Page 50 of Crybaby

Darcie affects me in every possible way, which is why I can’t let this go, why I can’t lethergo.

Idid as I said I would and fixed the shower for Earl.

He offered to give me a tuxedo, but it was a hard pass. I did take him up on the offer to use his phone so I could call Nonna since my battery was dead. She told me what I already knew—my mom was passed out after crying into her bottle of vodka.

I told her I wouldn’t be home for a couple of days, and I asked if she could look out for June while I was gone. Of course, she agreed.

With that sorted, I’m surprised the bag of stolen shit I swiped last night is still in the car. It seems trivial, but we’re going to need collateral for the shit Darcie wants to do, and this is a good fucking starting point.

I open the bedroom door to see her sitting on the end of the bed, biting her nails. She’s dressed in my jacket, which hangs off her small frame.

Her face is a fucking mess. So are her legs which poke out from under my jacket.

But I don’t make a fuss.

“Let’s bounce.”

Remembering the Advil I swiped from behind Earl’s desk, I toss her the bottle. She catches it and throws back three pills. I know the sensible thing would be for her to go to the hospital, but I know that ain’t happening.

A snort suddenly escapes her, which she catches with her hand.

“What?” I ask, arching a brow. At this point, anything could be funny.

“I broke curfew…oops.”

“Even more reason to lay low until we find out what the fuck is happening back home.”

I need to have eyes on Carson as there is no way his little lapdogs won’t be rehashing what they did to Darcie. Then we will see just how much of a hero he really is because the pull his asshole dad has in town would mean those three clowns would be ruined forever.

But I know that won’t happen.

When push comes to shove—assholes stick together.

I don’t tell Darcie my thoughts, though.

I offer her my hand, which she accepts.

“So where to now?”

“It’s time to get the hell outta Dodge.”

Ineed clothes and a goddamn machine gun.

We’re on the road, searching for a convenience store. I walk in, wearing his jacket like a dress, and ignore the pervy sixteen-year-old boy behind the counter.

There are security cameras dotted around, so I keep my head down. I dunno what the penalty is for stealing a car. I see some workman’s overalls and a hoodie with the convenience store logo on the front.

Great, why not just tell everyone where I’ve been?

I grab them anyway because the alternative is an apron saying Happy Father’s Day on it with nothing to cover my backside. I grab some men’s boxer shorts from this sexist piece of shit store as well. Luckily, my bra is still intact, and I washed it last night in the sink.

A TV is playing behind the counter as I go up to pay with Rev’s money, and I see a woman bawling her eyes out to a man, holding a microphone in her face. She’s talking about a young man who broke into her house and stole her heirlooms and diamonds. A man in the background is trying to comfort her, but she’s shrugging his hands off her like he’s a disease. Well, that marriage is over.

“That’ll be eighty dollars,” says the clerk. And then it happens.

There’s our car—well, technically, the car we stole on the TV—it’s a photograph, and the loser husband is saying it was stolen as well. In seconds, there’s an old-school photo of Rev on the screen.

“Excuse me, ma’am, that’ll be eighty dollars,” the boy croaks at me.

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