Free Working Girl by A. E. Woodward Page A

mini vodka. “But seriously, the boy is a dish.” She fans herself with her free hand and smirks.
    “I don’t even know him,” I bite back.
    “Which makes him even hotter .”
    My head rolls back. “Ugh, you drive me crazy.”
    “I’m just saying, you need someone to keep you in check, someone else to drive you insane.”
    “I don’t want to be crazy.”
    “But you are. You have to be to live in this hell hole.”
    She’s right. You have to have a certain degree of psychosis in order to make it here. I wonder how much damage I’ve really sustained. Having done a pretty good job at convincing myself that I can maintain a normal lifestyle, I thought that I might turn out to be a functioning adult, but I’m seriously starting to reconsider that. Especially given my recent behavior.
    A few moments pass us by, both of us too lost in thought to be bothered with conversation, until I finally decide to break the silence. “Don’t you ever wonder what it’s really like out there? I mean, there’s got to be more to life than this.”
    Chrissy lets out the breath she was holding in. “Yeah, I guess. But it seems pointless to think about it because I know a bright future isn’t in the cards for me.”
    “But it could be.”
    “If I wanted it, sure . . . but I don’t, Presley. Honestly. I’m content. Happy even, at times.”
    We’ve never really talked about our difference in opinion. Just the thought of all the bad shit Chrissy and I have seen cause goose bumps break out over my skin. There’s no limit to our knowledge. We’ve seen girls over dosing, our moms being beaten up—accused of skimming—then being forced to perform for Big Earl to redeem themselves. Our lives are far short of happy, but Chrissy has never wanted anything more. In the simplest of terms, I am a fighter. She isn’t. But somehow still, Chrissy is my rock.
    I slide my hand into hers and smile. I can tell she’s thinking, and when Chrissy thinks, she tends to get sad. Her mind is her own worst enemy—it’s where her demons live. My questions have caused her to slip away and I need to bring her back. “Emerson is cute though, isn’t he?”
    She snaps her head and grins. “Yeah, he is. Those dimples alone are enough to melt my panties. So tell me, when do you see him again?”
    “Class.”
    “And . . .”
    Shrugging, I sigh. “And . . . I don’t know,”
    “C’mon.” She nudges me with her elbow. “You gotta go for it. Let me live vicariously through you.”
    “You’ve dated more than me,” I argue.
    “Giving hand jobs for twenty bucks hardly constitutes a date, Presley.”
    “Touché. But seriously, I don’t know. I’ve got so much going on, I don’t have time to get involved with some boy I barely know. And, anyway, how can I trust him? He’s probably just after—”
    “That’s a weak excuse.” She stops me from completing my sentence, mainly because she’s heard me recite the same thing over and over, so she knows exactly what I’m going to say. “Because we know the truth. They’re all after sex, Presley. The brain in their pants is always bigger than the one in their head. Besides, when was the last time you let yourself live? You spend every waking hour with your nose stuck in a book, trying to better yourself. You deserve something, Presley. Even if it’s just for fun.”
    “But Momma—”
    “I don’t give a shit if your Momma is dying,” she whispers, casting a look over her shoulder, making sure that none of the other girls are around. If they overhear us, they’ll go straight to Big Earl. That’s the way it works around here: no information is sacred—especially when it’ll buy you a couple of days in Big Earl’s good graces. Any one of the girls would kill for this kind of leverage over Momma and me. It may seem like we’re all one big happy family, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s all for one, and each for themselves. “All the more reason for you to live now, while