Page 22 of Such Sharp Teeth

I’ve known this guy forever. How is he throwing me off my game?

“I see you’re already in costume,” I say.

He laughs. “Cute.”

“All right, I got to hurry. Scarlett’s in the car.”

“See you later,” he says, stepping out of my way.

“Yep.”

I wander over to the vodka and pick a bottle at random. I peek out to make sure he’s left before heading up to the register.

When I get back to the car, Scarlett asks what I got.

“Oh, um,” I say, looking down and reading the label. “Looks like I selected Salted Karamel Stoli.”

“Are you seventeen?”

“Hey, you’re not drinking it.”

“Neither are you,” she says. “You won’t drink that.”

She’s right. I don’t like dessert-flavored liquor, and I don’t really like vodka.

“I was rushed!”

“Sure,” she says, turning out of the parking lot. “Blame me, your only sister, your blood, who has a tiny human living inside her, using her bladder as a punching bag. All my fault. Nothing to do with Ian Pedretti.”

“Nope.”

“He waved to me.”

“How gentlemanly.”

“I rolled down the window and said, ‘Are you my new brother?’ Wait. What are you doing? That’s for the party.”

I remove the plastic from around the top of the bottle.

“Not if you keep this up it’s not.”

She sighs, and the rest of the drive home is silent.

—

“I’ll do your makeup, if you want,” Scarlett says, kicking off her shoes. “I’m going to shower first.”

“Okay,” I say. “Let me know when.”

I decide I should probably shower, too, because I smell like wet dog again. It’s faint, but I can smell it. I choose to blame Reaper, even though I know it’s me. I undress, removing the gauze that is, once again, soaked in silvery goo.

I had to order more bandaging off Amazon, then sneak the package inside so Scarlett wouldn’t notice. I told her I have lingering scrapes, but she obviously doesn’t know the gory details. Every day, I put the soiled gauze into a plastic bag and carry it down to the bins outside. I can’t risk Scarlett finding any evidence. That’s the last thing I need.

I stare at the wound in the mirror. The cuts remain, and the skin around them has gone stiff and pale. I’m holding out hope they’re just scabbing over funny. They seep varying amounts of the thick iridescent discharge. Some days there’s more than others. Some days there’s barely any.

I remember when Scarlett first got her period. I cried at the kitchen table because I knew I would be next.

“It’s not that bad,” she said, eating Nutella straight from the jar.