Free Promiscuous by Isobel Irons Page A

one of her ‘special glaucoma brownies,’ because it’s my birthday.
    And you know what? It’s actually one of the better ones I’ve had. Even if you count the thing with Trent, and the trip to the principal’s office. It still beats the hell out of my seventh birthday, when all the girls in my first grade class—except Margot—decided to boycott my pizza party, without telling me. Or my fourteenth birthday, when my mom actually forgot about me , Sixteen Candles style. My dad was out of town, as usual, so she tried to play it off like they were going to surprise me with something awesome when he came home. Only, she forgot to tell him, so he came in one night all like, ‘How was your party?’ Mom was totally busted. I think that was also the first time I remember hearing them fight.
    Anyway, like I said before, I never really cared all that much about birthdays to begin with.
    “Hey, Margot. Pssst .” I reach over and poke her, whispering much too loudly. “Do you think Grant Blue has a ten foot pole?”
    “What the hell are you talking about?” She looks at me like I’ve lost it, like I’m just as much of an embarrassment to her as the two old broads sitting next to us. I don’t really mind it though, because—crazy as they are—Margot’s weird little family would do anything for her. And deep down, even though she pretends to be embarrassed about being an underage member of the Golden Girls, I know she loves them. And so do I.
    Because at the end of the day, if I didn’t have her totally dysfunctional, yet always welcoming family to run away to…I honestly don’t know how I’d survive.
    A few hours later, I come home to a dark, cold house and a note taped to the fridge:
    Hope you had a good day at school. I’ve got a thing. Won’t be home until later.
    Great, a thing . Translation: she’s on yet another date with that loser she works with. Or maybe it’s a new loser this time. Doesn’t matter. Dad’s body isn’t even properly chilled down under yet, and she’s busy boning her way through half the office. Classy.
    ‘Everyone has their own way of coping with grief,’ she told me once. I guess my mom’s way of coping is to let Comb-over Jerry from work dry-hump the heartbreak away. What a whore.
    The thought stops me cold. Maybe the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all.
    With that ugly realization rattling around in my skull, I take the last of Nana’s brownies with me to bed.
     
    ###
     
    The next day seems to pass by in an anxious flurry. We make it through aerobics unscathed, but probably because it’s Mile Day, and Margot and I usually walk the whole thing and bring up the far, far rear—much to Ms. Tailor’s athletic disappointment.
    Same goes for physics, which is super boring, as usual. I spend the period doodling in the margins of my textbook again. Grant Blue does not drop any pens, pencils, or writing implements of any kind. But I’m still jumpy and distracted. I can’t seem to focus on anything for more than a few seconds at a time.
    When the bell rings, I follow Margot out into the hallway, chatting about some Netflix show we need to binge out on all weekend. I tell her I have to pee before Pre-Calculus, and she waves goodbye and teeters off to class in her new thrift store boots. I wait until she’s out of sight before ducking into the empty classroom to collect my stuff, then I spend the next hour studying in the handicapped bathroom stall three hallways over.
    At this point, you’re probably going ‘Oh sure, Tash. Hide from your problems. That’s really mature.’ Well, here’s the thing: I’m well-aware that Trent Gibson isn’t just going to go away if I stop thinking about him. In fact, I’ve spent the entire morning looking over my shoulder, and it sucks worse than a Steven Seagal movie.
    But what the hell else am I supposed to do? It’s not like I can just waltz in there and sit down like nothing happened, then spend the next hour trying