I yank the earbuds.
“Hey!” She rolls over to face me, resting on her side. “Oh. It’s just you.”
“Give me my money.” I try to appear intimidating, keeping my shoulders lifted and my hands on my hips, but my eyes are burning and my mouth feels wavy and I’m seconds from simultaneously puking, crying, and screaming. “Now.”
Bree leers. “No clue what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You stole my tip money.”
“Oh, you mean, your tip money from the Waterfront Sea Food Restaurant?” She sits up, her blonde lashes fluttering as she fights a bitchy smirk.
“What’d you do with it?”
She shrugs.
I want to smack her. I want to rip her hair from her scalp, one handful at a time.
“I thought it was odd,” she says, brows furrowed. “You were making so much money waitressing, like even for a nice restaurant. So, I did some checking. I went into Waterfront for lunch one day, when you were supposedly working, but the manager there said she’d never heard of you. So, then I asked myself … is she selling drugs?”
Rolling my eyes, I tune her out, rifling through her drawers and closets, looking under her bed, turning over pillows.
“You’re never going to find it,” she says, admitting what I already knew. “It’s gone.”
“What. The fuck. Did you do with it?” My jaw tightens, aching.
I’ve never hated anyone this much in my life.
All those weekends. The aching feet. The tired backs. The grease-scented skin. The disgusting customers. The blatant stares. The selling of my soul.
All of it was for nothing.
“You know, you really should’ve kept it in a bank account,” she says. “That’s what normal people do. They put their money in a safe place, where no one else can touch it. Guess your parents didn’t teach you that, did they? I bet they never even had bank accounts.”
Before I can stop myself, I lunge at Bree, pinning her scrawny body beneath mine. She’s screaming, but the house is so big I doubt her parents can hear her.
It’s only when I have my hands around her throat and her lips are turning a mottled shade of blue that I realize I’ve gone too far.
I let her go, my chest rising and falling as I struggle to breathe with all the adrenaline coursing my system.
She reaches for her neck, coughing, choking on spittle as she scrambles toward the head of her bed like I’m some serial killer about to murder her.
I’ve scared the hell out of her, but to be fair, I’ve just scared the hell out of myself as well. I’m not a violent person. I don’t have these tendencies. I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone in my life. But I want to hurt her. I want to inflict pain. Teach her a lesson. Make her sorry.
This is fucking war.
“You’re paying me back.” I point a shaking finger at her. “Every last fucking dime. And if you don’t? I’ll make your senior year a living fucking hell. That’s a promise.”
Bree looks like she’s about to cry. “I told you. It’s … gone.”
“Where is it?!”
“I donated it to a charity,” she manages to squeak.
My gaze falls to the diamond pendant around her neck, then to the Gucci watch on her left wrist. Come to think of it, her entire outfit is new. And this morning, I spotted her carrying a little Louis Vuitton handbag.
“You lying bitch,” I growl. “Hope you kept the receipts.”
Bree scoffs. She doesn’t need to answer. I already know. She destroyed the evidence, and since she paid with cash, it’ll be impossible to return those items without any proof of purchase.
Refusing to look at her disgusting face a second more, I run back to my room, slip on the first pair of shoes I can find—pleather ballet flats—and get the fuck out of here.
I walk until my heels throb with the threat of blisters, down several tree-lined blocks, past beautiful houses with manicured lawns and expensive cars in the driveways, and finally past the iron gates that guard this stupid neighborhood from the rest of the world.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been walking, but I manage to find a little park at the end of a cul de sac in an older part of town.
It’s dark now, the end of another shit-tastic day in my shit-tastic life. I’d sleep here if I knew I could get away with it. The thought of going back to Uncle Vic’s and being under the same roof as that fucking bitch makes me want to gouge my eyes out with rusty pliers. But if I don’t come home, Tab will freak out and say to Vic, “I told you this was a bad idea!” and then I’ll be on the streets.
A group of teenage boys in baggy t-shirts pass me on skateboards. They’re way too young to be out this late, and they smirk when they see me, circling, swarming.
“Hey,” one of them says to me, slowing down. “You lost?”
“Fuck off.”
“Suck my dick.” He spits at me, missing.
“I would if you had one.” I glare.
His friends laugh. They skate away.
That’s what I thought.
Continuing, I make my way to the park, tucking myself in a plastic tunnel like I used to when I was little and my parents were screaming at each other over missing drugs.
I feel safe in the tunnel. Cut off from the outside world. As a young girl, it was my armor.
I stay as long as I can, but Vic and Tab will freak if I’m not home before ten, and it’s already half past nine.
Sucking up my pride and refusing to let this be the end, I tell myself tomorrow’s another day. I’ll work harder, flirt more, pick up extra shifts. I’ll make that money back and then some. I’ll get my fucking car. And then I’ll get the hell out of here.
“Todd wants to see you before you start your shift.” Courtney doesn’t smile when she sees me the next morning. Her mouth is pulled into a frown and her eyes carry pity.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She shrugs, pretending not to know.
She knows.
My heart races, and I can’t help but feel I’m marching to my death as I head back to the door with the crooked “manager” plaque.
“You wanted to talk to me?” I stand in his doorway wearing a hopeful smile.
“Hey there. Why don’t you have a seat?” His lips press into a straight line. He won’t make eye contact. “Shut the door too, will you?”
“Am I being fired?” I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe.
“It’s been brought to my attention that you’ll be attending Rosefield High this fall.” His voice is flat, and today he’s wearing a plain blue polo and khakis, a departure from his usual jeans-and-quirky-t-shirt uniform.
“Yeah? So? I’ll be nineteen in early December.”
“We have a strict no high school students policy,” he says. “It’s straight from corporate. It’s nothing personal. Frankly, I wish we could make an exception for you.”
“Why didn’t you ask me that when you hired me?” My words are terse, my skin hot.
Todd places his hands in the air. “I know, Halston. It’s my fault. I just … you look so much older than you are. I figured you were at least twenty, twenty-one. You checked the box saying you were over eighteen. To be honest, I don’t look at the paperwork or any of that. That all goes to HR at corporate.”
“So, there’s nothing you can do? I’m one of your best servers, and I’ve only been here a few weeks.”
“I know you are. You’re a great addition to the team and the customers really like you. You were our most-requested last weekend,” he says. “But a policy is a policy. I’m sorry.”
I turn to leave, eyes stinging. The smell of the greasy kitchen wafts down the hall, making me nauseous.
“Oh, HR wanted me to have you sign this waiver really quick before you go,” he adds.
“I’m not signing a damn thing.”
Maybe I should accept half the blame. Maybe I should sign the damn form and walk out of here with my head held high, but I’m not in a good place.
And right now, I’m in the mood to burn my life to the ground.