Page 210 of Lessons in Cruelty

Yes, what he said makes sense.

There’s no way I can juggle shifts at the diner, go to classes, study, and deal with a bully. I am, technically, taken care of here at the sorority.

Food, shelter, Netflix.

But what about, I dunno, clothes? Tampons? Shampoo?

Fine, I still have a box of tampons, and I’ve never had an issue using soap as shampoo, but that’s beside the point.

What about freedom?

What about not owing anyone anything?

How about not becoming a kept woman before I’m even a fucking woman?

Melissa finishes the essay she was texting someone, sighs, and props herself up on an elbow to stare over at me. “Is this because you don’t have a dress?”

“Yes. I mean, no. Even if I had one, I’m not going.”

After the way I yelled at Bastian last Friday, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d returned those pretty dresses.

She glances off to the side, lips pursing. “I might have something that’ll fit.”

“Jesus…”

Fuck this. If I can’t phase out of this reality until a better one comes along, then I’m going to raid the fridge.

A shower of candy wrappers and packets falls onto the carpet as I stand.

Melissa follows me into the kitchen, because I guess it’s her life mission to terrorize me now.

I’ve never had this effect on people before. Back at Ashwood High, I was invisible. Just another nameless face in a sea of kids. Now it’s like everyone I come into contact with has a secret agenda to mess with my shit.

“Know what helps with boy problems?” Melissa says, leaning her hip against the counter as she watches me rummage inside the fridge. This thing is stocked. A veritable feast…if you like vegetables and low-fat dairy. Guess the snack cupboard will have to do.

“Food coma?” I mutter, swiveling a yogurt carton around so I can see the label. Fat-free. Yuck.

“No. This.”

I roll my eyes when she doesn’t elaborate, my curiosity forcing me to turn to her. “Is that…a joint?”

“It’s not not a joint.” She flashes me a smile and wriggles her fingers over the joint and stage-whispers, “Boy problems be gone!”

I don’t correct her.

Boy problems, man problems—same thing.

“You’ve discovered the cure,” I tell her, shaking my head. “Can’t believe it, but you’ve fucking discovered the cure.”

“Told ya.” She passes me the last of the joint, but I shake my head and my hand, just in case she missed the head shaking. “We take boys too seriously. This?” She holds out the last of the joint before pinching it in her fingertips and hitting it. “Perspective.”

I hold up a finger. “Clarity.”

She opens her mouth, but then closes again, shrugging. “Yeah. Those.”

We’re at the table under the gazebo in GAZ’s backyard. Sitting on it, because I’m guessing that’s how the cool kids do it. The heavy, gray clouds above make the shadows darker, the colors deeper.

It’s gloomy, and chilly, and I love it.