Vicious Little Darlings Read Online Free

serious repercussions for me. What if I were to end up in a bloody tub one day all because of Brahms? So, I no longer listen to classical music. Unless it’s forced upon me, like right now.
    Agnes lowers the volume and rolls her shoulders.
    Maddy says, “Let’s just go back to the house.”
    â€œBut you haven’t had dinner and you have to eat, Maddy,” says Agnes, in a soft, nurturing voice, different from the one she was using earlier. This new voice sounds fake and it makes me dislike Agnes even more. You just can’t trust people with multiple voices. Multiple voices are like multiple personalities: scary.

3
    T here it is,” Agnes says, as we approach a huge, silver, bullet-shaped structure, flickering in the distance like a UFO.
    We’re in the middle of nowhere and Agnes is whipping down the dark highway with the ease of a madwoman.
    â€œWhat is it?” Maddy asks.
    â€œA diner,” says Agnes. “I doubt the food will be any good, but seeing as how nothing else is open at this hour …”
    It’s a truck stop. Agnes squeezes the car in between two semis and we step out. My stomach is queasy from her insane driving, but Agnes looks invigorated: cheeks pink, pupils slightly dilated.
    â€œDo you always drive that fast?” I ask her.
    â€œOnly when I’m in a hurry,” she says, slamming the door. So she’s a bad driver and a smart-ass. Wonderful.
    â€œDo you think we could go a little slower on the way back?” I say, clutching my stomach for effect. “I wouldn’t want to get sick all over your nice leather seats.”
    â€œDon’t worry. No one’s allowed to get sick in my car.” She lets out a deranged cackle. Freak.
    It’s eleven o’clock and the diner is bustling with ranchers, truckers, and rugged-looking people in denim and corduroy, with faces warped by boredom and a few too many Massachusetts winters. With her Chanel bag and matching ballet flats, Agnes looks completely out of place here, but she doesn’t seem to care or notice. Country music twangs from the overhead speakers and all the waitresses wear the same sassy expression—like they don’t give a shit. The place is so bright it kind of reminds me of California, where the oppressive sun could melt your face off.
    After a few minutes of just standing around waiting, Agnes begins to tap her foot against the tile floor. She stops a middle-aged waitress passing by with two coffeepots and says, “Is someone going to seat us … today?”
    The waitress snaps, “Excuse me, Your Highness, but can’t you see my hands are full? I’ll be with you in a minute.” And with that, she disappears into the kitchen, never to return.
    â€œA minute here is like a New York day, ” Agnes mutters.
    We seem to be getting a lot of stares from oily, middle-aged men, many of whom have perked up ever since Maddy walked through the door. Maddy doesn’t seem to care, demurely looking away anytime someone tries to make eye contact with her. I’m sure she’s used to getting attention from men, though these aren’t the kind of guys I’d imagine any girl being interested in, much less a beautiful girl like her. Agnes, on the other hand, seems to be annoyed that Maddy is being ogled. I can tell because she’s got a scowl on her face and she’s nervously picking lint off Maddy’s back, like it’s her way of claiming Maddy or something.
    â€œStop,” Maddy finally says, pushing Agnes away.
    I scan the diner. There’s no one interesting except for a guy who’s sitting alone in a corner booth, making paper-doll chains. He’s bone pale, dark haired, in his early twenties, and dressed entirely in black. He looks a lot like Edward Scissorhands. I try not to stare at him.
    By the time we’re seated, I’m ravenous. Maddy and Agnes sit down on one side of the booth and I sit on the opposite side.