculous, if you asked her. But Trevor had clearly never learned how easy it was to throw a bit of money at a problem, and watch it vanish before your eyes.
Granted, it wasn't something she particularly liked to do -- Ash was typically of the mindset of face your issues like a normal person, and don't use your wealth to gain privilege. But that was also in scenarios that didn't involve a vengeful ex-boyfriend from high school who, for whatever reason, still had it out to try and make Ash's life a living hell, even twenty years away from their original breakup.
Was he trying to give her parenting advice, though? "Let them face the consequences of their poor performance." Oh he could just shove it. Ash let them face their consequences... sometimes -- when she felt that it was deserved. Sometimes.
It was hard to watch your children struggle, okay?
She held their hands probably a little too much.
“Listen, I am an incredibly forgiving man,” he began, and it took all of Ash's self-control to not call him out right then and there for being a damn liar. “I really am. I think that I’ve demonstrated that with my patience with your boys. And your boys, though they prove themselves to be…troublemakers—they have potential. So I’m willing to let this be yet another bygone—if you make it clear to them the consequences of their actions. But, like I said, there are consequences for their actions. I can’t just give them the grade for free—that would be unfair of me as a teacher, and unfair toward them as students. I know you understand.”
Ash had never wanted to slap him so hard before. She leaned back into her chair, her hands coming to find her phone, and plastered a smile across her face. Poised, pleasant -- at least years of dealing with her mother had helped her achieve the proper control over her emotions to deal with a situation such as this.
He truly sucked.
"Thank you so much for your consideration, Trevor," she stated, her voice warm as she stifled her disgust. "Sorry, Mr. Callaghan. Thank you for taking time out of your oh so busy schedule to meet with me about them again, and I promise, they will turn themselves around." Standing from her seat, Ash once again smoothed her skirt, giving him one last smile, but not offering a handshake or anything of the sort, because, well, ew."If you don't mind, I do need to go pick up my daughter, and I do hope this is our last time having to meet over such conditions. And I'll send the boys in to apologize."
By that, she meant at all. Literally. Please.
As she started towards the door, Ash halted as she grew nearer when she realized that, through the small window on the door, she couldn't see either of her sons seated on the bench that she'd left them on. She halted, panic crossing over her briefly -- at first, she was worried they'd been snatched up, but then she reminded herself that they were both teenagers and she no longer had to worry.
Although, they'd never worried about things happening to Jace, either--
They were fine. The boys were fine.
But hell, this would just prove some of Trevor's convictions correct, and refusing to admit he was correct under any circumstances was a hill Ash was willing to die on. So she turned once again, the pleasant smile on her face not betraying her inner worries.
"On second thought, before I leave," she said, as she made her way back towards him. "Perhaps we should come up with some sort of... game plan? You know, to help the boys succeed -- so this doesn't continue to occur."
Ash just had to buy some time. They were just... in the bathroom or something. Yeah.
Miles let out a snort of laughter, his heavy eyelids falling shut as he moved his sluggish arms to rest behind his head. "Thought your mom was all ya know... overbearing an' shit. Surprised she's lettin' her go. No way fuckin' Ellie's gonna sneak out. Too goody goody 'n shit."
The idea made him snicker, and a goofy smile across the sleepy boy's face.
“Guess I’ll go, too, though. I mean, I’m guessing if everyone’s there, there’s gotta at least be some free shit I can take, so I figured what the hell. Suck a dick, take some uppers, make out with someone whose face I won’t remember, skinny dip, whatever, right?”
"Sounds like a baller night to me," Miles mused. He didn't really have any interest in... most of that, but he was excited for the uppers. And hanging out with his friend. Maybe swimming, although he'd prefer to keep his clothes on his body, thank you.
“Jeez, you think that that bitch who’s obsessed with me—whatshisassColby? Kay? You think he’ll be there. I hate that asshole. Such a fucking desperate…little… Where’s the good stuff, Miles?” Micky asked once again, clearly desperate.
Miles opened his groggy eyes, and pushed himself onto his elbows. He gestured with his head towards the nightstand that Micky had taken her seat on. "In there, check the box of condoms." He explained, 'cause hey, Mason never checked the condoms when he was searching for contraband. They made him super uncomfortable, so Miles had found that to be his best place to hide shit.
"Hey, you said you wanted to suck someone's dick, and go skinny dipping. Bet Colby'd be down for both. Two birds, one stone, or some shit like that." There was that goofy grin on his face again, just to let Micky know that Miles was teasing her. "And then maybe he'd fuck off, ya know?"
Micky scoffed, grinning, getting up to go grab the weed from the box of condoms. “Mom’s going to make her babysit again and shit.” And by Mom’s going to make her babysit again, Micky meant, Mom’s going to try and make me babysit but I’m going to force Ellie to do it. Which, if she was honest, Micky didn’t understand why Mom still wanted her and Ellie to watch the brats in the first place, since Micky was at least 75% sure that Grady was about to be thirteen or just turned twelve or something like that. “I just meant that she was invited. If she sneaks out…psh, aliens are real and she’s been replaced.”
As Micky fetched the blunt from the box and made her way back over to the backpack she’d dropped by the nightstand to fetch her lighter, Miles said, with a big grin on his face, “Hey, you said you wanted to suck someone's dick, and go skinny dipping. Bet Colby'd be down for both. Two birds, one stone, or some shit like that. And then maybe he'd fuck off, ya know?"
She cackled as she flicked her lighter. “In his wet fuckin’ dreams. There’s no way I’d go anywhere close to that microdick. Even if I, like, was getting paid.” As she watched the fire take hold of the end of the blunt, Micky smiled to herself. The puff that she took filled her lungs with the slightly woody smoke, as comforting as her grandmother’s cookies. “Which honestly, I wouldn’t put past Bucktooth Kay,” she continued, holding in the smoke as she spoke before breathing it out in a long breath with a single cough. “He just seems like the type.”
Micky dropped her lighter back in the side pocket of her backpack and came to sit at the end of Miles’ bed. “Plus—and don’t say any of this shit to another damn soul—I banged his best friend, and I’m not a homie hopper.” Which was kind of a lie, but it was a good excuse for not getting with fucking Colby. She reclined back beside Miles and took another drag from the blunt. “But really, Colby’s just a fucking jackass who thinks he’s cool.” She breathed out another cloud of smoke. “And have you heard about his dad? Rich bitch deadbeat? It’s gotta run in the family. And if it runs in the family, I don’t want to wind up knocked up and fuckin’…ding-a-ling ditched.”
She looked over at her cousin with a slight frown, offering the blunt to him. “Hey, speaking of dads, when are you gonna see Uncle Drake again? Can I come this time? I miss him.”
