Page 111 of Tricky Girls

I feel Tilda’s eyes on me, so I’m not surprised when she eventually says, ‘So you do birthdays but not Christmas?’

‘Rather celebrate Haz’s birthday than some Jewish guy’s.’

She seems to find that funny and I keep my back turned so she can’t see my lips twitch.

When the moment dies, something darker slinks its way in. I keep the door open, letting it through. I have to do this more and more. Remembering why I hate her, remembering what she did. Some days it’s just so damn easy to forget. And that’s dangerous.

I bring up the worst things—a ten-year-old finding her dad hanged. Her arm snapping after his dead weight falls on her. The six years of hell following.

And yet, none of that compares to how I felt when I lost Tilda.

And that—that—is the thing that brings back the anger.

‘Why don’t you go upstairs?’

‘Huh?’ Tilda looks up from the balloons. ‘Why? Need something?’

‘For you to get out of my face. The others aren’t here, we don’t need to be pally.’

Tilda looks around herself. ‘I’m not. I’m just helping. Being normal.’

I grit my teeth. ‘Tilda, fuck off.’

She frowns. ‘But why? I thought—’

‘Then you thought fucking wrong!’ The balloon pump’s in my hands and I launch it at the fireplace, watching the pink plastic crack and spray on the marble. ‘Just fuck off!’

For a second, she’s a deer in headlights.

Then she laughs.

She fuckinglaughs,bending over and covering her face to smother it.

‘Sorry.’ She waves a hand. ‘That just reminded me of something I said to Elly the other day.’

I step towards her, jaw clamped, but she raises her palms to ward me off.

‘It’s cool. I’m leaving.’ She gets to her feet, toeing away a balloon. ‘Fuckingpsycho.’

Tossing her head, she stomps up the stairs.

I stare at the balloon pump, a shard of plastic right near my feet. I pick it up, regarding the pointed edge. I think of what Tilda would do with this, what she uses to make those scratches of hers.

I run it over my forearm, watching it redden then bleed.

Doesn’t do much for the rage. Not like beating a tree, the blows vibrating up your arm, that second your knuckles split, how the pain numbs the more you punch.

I toss the shard away. Cutting’s for pussies.

Kicking the pump aside, I carry on decorating. Haz’ll be back soon and I want this done.

Tilda

I don’t go back down until I hear the others return. Haz booms my name, hollering at me to get my hot tush downstairs so she can snog me. I don’t let her do that, but I do allow her to crush the ever-loving breath from me in a hug. Elly gives me one too, her cheeks flushed from both cold and excitement.

‘That was fucking mint.’

‘Fuckingmint,’Haz agrees. She holds up one of her craft beers. ‘Can I drink now?’

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