Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(64)

There’s the skritch of lighters being lit and soon the pungent smell of cigarettes mixes with the nasty wet-dog-farts-and-blue-cheese dumpster stink around me.

Who the hell’s going to take their cigarette break by a dumpster? Oh, man, I could strangle Coop. It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ll just wait them out. A cigarette break is what, fifteen minutes? Surely I can make it that long.

“We’re going to try and scalp tickets for Angel’s Womb,” a third girl says. “They’re playing Nocturnal Submissions over in Dowling.”

That voice.

I know that voice. Know it as well as my own.

Cathy.

“They’re completely sold out,” I hear another familiar voice add. Nessa! “But there’s always someone on the corner selling tickets.”

Good Gandalf! How could I have forgotten that they both work at Wal-Mart? It didn’t even cross my mind. Not with everything else I’ve been dealing with.

All right. All right. No need to panic. They don’t know I’m in here. They’re going to smoke their cigarettes and then leave. There’s no reason for them to look in the dumpster.

“No matter what, though,” Cathy says, “I am not staying home tonight. My mom is driving me f*cking nuts. I don’t know if it’s all the baby hormones or what, but suddenly she’s become a complete psycho bitch from hell.”

“Oh, my God.” One of the other girls laughs. “My mom was a major train wreck when she was pregnant with my little brother. One minute she was crying because she spilled something on the counter, and the next she was screaming at my dad for leaving his socks on the coffee table.”

“Yup.” I hear Cathy take a drag on a cigarette. “That about sums it up.”

“Do you guys know if it’s a boy or a girl yet?”

“Like I even care,” Cathy answers. “I don’t even want the stupid thing in the first place, right? I mean, I know that sounds totally bratty, but it’s true.” She takes another puff on her smoke. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll feel different when it’s finally here, but right now? It’s like everything is ‘the baby, the baby, the baby.’ It makes me want to puke. And don’t get me started on the freakin’ room situation. I’m still trying to pretend that’s not actually going to happen.”

It’s weird listening to my sister say all this. On one hand, it sounds so horrible and mean. On the other hand, I know exactly how she feels.

“Speaking of your brother.” One of them giggles. “Has he . . . you know . . . come out yet?”

Jesus Christ. She’s gone public with that? I grip my knees even tighter, feeling my entire body flush with heat.

“Not yet,” Cathy says. “But I’m working on it.” I hear the unmistakable sound of Cathy-Nessa laughter.

If I needed proof that they are conspiring against me, their evil cackling certainly seems like a smoking gun.

I clench my eyes shut. Just go away. Just go back inside so I can get out of this reeking dumpster and cling to my last shred of dignity.

“Goddamn it! What a freakin’ rip-off!” one of their coworkers grouses. “This latte’s not even hot.”

A millisecond later, I feel something lukewarm and liquid hit my stomach. My eyes spring open and a surprised squeal escapes my lips before I can stop it. I lose my balance and fall back, my shoulder hitting the side of the dumpster. I look down to see a brown puddle spreading across my stomach and soaking my boxers, making it look like I just squirshed my shorts.

I hold my breath. The girls are silent and there’s a brief hopeful moment where I think that maybe they didn’t hear me. Maybe my lucky boxer shorts are finally starting to kick in.

And then I hear Cathy: “What the hell was that?”





A PAIR OF HANDS grasps the side of the dumpster.

I cover my drenched junk with my hands and curl into a tight little ball in the corner of the empty bin, like if I make myself small enough, maybe I won’t be seen.

A mop of black hair starts to peek over the ledge in torturous slow motion.

Oh, God. I cannot believe this is happening to me. I will never be able to live this down. Not ever. Not in a million years.

I watch as the hair becomes a forehead, becomes eyes, and then becomes an entire face.

It’s Nessa, and as soon as she catches sight of me, her eyes bug. “Holy shit!” she blurts.

“What?” I hear Cathy ask. “What is it?”

I lock eyes with Nessa and press my hands together. “Please,” I mouth. “Don’t.”

Nessa hops down from the dumpster and I hold my breath, waiting for the worst. There’ll be laughter and finger pointing and shooting of cell-phone videos for sure.

I’ll have to go into hiding. Join an ashram or something.

But then I hear Nessa say, “It’s just a raccoon. It scared me at first, but he’s really just a pathetic little guy.”

I don’t even mind the slight dig. I’m far too grateful.

“Seriously?” one of the other girls says. “I want to see.”

“Oh, I don’t think you do,” Nessa warns her quickly. “You nailed it with your latte and it looks pretty pissed. It’s all red-eyed and frothing at the mouth. I think it might be rabid, actually.”