Page 35 of The Initial Insult

“It’s not that simple,” he says, suddenly choosing his words more carefully. “Felicity needs me for . . . things.”

I’m quiet, searching his face. I know Hugh pretty well—well enough to know that he doesn’t do drugs. And I know my market well enough to know that he’s not selling, either, because I haven’t seen my sales go down—I don’t have a competitor. So Felicity doesn’t need him for the same thing she needs me for.

“Whatever it is,” I tell him. “She’s using you.”

“It’s not like that, Tress,” Hugh says. “Felicity’s got problems you know nothing about.”

“Right,” I agree, turning away from him. “Not like mine; the whole town knows my issues.”

Hugh lets it slide; there’s nothing he can say to that. David has joined Brynn and Gretchen at their table, brow furrowed in intense concentration as he tries to plow through The Waste Land.

“Whoa, dude, you’ve got to beef up this résumé.”

I turn back to my computer to see that Hugh’s looking at my application. “Dick,” I say. “That’s private.”

“No, for real,” he says, reaching out for the keyboard. “Check this out.”

I grudgingly push the keyboard toward him, and he starts typing away with a surprisingly fast hunt-and-peck method.

“So you don’t want to outright lie,” he says. “Because they might follow up. I’m guessing you don’t have any job references?”

I nod, silently thanking him. Hugh knows that I can’t name the Amontillado Animal Attractions as my employer, much less put Cecil down as a reference. Our Facebook page itself would bar me from most campuses in twenty seconds, not to mention probably bring the ASPCA down on our heads. And I can imagine Cecil fielding a phone call from an admissions office, telling them he didn’t raise no pussy that needs air-conditioning—or a higher education.

Self-starter, highly motivated, and adaptable to changing situations, Hugh types.

“Nice,” I say grudgingly. It’s certainly all true, especially being adaptable. Last week I had to relocate my entire store when somebody let the cops know there were drug deals going down in the old barn out on 26. I think learning the patterns of a grumpy ostrich’s mood swings counts as adaptable, too.

“But the extracurriculars need some fluffing.” Hugh eyes the screen, resting his chin on his hand. “I know you don’t play any sports—”

“You mean, you know I can’t afford to play any sports,” I correct him, but he just waves his hand. Amontillado went to pay-to-play a few years ago, taking with it any chance I had of stepping foot onto a court or field. Not that it mattered. Even if I had the cash, I don’t have a car, and there’s no way Cecil would drive my ass back and forth to practices.

“Sports look good on paper,” Hugh says. “But that’s not the only thing people put on their résumés.”

“Right, but all of them require some sort of actual participation,” I tell him, ticking off the clubs on my fingers. “Student council, FFA, even book club. All those kids are constantly doing shit I can’t.”

Basically, anything that requires time and a pair of wheels.

“What about class officer?” Hugh asks. “It’s kind of a bullshit title. You don’t really do much of anything—What?” He breaks off when he sees me rolling my eyes.

“You really think there’s a chance in hell? Class officers are pure popularity contests, and you know it.”

“President and VP, maybe,” he admits.

“And nobody is going to let me handle money,” I tell him. “No way I get treasurer.”

“So run for secretary.”

My mouth is already open for a comeback, but none comes out. I end up settling for, “Yeah right.”

“Why not? Now you’re just being a pain in the ass, and you know it,” Hugh says. “Last year they couldn’t even get anybody to put their name up for it at the class meeting.”

This is true, but the they in question were Gretchen and Brynn—already elected president and VP—and half the reason nobody wanted to fill the other roles was because they didn’t want to put up with Gretchen’s shit. Finally some flunkies had raised their hands and automatically got the positions simply because nobody else offered themselves up as tribute.

I glance over at their table. Brynn I can take; she actually seems kind of cool. Gretchen I can take; as in, take her out at the knees if she starts anything with me. And it would be good to have something on my extracurriculars, since I can’t claim my job without self-incrimination.

“All right,” I say to Hugh. “I’ll give it a shot.”

“Nice,” he says. “Now, let me show you what the internet is actually for.”