"My Mother's a Murderer"

“Wait up, cowgirl!”


Meeka Jones. I was wondering when the cat was going to leap out and claw me—all thanks to the clever manipulation of Seth.


“Oh, boy—is today our play-date?” I ask, my cheeks bulging with an insincere smile.


“Is that what you Americans call it? We’d call it a parang-fest,” she grunts.


“What the hell is that?”


“A knife,” she says and pushes open the front doors of Sayview High with the force of a professional weight-lifter.


I scan the entrance for my mother’s Corolla. “Look, I don’t want to do this anymore than you do.”


“Your mother sounded very nice. I’m hopeful she’s nothing like you.”


“My mother’s a murderer.” I watch Meeka’s smooth skin contract in a blissful combination of alarm and an underlying hope that I was joking.


Unfortunately, of course, I wasn’t.