Dead Little Mean Girl. Eva Darrows

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       Chapter Five

      Things settled into a routine of terrible after the Riddell incident. Quinn did Quinn, no one took her to task because she terrified them. It got twice as bad after she joined the cheerleading squad; she had a small army of popular girls to back her. Add to that her unmatched capacity to wheedle, bully and charm her way through any situation and you had a disaster in Malone Souliers.

      She was the Wicked Witch of Westvale.

      I was the lucky girl who got to live with her and her little dog, too.

      At least Karen didn’t suck. She respected my dedication to my grades, complimenting me with, “You have your head on straight—you’re going places in life.” She talked to me about college, offering to poke her alma mater after I sent out my applications. Not once did she say that stuff to her own daughter. Quinn’s concentration had always been the social spheres of school, not academic achievement, so Karen praised me, all the while nagging Quinn about her floundering grades.

      It was a sore spot begging to become an open wound. Sure enough, at the end of first term, things imploded. I’d made Dean’s List with straight A’s. Quinn barely passed anything because homework was just not something she was interested in doing. Karen regarded her daughter’s report card in much the same way Superman would regard a lump of kryptonite in his Christmas stocking.

      “This isn’t going to work, Quinn. You want to cheer in college but with these grades, you won’t get into college. You’re going to have to do more. Up the grades, show involvement beyond cheerleading. Prove that you’re well-rounded. And don’t try to sell me on cheerleading scholarships. Cheerleading doesn’t have the sway of football or baseball. If you want college, you’re going to have to work for it. I can’t do this for you.”

      Quinn bellowed a whole bunch and stomped off to her room, but the idea of colleges turning her away must have bothered her, because she flounced into my room less than an hour later.

      “Does your goth friend still work at Bouncing Bear?”

      I offered my best deadly librarian stare over the rims of my glasses.

      “Her name is Laney, and yes. Why?”

      “I need a job.”

      I actually laughed. Like, in her face. She looked taken aback, and then she looked pissed. “Stop being a douche. I need a job. You heard my mother. I’ve got to be well-rounded.”

      I dropped my chin into my palm so I could maintain uncomfortable eye contact. “The last time Laney came over, you told her it’s lucky she found the one necrophiliac in Westvale because no one else would screw a corpse. Why would she get you a job anywhere?”

      Quinn rolled her eyes, but she must have agreed Laney wasn’t a good in because I heard her mutter “Josh” before returning to the foul cocoon from whence she came.

      I snorted. If she was going the Josh route, things had taken a dire turn.

      Josh Winters was one of those kids who was popular in spite of himself. He was okay-ish looking, was smart-ish, played sports moderately well-ish, and had a good-ish sense of humor. Except he didn’t act like he was only ish because my classmates pandered to him. Josh had money. Lots of money. His parents owned Bouncing Bear, which started as one shop but had spread like a caffeinated plague. You couldn’t walk twelve feet down the street without stumbling upon a Bouncing Bear Coffee Shop with its googly-eyed mascot holding a hot cup of deliciousness.

      Josh drove a nice car. He wore the best clothes. He had the biggest house in his neighborhood and was generous with the girls who were kind enough to put out for him. He tended to cycle through the ladies and, at one point, Nikki told me he had so many notches on his belt, his pants were about to fall down. Plenty of girls were more than willing to hop on his junk for a pretty bauble or two.

      Quinn eluded his grasp. She’d toy with him and then back out, always blaming her boyfriend du week or some other totally avoidable whatever for keeping them apart. The reality was she preferred the pretty boys, but she wasn’t so dumb as to permanently burn that bridge. Josh smartened up after a while and went after easier fare, but he maintained an eye on Quinn’s pert butt, hoping it’d sashay his way.

      If she wanted him to help her get the job, she might have to pay for the favor. The question was with what.

      * * *

      Answer: nothing.

      Josh, still vying to insert himself into Quinn’s orifices, nudged his father about getting Quinn hired. He would later regret this maneuver, as so many of us regret interactions with Quinn, but at the time he probably figured the hot chick would owe him one so why not.

      I could have told him the why-nots at length, but he wouldn’t have listened. There were some downfalls to being invisible.

      Quinn surprised the family on a Saturday morning wearing a logoed pink polo shirt, a purple visor and tan shorts cut so short, I was pretty sure anyone walking behind her would mistake them for panties. It was ridiculous, especially considering we were due for the first snowfall of the season and she’d freeze to death.

      “This uniform СКАЧАТЬ