Page 3 of The Favorite Girl

But after paying for one more night in the motel, and setting aside the rest for some food and clothes, I didn’t have anything left for anything more.

A banging on the door sounded, and my thoughts shattered as I clutched the towel tighter around me.

“Demi! We know you’re in there!” A wicked laughter echoed.

“Demi, baby… come on. We need you to come back. You know your job isn’t done,” another voice mocked.

My palms grew moist and my legs shook violently as my breathing hitched. The banging grew rhythmic, and the voices muffled together as spots clouded my vision. My head was light, and before I knew it, I was on my knees having a panic attack that I couldn’t get out from.

Panic attacks were a whole different form of cruelty. You often know you’re having them—you feel them mentally and physically—but no matter how much you hope to get through it, you just have to ride it out.

Except, I didn’t ride it out. I scrambled across the stained, shaggy green carpet on all-fours like a wild animal and grabbed the scissors that were coated in my dried blood.

“Ah!” I screamed as I jammed them into my thigh, but I quickly slapped my hand across my mouth. Blinking repeatedly, I looked at the door and realized the noise was gone. I’m okay.

Sweat dribbled down my temples as blood trickled down my leg and I stood naked, and slowly walked to the window. Sliding the thick curtain to the side by less than an inch, I let out a long breath of relief.

No one was there. The parking lot was mostly empty, except for a woman smoking by the vending machines.

“You’re okay, Demi.” I clutched my arms and rubbed them. I had to pull myself together. I had to… for her.

CHAPTER

THREE

I had spent the rest of the day stuffing my limited belongings into a trash bag and tying it up. Grabbing the thinned-out stack of cash from underneath the mattress, I made my way to a thrift store on the wealthier side of town. Rich people throw the nicest, barely worn designer things in their local Goodwill collection bins. It was worth the two-dollar bus ride.

The dusty scent of Goodwill slapped me in the face as soon as I walked in, but within seconds, I was padding through hangers that had beautiful designer pieces I had only learned about through fashion magazines I’d dig out of retail trash bins.

I needed an all-white outfit, but wasn’t having any luck until I turned, about to leave, and noticed a stunning jumpsuit. Pinching my lips to the side, I lifted it off the rack. The material was smooth like butter, and I was certain I could fit into it. All I needed now were some white shoes, a few hair clips and ties, and maybe pop into a drugstore for tweezers, powder, and mascara. Brushing the tag of the outfit, I saw someone had scribbled their name on the back: Navy Mian. Shrugging, I walked to check out.

The teenage boy behind the register was too busy texting and didn’t acknowledge me, not even when I placed my items on the counter. Clearing my throat, he huffed as if I was such an inconvenience for shopping at the store.

“There’s a small rip on the leg of the jumpsuit. I’d like twenty percent off.” I pointed out the tear—the one I had created by jamming my nail into the delicate threading, knowing it would be a sure-fire way to have some more money knocked off it.

“Ten is the best I can do, sis.” He took a long slurp of his gas station soda before lifting his phone again.

“Fifteen, and I don’t tell your store manager that you’re looking at porn on your phone.” I shrugged as his mouth dropped.

“Fine.” He rang up my items and sure enough, when he told me the total, he had given me the twenty percent off I had initially asked for.

Clutching my bag, I pushed through the doors and scrunched my nose. The scent of something delicious was floating around, and my stomach rumbled. I didn’t have enough money left over for food, so I’d have to stick to the vending machine fare tonight.

Sulking, I walked to the drugstore and quickly grabbed some powder, lipstick, and mascara from a clearance bin. The powder was two shades too dark for my skin, and the lipstick would definitely look orange on me. Sliding the mascara and lipstick into my Goodwill grocery bag and glancing around nervously, I went to the cashier and quickly checked out the powder.

“Havin’ a good day, sweetie?” The older woman behind the counter smiled brightly.

“Mm-hmm…” I averted my gaze. Something about her made me feel nervous. Maybe it was the way her wrinkles sunk in by her eyes when she smiled, or the Southern drawl… or maybe it was the pearls around her neck.

Maybe it was the way she was a stranger, but also completely familiar.

My heart began pounding against my chest. “You live around here, honey?” she asked as she slowly bagged the small powder compact.

“Why?” I looked up at her with rage pooling inside me.

She was immediately taken aback by my tone. “I’m… I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean to pry.” She ripped the receipt and handed it to me.

“Southern hospitality doesn’t excuse you from being a nosey old hag,” I spat out before rushing out of the store.

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