Free Dear Life, You Suck by Scott Blagden

I imagine myself grabbing her by the arms and pulling her in to me. All I need is a trench coat and a fedora.
“Wynona, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you’ll understand that. Here’s looking at you, kid.”
A grin slices my face.
    Her expression twists from fear to anger.
    My throat tightens, and my mind clogs.

CHAPTER 8
    Nurse Aubrey’s dangling my hand over her stainless-steel sink and dousing it with hydrogen peroxide. Her sleeves are rolled up and she’s holding my arm away from her body so she doesn’t get any blood on her marshmallow-white uniform. She looks like a nun wannabe in her refrigerator-box dress, white Frankenstein shoes, and goofy hat. You’d think a nurse would want to get blood on her uniform to show people she did something useful with her day instead of just saving schoolboys from paper cuts.
    “I don’t know why you boys insist on fighting to solve your petty differences.” She dabs my cuts with a cotton ball. “When I was your age, my brothers were in the army fighting to protect this great nation of ours. They fought for a reason.”
    “Which side, North or South?”
    Nurse Aubrey scrunches her wrinkly puss. “Very funny, Cricket.” She dries my hand and starts bandaging my finger with so much gauze you’d think it’d been chopped off.
    “Jeez Louise, a Band-Aid would be sufficient.”
    “Thank you for telling me how to do my job, Cricket. With just a Band-Aid, you risk infection.”
    My finger’s wrapped thicker than an Egyptian mummy, but it still stings like a son-of-a-biscuit.
    My ring’s in my pocket. There’s blood on it so now there’s probably blood on my letter to Moxie. Like it battled alongside me.
Cool
. If it weren’t for my ring cutting into me, I wouldn’t have a scratch on me.
    “Who was it this time, Cricket?” Nurse Aubrey asks.
    “Buster Pitswaller.”
    “Oh, dear Lord. You’re lucky I’m only bandaging your finger.”
    “Yeah, lucky me.”
    “Where’s Buster? Did he get hurt as well?”
    “His face got a little banged up when he used it to cut open my finger.”
    “Oh my. Are they bringing him here?”
    The butterflies in my gut start flapping. “I don’t know.”
    “Stay here while I get you some antiseptic and bandages to take home.” Nurse Aubrey disappears into a walk-in closet and returns with a small paper bag. “Be sure to change the dressing tonight before you go to bed and then twice a day, morning and evening, or that finger may get infected. Now go sit in Principal LaChance’s waiting room while I go see what’s happening with Buster.”
    I take my usual seat in LaChance’s waiting area. The school’s hauntingly quiet. Probably on account of everyone’s in the courtyard.
    I’m feeling amped and tingly, but palpitations about Pitbull’s condition are poking holes in my fuzzy inflation. Like I said before, getting into a good game of Fist Scrabble ain’t a big deal Down East. But a hospital trip crosses a line that even the animals inhabiting this missing-teeth menagerie can’t ignore. If Pitbull has to leave school grounds to get patched up, I’m toast.
Ass toast,
if you get my meaning. With a side of grape jelly. And extra
margareeeeeeeeen
.
    Not that I would have done anything differently.
    I need to pull it together. Stop letting these whirlpooling worries suck me inside out. It’s completely ruining my post-whup-ass fuzzies. I need to mind-munch something commensurate with my infernal combustications. Something the exact opposite of Pitbull. Something silky smooth and sweet-smelling. Something caramel creamy and rose-petal soft. Something Wynonatatious.
    I wonder which side she’ll fall on. I wonder if she’ll hate me for what I did, or be impressed. I wonder if she’ll love Pitbull more or despise him for his flabby failure. If she decides to despise him, she’ll need a