Getting Caught by Mandy Hubbard Page B

walk back home like that, sopping wet.
    So as far as I’m concerned, a girl who can be that two-faced got everything she deserved. Hell, today’s little performance was nothing compared to what she should have had coming to her.
    I push the mower into the garage as a silver Mercedes pulls into our driveway. My mother slides out of the passenger seat, her frosted blond French twist still as perfect as always. I’m convinced it’s not real hair, just a helmet, because I’ve never seen it any other way. She has blood-red lipstick and a smart business suit even though it’s Saturday. My mom does not own weekend wear. In her warped language, jeans and T-shirts don’t compute.
    Her mouth is hanging open, and I realize at that moment she hasn’t yet been introduced to my new hair. Unlike my mom, I change my color almost weekly. This is, obviously, not the only area in which we differ.
    I fluff my platinum spikes, like a beauty queen. “Like it?”
    She rolls her eyes and scowls. “Jessica, I’d hoped you would have grown out of this by now.”
    “No, but it should grow out in about three months,” I say, like a total smartass.
    She sighs. “You have such a pretty natural color. Many girls would kill for it. Why ruin it?”
    “Why not?” I mutter, wiping the blades of grass from my knees.
    She inspects the lawn. “Thanks, hon. But it’s Saturday. Isn’t there something you’d rather be doing?”
    She means, I don’t know, a pep rally or a drive-in movie or whatever social activity was popular when she was my age. I think she would have been happy if I sat around with a bunch of stoners passing a hash pipe as long as I wasn’t home, again , on another Saturday night. And yeah, maybe I did spend most, if not all, weekends in my bedroom, but it wasn’t like I was planning the next Columbine or anything. I just hadn’t found any company that was as interesting and fun to be with as my own. It seemed like everyone got caught up in high school, and all I wanted to do was pretend it didn’t exist.
    “Yes, thanks. I would much rather be selling crack to schoolchildren. But it’s a Saturday, so the playgrounds are empty.”
    She sighs. “What about Peyton? Why don’t you two do something together?”
    This hopeful suggestion just perfectly shows how out of touch with reality my mother is. Obviously the growls I constantly throw in the direction of the Brentwood home and the fact that Peyton hasn’t set foot in our house in years hasn’t tipped her off to the war we have going on.
    I grimace but don’t look up from the bag of grass clippings I’m unloading. “Why don’t I sell my body on Main Street for a buck an hour?”
    She gives up trying to have a civil conversation with me, since we haven’t had one of those in forever, and trudges inside. That’s just when I see a flash of red on the street, slowing to a stop outside the Brentwood’s. It’s Peyton’s vintage VW bug. The princess is home from the biggest ass-kicking of her life.
    I quickly dodge under the garage door so she won’t see me. I want to see whatever remnants are left over from the reaction Gavin witnessed. I want to behold those blotchy cheeks, those tear-filled eyes. I want blood.
    I wait for the door of the car to open, for the princess to step out into the sunlight, where I can finally see those things. But it never happens. From here, all I can make out are two hands, clenching the steering wheel, unmoving. I imagine her going inside, telling friends and family that it wasn’t a real interview. That it was a misunderstanding.
    I wish I could be a fly on the wall for that.
    Because this is war. And all is fair.
     

Chapter Nine
    Peyton
     
    Although I’ve never actually hyperventilated, I feel dangerously close, like my chest is tightening up and my throat is closing in. My pacing has turned so frantic it probably resembles a Nazi march, my legs stiff and swinging out in front of me. I shake my head. I must not think of Nazis. Not