The Pretty Ones by Ania Ahlborn Page A

Insincere.
    A backhanded contemptible Jezebel.
    A real bitch .
    Please hold.
    A pair of girls walked into the break room. They paused in their conversation, taking note of Nell as she winced next to the Bunn-o-Matic auto drip. Nell’s eyes shifted to catch their judging glances. Their Janus-faced expressions. Their clown-painted eyes and mouths. She imagined them hanged by the silk scarves they had fashionably tied around their necks. Pictured their faces blue and lifeless as they swung beneath the fluorescent office lights.
    Not so pretty when you’re dead.
    â€œUm, hello?” One of the girls spoke, jolting Nell out of her momentary fugue. “Wanna get out of the way, please?” She nodded toward the coffeepot, waiting for Nell to step aside. Nell’s eyes darted from one girl to the other, and then, before either one of them could say something underhanded— loser, whale— Nell slammed her mug onto the floor. It shattered into a dozen ceramic pieces, Mr. Topsy-­Turvy’s bean-shaped body wrecked by the impact. Coffee sloshed across her penniless loafers, spattering the closest girl’s stockings. The girls jumped, exhaling yelps of surprise.
    Nell narrowed her eyes.
    I don’t want any cake.
    Bared her teeth at them.
    It doesn’t mean we’re friends.
    And marched past them with a hiss.
    .   .   .
    Kings Highway’s resident bicycle gang was parked just outside the train station. They were passing around a small cigarette, sucking in smoke and exhaling in slow, deliberate breaths. The moment they spotted Nell, they abandoned their lackadaisical post, shoved their dirty sneakers against the pedals of their bikes, and began to trail her down East 16th like a group of roving hyenas.
    â€œHey, bibliotecaria ,” one called out. “Hey, I lost my library card . . .”
    â€œI’ve got late fees, Blanca ,” another chimed in. “I borrowed that Karma Sutra book to figure out what position I want to try on your dimpled ass first.”
    Their jeers weren’t anything new. Nothing shocking or all that disturbing after dealing with them day after sweltering day. She’d spent months ducking her head between her shoulders and walking faster and faster, until she was marching just under a full run.
    Shouldn’t complain, you need the exercise.
    She never spoke to them, never made eye contact. Barrett had warned her about doing so: If you give them an inch, there’s no telling how far they’ll take it. For all she knew, they’d drag her into an alleyway and rape her just for standing up for herself. Maybe she’d be one of the bodies the cops found behind a Dumpster. They’d probably shut down the street—a sad white girl found in a crappy area. Tabloid news.
    But today, after Linnie’s rejection, their catcalls woke something dormant and ugly deep within her guts.
    The moment they had set eyes on her, the new girl on Kings Highway, they’d nicknamed her “the librarian,” because she was homely. Boring. A milquetoast girl taunted for the same reason her coworkers exiled her to eating lunches alone at the office. Because God forbid anyone should eat anywhere near her, which could increase caloric intake. It all boiled down to looks, to stereotypes, to who they thought she was—a big girl wearing a sweater in the dead of summer—rather than having the guts to find out for themselves.
    â€œOh shit, man,” the first boy jeered. “I think you pissed her off.”
    â€œDamn, dude,” a third spoke up. “You better watch it. She’s gonna lay you out with her yardstick or something.”
    â€œLike one of them Catholic school nuns,” another laughed. “ La monja voladora! ”
    â€œYeah, she looks pretty Catholic to me,” the first egged on. “You a straitlaced chica Catolica ? You wanna teach me a lesson, slap me around with a