I flinched. She’d always called me “Needy” as a joke—because my name was Nidia, and I clung to her like a life raft. But now it sounded like a diagnosis.
The cops ruled it a gas leak. The town buried her on a Tuesday. I stood at the grave until everyone left, then I carved into her headstone with the same scissors: Jennifer--s Body -2009-
“Don’t tell,” she whispered. “Or I’ll start with your boyfriend.” The next morning, Chip was late for first period. By third period, his car was still in the lot, but he wasn’t. I found his letterman jacket behind the bleachers. It was wet. Not with rain—with something that had a pulse recently. I flinched
I closed my eyes. The wind smelled like her hairbrush. The cops ruled it a gas leak
She grinned. Her teeth were too white, too straight, too many. “Tasted like old jerky. Boys are better. Boys are an appetizer you don’t feel bad about finishing.”
“You said boys,” I said. “Not Chip.”
She lunged. I stabbed. The scissors went in just below her ribs—the place where, in fourth grade, she’d been stung by a wasp and I’d carried her to the nurse’s office. Black blood geysered. She didn’t scream. She sighed, like a tire letting out air.