Free Dear Life, You Suck by Scott Blagden Page B

bubbles out. “Yes, I am.”
Shit, who said that?
That’s not what I wanted to say. Comments like that won’t woo her. They’ll just chafe her ass into an itchier rash
.
    She uncrosses her arms and plants her hands on her hips. “Oh, really? You’re proud of yourself for being a complete brute?” Her body jiggles as she speaks, which spikes my already dangerously high distraction fever. The tears she’s fighting back make her eyes look greener than usual, like acid-melting emeralds. She looks scared and uncertain. More real than I’ve ever seen her, which makes me realize I’ve been seeing her through a make-believe veil all the time I’ve been stalking her.
    Wynona stomps her foot to get my attention. “Are you going to answer me or not?”
    Man, she’s adorable
. She’s sulking like a cranky Little One demanding a sugary treat before dinner. Which, truth be told, is tearing me in half. She may be adorable, but she’s also being an asshole. I won’t kiss her ass just because she has a perfect one. “Sure, if you ask me a question that’s not retarded.”
Whoopsy
.
    Her face explodes. Holy Moses, smell the roses, she’s plenty riled now. “Oh, so you don’t think you’re a . . . total . . . brute? You think what you did is okay? You think viciously attacking a . . . helpless . . . person . . . is okay?” There’s that tone again. Her voice is stuttery, like she’s auditioning for a role in the remake of
Network
.
“I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not gonna take this anymore.”
    My forehead’s sizzling a bacony mischief, and that ain’t the only pork oinking a stand-at-attention tumult. “I’m sorry—what was the question?” I consider ending my question with “Professor Pantywad,” but my cooler head prevails.
    Apparently, she hasn’t been paying attention either, because my question flusters her. “What? I mean . . . which one?”
    I gawk into her pretty eyes.
    Her cheeks twitch as she glowers. She scrunches her mouth. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
    How much time you got, sweet cheeks?
Sometimes I wish I could open my mouth and free the untamed swarm of thoughts buzzing around in my head. Oh, shit, I just thought of something. Perhaps she’s not interpreting my reticence as confidence and charm. Maybe she thinks I’m retarded. “I simply asked if you could repeat your question.”
    “Well, the first thing I said . . . about an hour ago was, I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
    “Proud of myself for what, Wynona?”
    She blinks as if she’s shocked I know her name. “Proud of yourself . . . for . . . almost killing Buster.” Her volume decreases with each syllable, so by the time she gets to -
ster,
she’s practically whispering.
    Wynona, my love. I sincerely apologize for pummeling your genteel and kindhearted beau. But you must admit, he started it. He was physically abusing a defenseless young boy. And he stole his favorite comic book. That is fairly brutish behavior, wouldn’t you say? Certainly worthy of a stern physical reprimand
. That’s what I want to say, but it’s not what comes out. “What, are you fucking kiddin’ me? It would take a hell of a lot more than a few pops to the noggin to kill that Neanderthal.”
Shit, I did it again. Jesus H. Christ on a stripper pole! Why can’t I shut, shut, shut my stupid cock-blocking mouth?
    Wynona’s jaw drops. “Well, you didn’t just punch him. You kicked him too. Like a little girl.”
    I chuckle as I realize Wynona has no problem with the fact that I called her boyfriend a Neanderthal. Perhaps she concurs with my assessment. I should club her on the head and drag her back to my cave.
    “What’s so funny?” she barks. “Only girls kick when they fight.”
    “Are you suggesting the only reason I defeated your asshole boyfriend is because I utilized the fighting techniques of a girl? Because if you are, I’m not sure who you’re offending more, me or the entire female population.”
    Her face drains.