Her eyes were hard, and glitter showered from her headband, dusting the shoulders of her jacket. “Do you believe in fairy tales?”
“No.”
“Not even the nice, grown-up kind where you follow all the rules and you work really hard and get a good job and a family and everything is happily ever after?”
I snorted and shook my head.
“Good. Then you should be just as righteously pissed as I am that everyone around here loves a nice game of Let’s Play Pretend.”
“Look, you’re taking this way out of context. I’m sorry about your sister, I really am. It’s awful. But for the love of God, this is not exactly my problem.”
Her smile looked frozen on suddenly, and she opened her eyes wide. Her voice was high and mocking and mean. “Oh, let’s play pretend, Mackie! Let’s play the part where you grow a pair and face basic facts and stop acting like everything is sunshine and unicorns! Let’s play that you start treating the girl like she has half a brain and tell her all about how sometimes, nasty little monsters show up in the bed where her sister used to sleep. Why don’t you tell her about that?”
My cheeks got hot, like I’d just been slapped in the face. “Why?” I said, and the question sounded very loud, coming out in a harsh bark. I brought my voice down to a whisper. “Why should I? What’s in it for me?”
She looked up at me and shook her head, making silver sparkles dance all around her. “You really think that everyone is stupid, don’t you?”
For a second I stopped breathing. Then I leaned close and made my voice as hard and as mean as possible. “So, now I’m supposed to be some kind of expert on why your family’s all tragic? What did I ever do to make you think that any of this is my responsibility?”
Tate’s laugh was short and scornful. “Believe me, if I’d had a choice, I would have picked someone with a little more backbone. You’re kind of all I’ve got.”
I threw the beer in the sink, where it foamed up in a white froth, and pushed myself away from the counter. Away from the kitchen and Tate’s hard, merciless grin.
For the first time since Drew and Danny’s art project, I thought about my locker and for a second, I got the idea that maybe Tate was the one who’d scratched Freak on the door. The idea died a quick death, though. The graffiti had happened the day of the funeral, which pretty much ruled her out, for the simple reason that I hadn’t pissed her off yet.
In the living room, the sound system was louder, the crowd thicker. I made my way between superheroes and slutty witches, trying to find a place I could escape to.
