Losers Read Online Free Page B

warehouse night.
    â€œAnd it isn’t so happy, either,” I said.
    She opened her mouth and looked at me— what do you mean? —in the way that perfect people always do, those girls who say whatever they want and expect everyone else to love them for it. But then she closed her mouth, as if to take back that sentiment, and instead she reached over with those intense fingernails and pulled my collar down.
    I winced again as she saw my battle scars. My knee throbbed, and its soreness wasn’t visible but I imagined she could see mylimp, too, even as I was standing still. She looked grossed out, as any normal person would be, but not revolted.
    By which I mean, she didn’t flinch. And she didn’t look like she was going anywhere.
    â€œYeah, well, you know what?” she said. “It’s gonna be.”
    I took a hard, long breath.
    â€œAfter what we go through to get where we are,” she said, “it better be happy. It fucking better be.”
    She brushed aside one permed curl from her forehead. I could see purple skin of her own beneath it, a nasty contusion that ran along most of her scalp.
    And, at that moment, I was about to offer her a room in our warehouse. I was about to tell her, forget about my hormones, forget about getting an apartment of your own, I’ll take you away from all this.
    She reached down, ground the cigarette out with the heel of her shoe, and tossed the butt in the half-cranked-up window of someone’s car.
    I waited for her to say something, and then I realized that she was staring at me. Probably because I was staring at her legs, long and pale and enclosed in a showcase of nude-colored fishnets, still exposed in the air after the grinding of her cigarette.
    She grinned at me and re-ruffled my hair. When she spoke again, it was like her accent had switched back on. Like everything that had just happened between us hadn’t actually happened.
    â€œLook, I gotta go back inside,” she said. “Guess you do, too. Anyway, good luck and stuff. It was good talking with you, kid.”
    â€œWell, hey, thanks yourself,” I said. “And hope to see you around, Margie.”
    â€œMargie? Oh, jeez, that’s not me—I just forgot to bring my name tag. I’m only Margie for tonight.”
    I watched her climb the stairs, still in the parking lot, still stuck inside the memory of her legs. Her legs and her head. I watched as she hesitated for a moment on the precipice between the last step and the door inside, as if she was trying to decide whether she was going back in or not.
    And then she did.

3. YARDS AND YARDS AWAY
    D ay Two.
    Day Two was a Friday, which meant school was not quite as bad. Who was the School District genius who decided to start school in the middle of the week? You’d think they’d just wait till next Monday, so we wouldn’t be quite so culture shocked twice in a row, but I didn’t blame them. Friday in general had always been a chill-out day, a work-free day, and a Friday before you had any work to do in the first place was pure brilliance. I’ve learned not to look gift horses in the mouth.
    I got to school in the nick of time, 8:14, a minute before the bell rang. After experiencing a momentary sense of disorientation, in which I suddenly became afraid that I’d forgotten where my classes were and everything else I’d learned on the first day, I spotted a fire alarm that I remembered running past yesterday. In a flash, everything came back, and before the minute hand could jump forward and toll its cruel fortune, I was sitting in homeroom, Advisory #405, sitting in the next-to-last seat in the class, right in front of Liz Gozner. I successfully managed toavoid Bates, and I successfully managed to avoid the embarrassing before-school time when everyone groups up, socializes with their friends, and checks out who the leftovers are, the ones without anyone to pair up with.
    This was where