Page 57 of Bad Intentions

“Also that”—she flicks her eyes to the scraps of the beer label on the counter—“is a sign of extreme impatience and compulsive behavior.”

I stop ripping the hell out of the label.

“Maybe you should pick up your guitar so your energy doesn’t go sideways,” Rika suggests.

“You know what?” I turn to her to confront her, but she holds her palms up in the air with a humorous air.

“All right! All right!” she says with that contagious, shit-eating grin. “Is that why you do art?”

“Yep,” she responds without hesitation. “Either that or stealing cars.” Her chest shakes from silent laughter.

“You are joking, right?”

“Nope.”

“What do you mean, nope?”

“I have a record.”

“For what?”

“Grand theft auto.”

My mouth forms a silent O. “You are kidding, right?”

“I’m not. Eventually, it was diminished to joyriding.”

“Seriously?” For a brief moment, I stare at my mutilated bottle. “What are your parents like?” I ask to change the topic.

“Huh,” Rika murmurs, suddenly quiet for a moment, and I try to read her face to see if I hit a sensitive topic. “Mom has been MIA pretty much all my life.”

“What does that mean?”

“Missing in action. A flight attendant.”

“Oh.”

“An international one.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, wow.”

“Dad?”

“Dad is whatever. They got divorced last year. We barely talk. Let’s say I wasn’t an easy child to raise.”

“You don’t say.”

She gives me a humorous side-eye. “Yeah. Mom didn’t want me. Dad didn’t care. Sniffle-sniffle.”

She’s good at it, making fun of herself, easy about her past. I wish I were like her.

“Moral of the story,” she continues, “feeling bad for oneself is counter-productive.”

“I don’t feel bad about my past.” I think that’s a lie, and I need to rephrase it.

“B.S.,” Rika argues. “You’re so full of it. You feel bad about your past and feel bad for yourself and being in this town.”