Page 103 of Wild Hit
She sighs. “Yeah. Those are Vivian, Reina, and Kelli with their moms.”
“Perfect, let’s go sit with them.”
“What?” she hisses, grabbing my arm with both hands to stop me. “We can’t do that, I’ll be miserable.”
“Or,” I pronounce the word with much gusto, almost succeeding in rolling the r. “We makethemmiserable.”
She blinks up at me.
I blink down at her.
Slowly, as if we shared the same braincell, we both smile at each other. And it’s not the sweet kind, either.
We march over, our clicky-clacky shoes catching some eyes here and there, until one of the mean girls spots us. She nudges her mean girl friend, and their attention on us has the whole table zeroing in as we join.
I pull up the chair for Marty and she takes it with the grace of a princess. Following in her example, I join in next to her andonly now do I remove my sunglasses. From the corner of my eye, Marty does the same.
“Um…” One of the mean girls does that annoying head tilt and the up and down scanning. It’s like someone teaches every mean girl generation to do the same. “Why are you sitting with us?”
“Why wouldn’t we? Clearly this is the table to be at,” I respond, half annoyed and half glad that my rich brat voice has decided to wake up after years of being dormant.
Deep down, I knew that this is what it would take, and I’m not proud of myself for it. But I’ll use it if it helps my kiddo.
One of the moms doesn’t catch the bait. It’s there in the way her eyebrows arch and her nose turns slightly up. “Excuse me, but this is a mother and daughter event only, and you are clearly not that child’s mother.”
Marty tenses, and I place my hand on her arm to calm her.
I delicately touch my chest with my free hand. “Goodness, that is offensive. Can’t you see the uncanny resemblance between us?” Here I motion at our outfits, carbon copies of each other in different sizes.
The bat scoffs. “Please, you can’t prove that you’re related with your dresses. You couldn’t look more different from each other.”
Straight for Marty’s jugular, I see. But years of enduring rich bullies for classmates trained me precisely for this moment—when it’s not my own feelings the ones that matter, but those of the innocent girl in my charge.
Theatrically, I look at my left hand where the rings gleam like I polished them on purpose. “I guess anyone can wear wedding rings, but should I show you the marriage documents between Marty’s father and I? Would that please you?”
Ohh, that’s my best sarcasm work to date. Concentrated saccharine drips from my words, but the sugar is laced with venom.
Wait, is this why Cade Starr has always called mesugar?
The adult bully snaps her mouth shut so hard, I’m sure her teeth hurt. Meanwhile, the other woman next to her chimes in, “Is that so? I’m also not Reina’s biological mom.” She leans forward to cover the side of her mouth that Reina would see, and whispers, “She passed during the birth.”
Somehow I hold back from a big reaction to that plot twist. But next to me, Marty gasps. “Really?”
The Reina girl looks away, her high ponytail shifting until it covers her face. Is that embarrassment I see painting her cheeks?
“Lisa, I’ve told you many times that we don’t talk about that,” the head honcho adult says sharply.
The third adult finally speaks, and her natural voice could break glass. “Right, it’s for the good of the children. It’s not good to remind them of such things. They’re too delicate.”
I, a grown little shit, pick up one of the teapots and pour some tea into Marty’s cup, and then on mine. It actually smells pretty good, like something sweet and woodsy, and like this and the little cakes are the biggest splurge of the event.
“Hmm.” My hum returns their attention to me. “Is that why your children have been making my daughter’s life miserable, because they’re so delicate and sheltered that they don’t know right from wrong?”
It’s almost like someone pressed the mute button on the auditorium.
I channel my best impression of my badass, reckless brother as I turn to Marty in the most unaffected way. “Sugar?”
“Yes, please.” Somehow, Marty copies my uppity manners as she asks, “Strawberry shortcake or apple tart?”
