Free Promiscuous by Isobel Irons

wouldn’t solve anything. Because I’m starting to get it through my thick skull now: no matter how old I get or how far I go, my life is always going to be like this. I will always be a homing beacon for people who want to use me and hurt me.
    That doesn’t mean I’m not going to leave, though. As soon as I can. Because now, more than ever, this town is toxic. And one more thing is for sure: pass or fail, I’m never going back to that math class again.
    Sorry, Mr. Dodge. I guess college isn’t in the cards for me, after all.
    So instead of taking the highway, I drive to the Baskin Robbins on 3rd street. I park behind the depressing gray heap of cinder blocks and go in through the back door. After I clock in and wash my hands, I pull on a faded black hat and wind my long hair into a messy bun through the hole in the back.
    The cap sits low over my eyes, hopefully hiding my expression as I tie on my apron, as I wash my hands again just for something to do. Ramona—the thirty-something mother of three who's working the night shift with me—nods in a chilly way. I nod back. I'm almost ten minutes late, but she doesn't bring it up.
    Probably because neither of us are paid enough to give a shit. After the pleasantries are over, we both lean up against the counter and turn our eyes to the clock. Mine are stinging with barely controlled rage, like a poisonous reminder of my own impotence. Ramona's eyes are blank, glassy with acceptance. The kind of eyes I'll have if I can't figure out a way to graduate and get the hell out of this town.
    Oh, and in case you were wondering, she has her GED.
     

 
    CHAPTER SIX
     
    “Bingo! I’ve got a bingo!”
    “Get bent, Harve!” Nana flails her chicken-like hand in the old coot’s direction. “You’re not even wearing your glasses.”
    Margot’s eyes are the size of bingo balls. “Nana, seriously, you’re going to get us kicked out.”
    I’m too busy laughing my ass off. “It’s not her fault. She’s been spending too much time with me lately.”
    “What’s that? Someone call a bingo?” For the first time in at least an hour, Dottie perks up, her violent old-person tremors making her wheel chair shake and knock against the table. “Dog gone it, I almost had a whole row.”
    “Dottie….” Margot clutches her forehead, exasperated. “That was two games ago. We’re going for total blackout now.”
    “Oh, good for me.” Running her fingers over her bingo card—which I’ve been punching for her this whole time—Dottie smiles to herself in that vaguely childlike way all senile people do, like she’s got a secret. Or maybe she just peed her pants. “I’ve been total black out since 1989.”
    I burst out in hysterical laughter. Now I’m the one in danger of peeing myself. How awesome is that, to be a hundred million years old and blind, and still be able to crack jokes about it? I slam the table with my open palm, squeezing my eyelids together over tears of uncontrollable mirth. I really should take a leaf out of Dottie’s book. The old bat could literally give a shit what anyone else thinks about her.
    The middle-aged church lady who’s pulling the balls—which never gets less funny to say out loud, by the way—throws us a dirty glare, and Margot continues to look embarrassed. I can’t stop laughing, though, and eventually Margot and Nana join in. Because what the hell, half of the people in the room can’t hear us anyway. Or if they can, they’re stuck in a reality where pretty much anything goes.
    God damn, I wish I could fast-forward time and be old and wrinkly. How awesome would that be? No more worrying about getting ogled by douche bags like Trent Gibson, or getting all hormonal and bothered against my will over hotties like Grant Blue, who wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole.
    Heh, ten foot pole. That sounds really dirty too, if you think about it.
    Okay, so maybe I am a little bit high at the moment. But in my defense, Nana said I could have