Page 76 of That Pucking New Girl

“Those punks are wrong,” Emil growls.

“If you met them, you’d do worse than punch them, Dad,” Ignacio mutters. “When he found out that I was mistreating Rachelle initially, he was fucking livid. Bullying isn’t romantic.”

“It’s not cute to pull a girl’s hair because you like her,” Liliana adds.

“It’s a great way to end up on a milk carton though,” Rachelle says. “There is nothing wrong with not being comfortable around guns. I’m not either, but as you can see, we have a small army around us for protection.”

“Those boys can eat a bag of dicks,” Theo says. “They’re playing a very dangerous game they aren’t going to win.”

Blowing out a breath, I nod, looking around the room. Everyone in this room is willing to protect me. The only reason things haven’t escalated further is because I keep insisting that I’m okay.

Toxic positivity has its pitfalls.

“What time is my appointment?” I ask, needing to change the subject because my foster family begins to plot murder in my name.

“Forty-five minutes,” Rachelle says, checking her watch. “Do you want to get dressed or go in your pajamas?”

The fact that she asked makes me smile as I stand.

“I’ll get dressed,” I chuckle, walking to my room.

There’s a text message waiting for me from Alastair when I get there, one that makes me roll my eyes.

Alastair

Did you drop out and decide you don’t want to play anymore?

I clear the message without opening it, knowing it’ll piss him off more. Sad little boys who need attention get their boxers in a twist when they don’t get it.

Respectfully, fuck off, Alastair.

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

NOOR

“What do you mean you won’t prescribe birth control to me?” I ask, confused as I sit across from the doctor.

I’ve been here for the past forty-five minutes and have done everything he and the office asked me to. I filled out the paperwork, peed in a cup, and did the pelvic exam since the nurse didn’t believe me when I reported that I had had one six months ago.

Rachelle is sitting next to me now that I’m dressed again, and I can tell by her stiffened spine that she’s annoyed on my behalf.

“Is there a reason why you put her through all of this when she clearly doesn’t feel well?” she asks.

“What, the sunglasses?” he scoffs. Dr. Garcia is in his sixties, and I have a feeling he’s very old fashioned. He made a face when he heard I was sexually active. I have threads of pain in my eye sockets and a slight ringing in my ears. I’m not making up how much the lights are bothering me. He’s being a know-it-all curmudgeon. “I thought it was some sort of fashion statement or something. I know you’re trying to make sure that she doesn’t become another teen statistic⁠—”

“Excuse me?” I ask. “I have POTS, and the birth control is to keep me from having periods that lead to migraines. I’m not trying to cheat the system.”

“A menstrual period is nature’s biological way of saying ‘congratulations, you’re not pregnant,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s not healthy for you to skip them.”

“Is it healthy for my body to give me regular migraines?” I ask.

“Bah! That’s a neurologist’s department, not mine,” he says. “Focus on things like school and getting into a college to better yourself. Stop wasting your time on dressing sexy and going to parties.”

My jaw is on the floor right now. The toxic masculinity is dripping from his every word, and it’s pissing me off. I’m wearing a pair of cargo pants, my favorite ratty band shirt, and boots. How are my clothes “sexy” or “asking for it”?

“This is insane,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around my body. “I can’t keep doing this every month. My body thinks my uterus is trying to kill me when I menstrate, and then my POTS flares up. How are those two not related?”