Page 39 of Falling in Reverse

“No,” I deadpan, pivoting back to the bench. I can feel her glare at my back, but I don’t care. I’m not listening to Sheriff Muncy again about her shutting up, and I can hear her little feet padding after me like a brat that won’t give up.

“I want my shoe.”

“You should be wanting to go home,” I counter, sitting back down and flicking my narrowed attention at her. Man, she’s dumb.“What’s a girl like you doing here anyway?”

I’ve never seen her before. And I hope I never do again.

The girl lifts her chin at my simple question like she’s better than me or something. She’s a brat. I have two sisters and they don’t act like this. “I ran away.”

I scoff. “Why? Did your parents not buy you the latest doll or something?”

“No.”

Whatever. Who cares anyway?

“I hate my mom.”

My brows knit because Moms don’t hate their children and maybe she should run away for not being grateful to have a real one. “I can see why.” Her tiny jaw drops, plush lips pouting a bit, but I don’t feel remorseful for what I just said.“Do you always act crazy when you don’t get your own way?”

“I’m not crazy.” Then her impatient arm quickly swipes out to seize her shoe, but I’m faster than her. She immediately huffs in frustration, making a piece of her hair fly away from her face. “You can’t keep it from me forever.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

I point to the opposite side of the dirty cell we’re both in. “Go sit down. You’re buggin’ me.”

“Give me my shoe.”

God, she’s annoying.

“No.”

I watch her jaw clench, probably because no one ever orders her around. “I’m gonna punch you.”

“Do it,” I provoke. I’m already bored with her attitude problem, and she has nothing else to throw so I’m good. “You probably hit like a girl, anyway.”

I guess I shouldn’t have said that.

Because within the next second, she’s smacking me in the face in one swift swoop, causing my chin to burn and prickle from the hit.

I don’t bother to touch it. My older sisters hit me harder than that, and I lean back against the gray cement wall. Pulling one of my legs up to bend and prop at the edge of the hard bench, I say, “I was right...you do hit like a girl.”

“And what do you do, pick on girls all the time?”

“No.”

“Then give me?—”

“What’s your name, brat?” She doesn’t answer me right away, which is surprising, because she hasn’t shut up since getting shoved in here. “You obviously need a friend who keeps you out of trouble.”

“I don’t want you as a friend.” She says it as though it’s the most awful thing she’s ever been offered in her whole life.

However, I’m not deterred by obnoxious behavior.

“Well…” I look over at Sheriff Muncy, who’s been sitting at his desk for what seems like forever, and convey, “As my dad says, we don’t get to pick what we want in life. It just happens.”

“Your dad must’ve never sat in the same room as you.”

---