Free The Sacred Lies of Minnow Bly by Stephanie Oakes

“That’s my nickname for you. Because of the pee.”
    Angel’s eyes narrow and she looks like she’s thinking about smiling, but the muscles in her face tighten just as quickly. “Couple things you should know,” she continues. “You gotta lose the way you talk.”
    â€œWhat way?”
    â€œLike you’re in church all the time. You don’t talk like the girls here. ‘
Godseyes!
’” she mocks. “You sound like they dug you out of a time capsule.”
    â€œBut I don’t know any swears.”
    â€œJesus, I’ll make you a list then.”
    She stands and rips a square of paper from a spiral notebook on her bed and scribbles out five or six words with a small pencil. She hands it to me.
    â€œI can’t read,” I say.
    â€œYou can’t even sound the letters out?”
    â€œOnly a little.”
    Her mouth shifts to the side. “Here.” She places her finger next to each penciled word and pronounces it, then makes me repeat after her. My heart beats hard, and not only because I’m holding the Devil’s words in my mouth. This is the first time anyone has taught me to read since Bertie.
    â€œGet these ones down and you should be all right.”
    â€œWhy are you helping me?” I ask.
    â€œIt saves me a headache later on. If you get in trouble, you’ll look over at me with those pathetic eyes and expect me to help you. Well, it ain’t happening.”
    She leans heavily against the wall again. “And second, if you don’t understand what someone’s saying to you, don’t respond. Don’t say a word. You’ll get yourself trapped.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike, if anyone ever holds up their hand like this,” she makes a circle with her fingers, “that means they’re asking if you’re gay.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThey’re asking if you like girls. And if they wanna know if you have a friend on the outs named Britney, they’re trying to claim you, ’cause a Britney’s the name for someone’s bitch, someone to have sex with. A Candy is a coward and a Tricia is someone with something to trade.”
    â€œGawl,” I say, my head teeming.
    Angel scowls at me.
    â€œI mean . . .” I clench my eyes, thinking. “Shit.”
    â€œBetter.”
    â€œI guess I can’t ever ask someone if they like girls,” I say.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œNo fingers.”
    Angel squints.
    â€œThat was a joke,” I say. “Don’t you ever laugh? Even I laugh sometimes and I got a lot more reasons than you to be depressed. About . . .” I hold up my arms and look down to where my fingers had been. “. . . ten reasons.”
    Angel carries on, ignoring me. “You’ll be deciding soon what gang to join,” she says. “I ’spect you’ll be with the Christian girls.”
    â€œI’m not Christian,” I say.
    â€œNo, but you’re leaning in that direction, I can tell. You got religion in your blood. Trust me, by next week you’ll be quoting Job to me, telling me what Jesus said about this and that. I heard it all before.”
    â€œYou were raised religious, right?”
    She nods. “Everyone around me was. My uncle . . . he was real religious.”
    I don’t ask if this is the same uncle she’s locked up for killing.
    â€œWhat’re the Christian girls like?”
    â€œLike Tracy,” she says. “You know, fake.”
    â€œLike how?”
    â€œThe dumb ones really think they mean it ’cause they’re scared, and they think they can actually turn their lives around. But the smarter ones are only pretending ’cause they wanna look good in front of the parole board. That’s all religion is. Strategy.”
    â€œHow are you so sure?”
    â€œI’m good at spotting liars. And that’s all they are. They’re