stuff?" she asks.
"Everything you asked for on your list."
"A rider," Miriam says. "It's called a rider. Like a band might ask for, a bowl of all blue M&Ms, or a Longaberger basket filled with heroin and clean needles, or maybe a dwarven sex gimp swaddled in Saran Wrap."
"Yes. Well." Another spike of nervousness. This time punctuated by a pursed frown, a grit of irritation forming a pearl of disgust. "It's all there."
Miriam upends the bag.
Out tumbles: A bag of Utz pretzels. A carton of Native Spirit cigarettes. A jar of Tallarico's hot hoagie spread. Two mini-bottles of booze (one a bottle of Glenfarclas Scotch, the other Patron Silver tequila). A travel-size bleach. And finally, a single box of hair-dye. Fuchsia Flamingo. The kind of nuclear pink you might see in the heart of a mushroom cloud. Just before the blast turns your eyes to aspic.
Nice. A good choice.
Miriam says so. Holds up the box. Winks.
Then she starts setting up shop. Opens the hoagie spread. Tears into the bag of pretzels. Uncaps the Scotch.
Pretzel into the spread, then into the mouth. Crunch crunch crunch . Mouthful of Scotch. Everything is salt and spice and smooth caramel burn.
As she does this, Katey slides out a stack of money onto the table. Starts to move the money toward Miriam but pulls it back to her chest.
"Whuh's wrong?" Miriam asks, licking boozesoaked pretzel bits out of her teeth.
"This is all… strange. You're very strange, a very strange girl. You're the real deal? You can tell me about…"
Miriam swallows. "Yeah, yes. How you suck the pipe, feed the worms, find yourself on the Holy Shit I'm Dead Express."
Blink. Blink. "How do I know you're telling me the truth?"
"You don't, I guess. Louis knows. He can vouch for me. So if you trust him, then you know I'm on the upand-up. If you don't trust him, then I guess we don't have much more to talk about."
Katey slides the money across. "Five hundred, you said."
"I did." As Miriam takes the money, Katey quick pulls her own hand away.
"Not going to count it?"
"I trust you. Besides, the count's wrong, I'll cast a hex on you. A pox. A pox-hex on your home and school." She swirls another pretzel into the jar of pepper relish. "I'm just fucking around. I can't curse anybody. I'm the cursed one." Crunch crunch crunch.
"You been this way since you were a little girl?" Katey asks.
"This way? What way? A crazy bee-yotch? Or a psychic bee-yotch?"
She's interrupted. A young girl yelling. She turns, sees one of the girls in the art class – a little red-headed freckle-machine, maybe twelve or thirteen years old – standing up and holding her sketchbook like a mighty Viking weapon.
The girl whacks another girl across the face with it. The other girl – a little blonde thing, probably named Katey – shrieks and goes down, flailing.
After that it's all just a pile of limbs and whipping hair. A sensible brown shoe goes pirouetting up in the air.
"Boy, she nailed that other girl good. Pow. Right in the kisser."
"Par for the course here at Caldecott. These are good girls… for the most part. But many of them are troubled. Or just unwanted. It leaves… well, it leaves a mark. Inside. Sometimes outside, too."
"I hear that."
"My break is almost over," Katey says. Suddenly her eyes narrow. "You know, I don't want to do this anymore." She stands. "You can keep the items but I'd like the money back."
"Whoa, whoa, what? No, hell with that, we're doing this. Louis said you're some kind of raging hypochondriac and so I came all this way and we are jolly well fucking doing this. Give me your damn hand."
Katey's face sags. Her eyes go sad. "Is that what he said? Hypochondriac? Is that what people think of me? I suppose I knew that."
"No, it's not what he said, it's what I said. Now shut up and let me do this."
The woman reaches in. Goes to grab the
"Everything you asked for on your list."
"A rider," Miriam says. "It's called a rider. Like a band might ask for, a bowl of all blue M&Ms, or a Longaberger basket filled with heroin and clean needles, or maybe a dwarven sex gimp swaddled in Saran Wrap."
"Yes. Well." Another spike of nervousness. This time punctuated by a pursed frown, a grit of irritation forming a pearl of disgust. "It's all there."
Miriam upends the bag.
Out tumbles: A bag of Utz pretzels. A carton of Native Spirit cigarettes. A jar of Tallarico's hot hoagie spread. Two mini-bottles of booze (one a bottle of Glenfarclas Scotch, the other Patron Silver tequila). A travel-size bleach. And finally, a single box of hair-dye. Fuchsia Flamingo. The kind of nuclear pink you might see in the heart of a mushroom cloud. Just before the blast turns your eyes to aspic.
Nice. A good choice.
Miriam says so. Holds up the box. Winks.
Then she starts setting up shop. Opens the hoagie spread. Tears into the bag of pretzels. Uncaps the Scotch.
Pretzel into the spread, then into the mouth. Crunch crunch crunch . Mouthful of Scotch. Everything is salt and spice and smooth caramel burn.
As she does this, Katey slides out a stack of money onto the table. Starts to move the money toward Miriam but pulls it back to her chest.
"Whuh's wrong?" Miriam asks, licking boozesoaked pretzel bits out of her teeth.
"This is all… strange. You're very strange, a very strange girl. You're the real deal? You can tell me about…"
Miriam swallows. "Yeah, yes. How you suck the pipe, feed the worms, find yourself on the Holy Shit I'm Dead Express."
Blink. Blink. "How do I know you're telling me the truth?"
"You don't, I guess. Louis knows. He can vouch for me. So if you trust him, then you know I'm on the upand-up. If you don't trust him, then I guess we don't have much more to talk about."
Katey slides the money across. "Five hundred, you said."
"I did." As Miriam takes the money, Katey quick pulls her own hand away.
"Not going to count it?"
"I trust you. Besides, the count's wrong, I'll cast a hex on you. A pox. A pox-hex on your home and school." She swirls another pretzel into the jar of pepper relish. "I'm just fucking around. I can't curse anybody. I'm the cursed one." Crunch crunch crunch.
"You been this way since you were a little girl?" Katey asks.
"This way? What way? A crazy bee-yotch? Or a psychic bee-yotch?"
She's interrupted. A young girl yelling. She turns, sees one of the girls in the art class – a little red-headed freckle-machine, maybe twelve or thirteen years old – standing up and holding her sketchbook like a mighty Viking weapon.
The girl whacks another girl across the face with it. The other girl – a little blonde thing, probably named Katey – shrieks and goes down, flailing.
After that it's all just a pile of limbs and whipping hair. A sensible brown shoe goes pirouetting up in the air.
"Boy, she nailed that other girl good. Pow. Right in the kisser."
"Par for the course here at Caldecott. These are good girls… for the most part. But many of them are troubled. Or just unwanted. It leaves… well, it leaves a mark. Inside. Sometimes outside, too."
"I hear that."
"My break is almost over," Katey says. Suddenly her eyes narrow. "You know, I don't want to do this anymore." She stands. "You can keep the items but I'd like the money back."
"Whoa, whoa, what? No, hell with that, we're doing this. Louis said you're some kind of raging hypochondriac and so I came all this way and we are jolly well fucking doing this. Give me your damn hand."
Katey's face sags. Her eyes go sad. "Is that what he said? Hypochondriac? Is that what people think of me? I suppose I knew that."
"No, it's not what he said, it's what I said. Now shut up and let me do this."
The woman reaches in. Goes to grab the
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