Chapter 1
There’s a naked man passed out on my couch.
Whole ass on display, half of his gross body dangling off the edge.
Sometime after midnight, I heard them stumble in.
Mom’s fake laugh she only uses around men she wants to sleep with, the thud against the wall, the sounds that there was no hope of drowning out.
And now, this. I avert my eyes, my stomach turning at the sight.
I rattle around the kitchen, not trying to be quiet in the slightest. He wakes up with a groan, like the sound of the pot falling on the ground, physically hurt him.
“You got coffee, sweetheart?”
I light a cigarette, keeping my back to him so I don’t see anything that could traumatize me. “I ain’t your sweetheart.”
“Feisty little thing, ain’t ya?” I can smell him before I feel him. Beer, sweat, and sex that makes my nose crinkle in disgust. When his hand grazes the back of my jeans, I abort my plan not to look at him to grab his wrist and twist it back. He yelps. “Jesus Christ—”
Luckily, he had the decency to pull his jeans back on, unlike Mom.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” Mom’s voice has gotten rough over the years, scratchy from whiskey and cigarettes.
She’s standing in the doorway wearing yesterday’s underwear, mascara smudged around her eyes, and a matching purple hickey blooming on her freckled neck.
The man jerks his hand free and points at me. “Your brat tried to break my damn wrist.”
“Then stop touchin’ her,” she mutters, her voice flat, like this is all a nuisance before her morning cigarette. Like she doesn’t even care that the man she brought home tried to touch her daughter.
And that would be true. She doesn’t.
She crowds into the tiny kitchen, taking my spot, and flicks on the stove burner to light her cigarette. Smoke curls up toward the stained ceiling as she blows out a puff of smoke, never sparing either of us a glance.
The trailer door slams behind the man, rattling the thin walls. Mom sighs, relaxing against the counter. “Gary’s a cop, Lily, you’d do well not to piss him off.”
“He touched me,” I try to argue, but she’s already headed back to her bedroom to sleep off the massive hangover she no doubt has.
“Then don’t tempt him.”
I take a long drag from my own forgotten cigarette. Last day of school’s off to a stellar start.
Out in the meadows, a radio plays country music as an old man works on his car for the fifth time this week, and I can hear the neighbor shouting at her kids from an open window.
Never a dull morning around here.
I put my cigarette out in a dead plant and tug my bag over my shoulder. Even in the early morning, it’s already hot and sticky, making my flannel shirt threaten to cling to my skin. I suppress a groan and start the long walk to school.
Half a mile in, I light another cigarette for something to do. The smoke makes the air heavier, but at least it makes a small part of me relax. My heavy bag digs into my shoulder, and my feet hurt.
I can’t help but think of the rich kids in town. People like her, who pull up to school in their shiny cars, windows down, music blaring, without a care in the world. How that was supposed to be me.
I glance down at my worn boots, at the holes in my jeans. It’s not me. But this is the last damn day I’ll ever be forced to walk this road at seven in the morning. That thought alone keeps my feet moving.
By the time I finally reach the school parking lot, my feet are begging for a break, and my hair has puffed out into a mess of waves and sweat.
A Camaro rumbles by, as a couple of senior guys lean out the windows, shouting at girls who giggle as they walk toward the school doors.
Thankfully, I find Pat, the only decent person at this whole damn school, right where he always is. Sitting on the curb by the side entrance like he’s got nowhere better to be, rolling a joint.
His dirty blonde hair’s a mess, tucked behind one ear, half in his eyes, and his jeans are torn at the knee in a way that always looks effortlessly cool. “You look like you lost a fight,” he says, squinting up at me.
“You should see the other guy.” I flop down beside him and pluck the finished joint from between his fingers.
He smirks, eyes glinting with mischief. “Wow, Lil. Didn’t know you were into that sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?”
“You know.” He leans in with a grin I recognize as his ‘about to say something gross’ face. “Little rough and tumble. That’s kinda hot.”
“Jesus, Pat.” I shove his shoulder, laughing. “You’re disgusting.”
He laughs, swaying sideways, into my space. “You sure you don’t secretly love me?”
I snort, brushing hair from my eyes and pulling it back into a low, messy ponytail. “I told you already. I like girls.”
“Yeah, and I told you already, me too.”
I can’t help but laugh. Telling Pat about my preferences was the scariest thing I ever did. He’s been my only friend, the only person I’ve had in the world. But he didn’t even bat an eye. He’s a good guy. A great friend. Just don’t tell him I said that.
I raise my eyebrows. “You sure about that?”
“Swear on my Star Wars poster,” he says solemnly, blowing out a puff of smoke. “Princess Leia, specifically.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
“Hey, nerds are cool. Better than being miserable.”
“Maybe I should join you then,” I grumble, snatching the joint from his relaxed fingers and taking a longer drag than I should. He glances sideways at me, but doesn’t make fun of me when I cough, this time.
“Rough morning?”
I shrug, keeping my eyes fixed on the cracks in the road. “Same as always. Naked men and all.”
He nods, like he understands. And he, more than anyone, probably does. His parents aren’t much different from my mom, maybe not so much loud sex, but whatever they’re like, it’s bad enough that he moved into his RV shortly after we met three years ago.
The last of the students bumbling around the school grounds start to make their way into the school, meaning it’s time. “C’mon,” Pat says, standing up and stomping out the last of the joint.
“One more day of this hellhole, then we’re free.”
At the final bell, everyone bursts out of the classrooms at once. Shouting, laughing, holding yearbooks out for everybody they ever had a class with to sign.
I don’t have a yearbook. It’s not like anybody’s lining up to sign mine anyway. I’m not exactly popular around here.
I lean against my locker, waiting for Pat, who’s weirdly friends with a lot of people for someone who doesn’t like people. I know he’s somewhere in the crowd, signing fake names and drawing dicks in unsuspecting victims’ pages. I smirk at the thought.
Then I see them.
Perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect families with matching cars, dressed like they’re going somewhere way too fancy to be school in Mississippi. And of course, Diana’s right in the middle of them, smiling like she’s never had a bad day in her life. I should look away.
I never do.
I lock eyes with one of them, Karen, I think. She perks up with a mean smile I can see from across the hall and calls out loud enough for half the damn school to hear, “Oh look, ‘Lily the loser’ doesn’t have anyone to sign her yearbook.”
My arms cross as I narrow my eyes at her and the rest of her friends. I could walk away. I probably should. Not give her what she wants and all. “Guess I’m not desperate enough to beg for signatures from people who can’t spell their own names.”
“Please,” Karen says, flipping her blonde hair that isn’t anywhere near as pretty as Diana’s. “Don’t get all high and mighty, trailer park. Everyone knows you’re just like your mom.”
The hallway goes quiet as anybody within earshot turns to watch. The music playing in the distance feels too loud. Heat crawls up my neck, my pulse pounds in my ears. She’s right. That is what everybody thinks.
Loser Lily the slut.
Just like her mom.
I take a step closer, keeping my voice steady. “At least my mom doesn’t have to be rich for somebody to want to spend time with her.”
“Damn,” somebody mutters under their breath. There’s a laugh from somewhere. “She’s got a point.”
Karen’s face twists, and she stomps off with a huff. But I don’t care. I’m not looking at her anymore.
My eyes are on Diana.
She’s standing to the side, holding her yearbook tight to her chest, like a shield. Her wide eyes meet mine, and damn it, she looks sad. And suddenly I hate that I went there. Not because of Karen, screw her, but because Diana looks like I slapped her.
That could just as easily have been meant for her.
I hate that I care.
I turn on my heel before she can keep looking at me with those big, sad eyes.
It’s not my problem anymore.
The afternoon sun is blinding, making me tug my flannel from my waist and pull it back on. It’s hotter than hell out here, but that’s better than the sunburn I can already feel starting on my pale skin.
Screw them. Every single one of them.
Karen and her stupid hair. Diana and her perfect face. They don’t know me. What gives them the right to say shit like that? What gives Diana the right to act as if I hurt her when I was defending myself? Did she want me to stand there and listen to that?
Thank Karen for calling me a loser slut?
I walk fast, my anger growing more and more as I make my way to the town.
I pass the gas station where the old men sit out front, chewing tobacco and pretending not to stare at the teenage girls walking by.
The clothing store that Diana and her friends shop at.
A car honks as it passes, and I flip them off without even looking up.
Pat and I were gonna go to the diner after school, share some fries, maybe a milkshake if one of us scrounged enough change. I told him I’d wait so he could drive us, but I couldn’t be in that place for another second.
He’ll catch up.
By the time I reach the middle of town, my head’s pounding, and I’m really starting to regret not waiting for Pat, having to walk all this way in the heat. But I get temporary relief from the torture when I see the garden.
Every time I walk past it, I get hit with a wave of nostalgia.
It was magical when I was a kid. A big patch of green and flowers, right in the center of town.
Diana’s family had it put in when we were eight, and we were so excited.
I still remember the dirt under our nails, helping plant the flowers, and the way she’d laugh when I got dirt on my face.
When it was finished, we would go after school every day, sitting amongst the flowers, braiding them into jewelry or watching the clouds, or talking, for hours and hours about everything.
Now the paint’s peeling off the fence. The flowers aren’t being kept up with, mostly dead and covered in weeds. The fountain in the middle is completely dry.
I haven’t seen a family there in years.
But this time, there’s a new addition. A piece of paper nailed into the wooden fence, bright white against the faded background.
ROSEHILL STRIP MALL: COMING SOON