
My TA, Miss Abby Graves, sits and waits for me in her idling red VW bug. The windows on both her driver and passenger sides are cracked open an inch. This is less for Abby’s need of fresh air and more for her grand delusion that other people like secondhand Justin Bieber. She is the perfect portrait of the zeros teenage pop culture; boasting a neon plaid yellow shirt and baby blue wayfarers. She is aware of nothing as she sings along with her ipod fueled stereo, eyes closed, head back, blond bangs swinging as her thumbs tap the steering wheel. I lift up on the passenger handle and she yelps, snapping out of her biebercoma. She instantly looks like Mr. Wu after I bust him for eating the neighbor’s suet ball, all wide eyed and grinning.
“Sorry to interrupt you and the Biebs having a special moment,” I say and pull out my seatbelt.
“Don’t be a hater Miss Stark,” she says pushing her sunglasses from its place as a temporary headband to her stubby cute nose. “The Biebs is going to fall in love with me someday.”
“Wow, keep living the dream BAbbs,” I reply and quickly pop in a tablet of nicotine gum. “Can’t wait to see you on the cover of People magazine.”
“Can I have a piece?” she says and sticks out her small palm.
“No,” I reply and shove the pseudo tin gum container back into my wool coat pocket.
“Cranky today, eh?” she says with a fake pout and turns the Bieber song back up.
I haven’t driven a car since my brain surgery. Today, I was suffering battle fatigue from my long mid winter student launched plague. I couldn’t have peddled my bike home, much less 5 miles across town to the Ladysmith Junior High School. Claudia had insisted that I meet with her daughter personally. And picking her up from school and taking her home was a fair option.
“So do I get extra points for helping you babysit?” Abby asks and takes a slug from her BIG GULP Fanta bottle.
“HA!” I reply, “You still owe me for an all-nighter of hand stitching new seams on your badly botched Prom dress last year.”
“I can’t help it my mom doesn’t know how to use a ruler,” she exclaims, “She is from Ireland, they run on a different system!”
“Don’t spill your Fanta,” I reply nodding to her over expressive hand gestures.
“SO does that mean I have to take you everywhere, like driving Miss Daisy? Driving Miss STARK,” she says in her best attempt Morgan Freeman voice.
“Abby, keep your eyes on the road please.” I plead slowly.
Over my lunch period Claudia had advised me to text Peyton with a description of Abby’s car. The only detail I had failed to mention the VW’s Justin Bieber soundtrack. FAIL. I spot her immediatly as we pull up behind the convoy of soccer moms. She is tall for her age and has the curves of a Victoria’s Secret Model. When did seventh graders get so old? Her long black hair fans across her white suede and rabbit trimmed coat. I wonder if Claudia had actually killed the beasts that fashioned Peyton’s jacket. She was a hunter alright, “Claudia fucking Witch Crocket.“ Available 24 hours a day, seven days a week. If you have the money, she’s got the blood magic. Sacrificed animals not included. All major credit cards and Paypal accepted.
Her daughter on the other hand, doth practice the keenest form of manipulation, the dimwitted naive little girl that doesn’t know how to lie, LIAR. “Bet your bottom dollar by tomorrow, you’ll be fucked!” Her eyes are the instant tell, plain chunks of coal being slowly devoured by a melting snowman. Her forehead creases exposes careful calculating in her “I don’t give two shits about anything” posture against the bike rack. The other school girls choose to orbit around her within a notable safe distance, like habitual planets to the sun. She hides something within her smile that I can’t quite determine yet; a smirk frozen like a stray dog from heaven, slapped by the gods and ready to bite.
“Well Miss Von Stark, we are here,” Abby says and drops the gear in park. “Should I get out and open the door for you as well?” (back to the Freeman voice again) ARGH.
“I see her over there,” I point toward the solitary girl, “I will go get her, you wait here.”
“Well I got your back,” Abby says and turns up the music, which has now switched over to Kesha.
“Kesha, really?” I say and close the door behind me. “and here I thought things couldn’t get worse.”
