Page 2 of Dirty Liars
“You might not be so snarky if you knew whose funeral it was.”
I sit straight up. Forget getting caught. My pulse races and a sickening feeling settles in the pit of my stomach.
“Who is it?” I try to run through who it could be, whose death could possibly upset me more than having to wear that potato sack of a dress she just threw at my face.
“One of your classmates.”
The purposeful evasiveness makes me want to gouge out her eyeballs.Dear lord, give me the patience not to kill this woman.
“Which one?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“The pretty one. Sadie White.”
Now even Rachel, usually oblivious to all but the most violent methods of waking her up, stirs. She rolls over and rubs sleep from her eyes.
“You mean the one who looks like Teddy?” she asks.
Cassie giggles. “Ms. Martin just called Teddy pretty.”
I have to fight away the tiny smile that tugs at the corner of my moth as Ms. Martin looks appalled. What the girls say is true. I’ve never seen it, but everyone else at school always said we shared an uncanny resemblance to one another.
I never minded, but Sadie she …
I stop myself. You aren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead … no matter what a bitch they were when they were alive.
That doesn’t help the fact that, no matter how much people thought we looked alike, Sadie White and I were as far from being friends as you can be without actually being enemies.
“That’s sad and all, but I’m good, thanks,” I say, flopping back onto the bed. It’s draining, thinking someone you actually care about might have died … until you remember that thereisn’tanyone you actually care about.
I glance up at Cassie and Rachel’s petrified faces looking back at me. Ms. Martin is staring daggers.
“Ass out of bed now. We leave in ten.” She glances up at the girls, who duck out of sight under the covers faster than a high school relationship lasts. “That goes for you too.”
She shoots me one last look, and I know she means business because she doesn’t even stay to make sure we do it. If there’s one thing I know about Ms. Martin, it’s that you don’t want her to have to come back.
I have to pick my battles with her carefully. I lie to her a lot, I get into trouble sometimes, and I don’t back down from her too often … but I can see that this isn’t the time to fight. As much as I hate to, I’m going to have to do as I’m told.
I wait until she’s out of earshot before I roll right back out of bed with a loud groan. I stuff last night’s haul, just a measly ten bucks, into the end of shoes where even Ms. Martin won’t dare look. The old catholic church donation box used to such a great spot, too.
As soon as Rachel and Cassie have scuttled down from their beds, I pull the dress on and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I don’t have to wipe the steamed-up mirror to see why everyone thought Sadie and I looked so much alike. They said we could be twins, Sadie and I, but I never saw it. It’s more than our looks though. We are … or were, I guess, just so fundamentally different that simply sharing a face isn’t enough.
She was a princess and I’m a street girl. All she ever knew was privilege. All I’ve ever known is poverty. I pull down one of the sleeves of the black dress and use it to smudge the steam from the mirror, just for a moment, before it steams up again.
Sadie was basically perfect in every way. I don’t know about her, but I was always the ugly kid; awkward and plain. I swear it’s one of the reasons no one ever wanted to adopt me out of the foster system. No one wants the girl with big alien eyes and a problem sucking her thumb.
I’m not the homely little girl anymore, but Iamstill the girl on the outside looking in. Loner girl. Taking care of myself in a world that hasn’t given me a kind day in my life girl.
So no matter how hard I look, the differences are too obvious for me to ignore.
What else is obvious is the crappy, uncomfortable dress I’m wearing that’s two sizes too big, and makes me itch everywhere.
I’m seventeen. It might only be by a few days, but I still shouldn’t have to put up with this kind of crap. As soon as I age out of the New York foster system I’ll be out on my own, and I’m simultaneously excited for and terrified by it. My days with Ms. Martin are numbered. Thank god.
Her voice breaks over the sound of the running shower like a hyena cackle. I know this one. She’s on the phone with one of her friends, probably pacing through the living room while catching up on reality TV reruns she missed because she was passed out drunk over the weekend.
“I wish I could, but I’ve got to take the kids to a dumb funeral.”
Little snippets of her conversation cut through the sounds of Rachel switching out the shower with Cassie, who stops for a second to let me towel off the top of her head. Her short brown curls look a little thinner than I remember them, and I have to stuff down a twinge of guilt in the pit of my stomach. I’d always hoped these two would get adopted out before they got too old. But they arrived shortly after me last year and so far, it doesn’t look like they’re going anywhere soon.
