Good Luck, Fatty

hadn’t gotten so irrationally ticked all of a sudden, I might find the saying quaint (a new turn of phrase I could try out on the profanity-phobic Denise?). “Fine,” I agree, handing over the drawings before he can demand them. “Pardon me.”
    Duncan strides across the room to a wall of bookcases and tucks the sketches between two giant tomes, no further mention being made of their existence. Inspired, Marie tucks her boob back into her peasant top and beckons me to the sofa.
    If Tom and I hadn’t had a falling out, I wouldn’t be here right now, I think as I take my place beside Marie and Roy.
    My mother gets a wistful look in her eyes. “You haven’t even held him,” she says in a tender tone, the emotion in her voice threatening to pry my heart open. “Don’t you want to?”
    I love my brother. Or at least I want to. I cradle my arms in front of my chest and say, “Go ahead.”

 
     
    chapter 10
     
    I HAVEN’T seen Evan Richter’s Dart since way back in October, but today it rises from the dead.
    I’m at the same crossroad—Marigold—and, once again, perched on the Schwinn, when the Dart tools up beside me. “Yo, Cotton!” a familiar voice cackles out one of the rolled-down windows. “Wanna fuck?”
    Malcolm Gates. Douchebag. “No, thank you,” I say as pleasantly as any well-mannered debutante.
    Justin White’s cleft chin juts out the passenger window, followed by his pouty lips, which blow me a lewd, tongue-laced kiss. “Oh, come on,” the quarterback whines. “You know you want it.”
    For the first time, I realize maybe I don’t want it. Maybe offering myself up to any jerkwad horny enough to bite is a way of the past, something the old Bobbi would have done. “I think I’ll pass.”
    I ignore the Dart and its occupants, every one of them a former screw, and return to pedaling my way to school. But I don’t get far before…
    Thump! Plunk-crunch!
    The Dart jumps the curb in front of me and jams to a stop, blocking my path. I squeeze the Schwinn’s brakes just in time. “What are you…?!”
    All at once, the Dart empties, Evan Richter, Justin White, Malcolm Gates and Corey Benson swarming me like a tornado of angry bees. “Got a problem, Cotton?” Malcolm demands.
    “Me? I…” I scan the vicinity for an easy escape but come up empty. “No.”
    “Get in the car,” says Justin.
    Corey chuckles under his breath.
    All I can think to say is, “My bike.”
    “Get in. The fucking. Car,” Justin repeats.
    “Now,” says Evan with a twitchy glance at oncoming traffic.
    Corey mashes his knuckles. Pop-pop! Pop! Pop!
    Screw this, I think. I’d rather be gutted on the sidewalk like a common hog than go anywhere with this quartet of scum. “Okay,” I say. I fake like I’m dismounting the Schwinn but instead lurch forward (well, actually, sort of sideways), pedaling for my life. Evan lands a grab on my arm that feels like it’s going to leave a bruise, but my momentum trumps his wimpy wrist. As I chug away, Malcolm flails in frustration at the Schwinn’s rear tire, never quite connecting with a kick (but throwing himself comically off balance).
    Five minutes later, I breeze into the Industry High parking lot, rattled but triumphant.
     

----
     
    Marlowe’s Drugs is closed on Sundays, a fact I discovered yesterday afternoon when I ventured over there again in search of a pregnancy test (it’s about time I put this mystery to rest, since Mother Nature doesn’t seem to be doing the job for me).
    Today is Monday, a day of the week Marlowe’s is, in fact, open—or so proclaims the sticky little decal in the shop window. I eye the numbers on the sign one last time (closing time: six o’clock; it’s now quarter to five) before yanking the front door agape.
    But I can’t speed right over to the EPTs like I’ve pedaled a mile and a half just to nab one; that would be uncouth and obvious. I should happen upon them, give a little why not? shrug and drop one into my shopping basket, on the off chance someone I know needs one. Oh, and while I’m at it, I should be whistling a carefree tune that conveys the message: I am not a trollop and have no use whatsoever for a pregnancy test.
    Of course…first I need a shopping basket. Then I need to learn to whistle.
    I spin around and locate a stack of baskets by the door, pluck one off the top and hang it over my arm. We’re out of bandages at home, I think. And, how convenient, I’m standing smack dab at the cusp of the