Page 7 of Jerk
Our mother ignores me, turning to Krystal. She places her hands on each of her cheeks. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret. Please.”
“You mean don’t do anything that’ll make us look bad,” I say between puffs.
“You do that well enough.” Mother eyes me up and down before she utters something else in Korean and heads for the doors.
“Ouch,” Krystal says once our mother leaves the room. "Why does she insist on speaking Korean but not teaching us any?"
“You really want to be back here?” I ask.
“I do.”
“Why? Did a nun diddle you at your culty school?” I let out a small laugh, but she doesn’t respond. My eyes narrow on hers, bigger and rounder like our father’s. “Wait…”
“It’s not what you think.” She raises a hand as if she can see the heat in my chest. “I started it.”
“No fucking shit, sis.” Crossing my arms, I eye her up again, seeing her in a new light. “Father must bepissed.”
“That’s why I left,” she explains. “Mom won’t say anything, but if people here find out, I’ll never live it down.”
“You’re right about that.”
“I just want a normal life,” she groans. “I want to go to class, get good grades, and forget the last four years."
“If you want normal, you won’t find it here. You know that. But I do know something that will help. How’d you like to be Queen of the Hill?”
My sister’s eyes narrow. “What else is in that cigarette?”
“I’m just saying, you don’t have to go through what the last new girl went through.”
“I’m not new.”
“You’ve been gone for four years, and before then, you weren’t standing on much. You might as well be. And if anyone gets wind of what happened at Saint Helens?” I whistle. “I can only do so much.”
“Isn’t Hannah Alfonso Queen of the Hill?” My body stiffens at her name. “She’ll never give that up.”
A grin spreads across my face. “We’ll make her.”
THREE
HANNAH
Fuckthe girl who wants Prince Charming.
Or Romeo.
Or that guy fromTheNotebook.
What about the girl who wants one day when her father isn’t throwing something at her mother’s head?
CRASH!
The Weeknd’s “Wicked Games” isn’t enough to drown out the sound of porcelain shattering on our marble floors. It’s not enough to drown out my father’s slurs, either.
“Who is it this time, Elena?” His voice is as clear as the polished mirror in front of me, lightbulbs framing it like I’m in a Broadway theatre. “Greg? Markus?”
SMASH!
That one makes me jump, a shriek from my mother following.
