Page 67 of You've Got Hate Mail
Not like the school was going to kick me out.
So that was my rebellion.
And then my punishments—they were light.
I couldn’t even get my parents to do anything bad about it.
Part of growing up, they said.Don’t drink and drive. Don’t have unprotected sex. Don’t cut off opportunities you’ll regret later.
I’d have to help clean up after the parties or help my teachers whose classes I skipped, but that was it.
Cricket leans a shoulder against the doorframe. “You had a rough childhood too?”
“No. It was good. Not like—not like Ava’s was either. She—she had it a lot like it sounds like you did.”
“Did you know her growing up?”
“No.” We met at a bar. Dated for a year before she got pregnant. Rough pregnancy. Rough post-pregnancy. Life finally started evening out for us, and then she got sick.
I barely knew her in those good times so often referenced in marriage vows.
None of which I tell Cricket.
“Some of her videos used to cross my feed,” Cricket says. “She seemed like such an amazing person. And it was really inspiring to see—well, to see someone who wasn’t a size two sharing what she loved about vegetables and fitness.”
I almost smile. “She did love vegetables. Not always fitness. But she was trying.”
“That’s what was so great. She was real about it.”
I nod.
“So, there’s something I should probably tell you…”
I lift my brows.
One thing I’m learning about Cricket—her brain squirrels. So there’s no telling where this is going.
“I heard Lavender singing a song about feeding Fluffy while Daddy’s in the shower so he doesn’t know.”
Of course she did.
I squeeze my eyes shut and count to five.
“I shower and have my coffee before she’s awake,” I tell Cricket.
“That’s what she likes you to think. I hear her feet while I can also hear the plumbing running in the mornings. She’s definitely playing you.” She winces. “Sorry.”
“Did she happen to sing about where she’s getting the food?”
“From Pip.”
I stare at her.
And then I bark out a laugh.
Velveeta.
From Pip.
