Free Heartbreaker by Maryse Meijer Page A

replies.
    You want us to guess? the dark-haired one asks, but the young one snorts, shakes his head.
    We’re not playing games, man. She doesn’t want to say, then she doesn’t want to say.
    Laura, the tall one says. She looks like a Laura.
    The girl looks at him. What does a Laura look like?
    Like you.
    Is that good?
    The tall one shrugs. It’s not bad, he says.
    Are we just going to stand here or what, the dark-haired one says, pushing his fists in his jacket.
    The young one pulls a joint out of his pocket and dances it in front of the girl. She reaches for it, but he lifts it away from her hand, whistling.
    I thought we weren’t playing games, the girl says.
    Maybe we are, maybe we aren’t, the young one says. You don’t have anything better to do, do you?
    No, she agrees.
    Then relax. Open your mouth, he says, and the girl parts her thin lips. He sets the end of the joint next to her tongue.
    The lighter’s in my back pocket, the young one says, looking down at her pale face.
    The girl reaches around the young one’s waist. Her eyelid flutters when her hand bumps something cool and hard. She pulls it out.
    Try again, the tall one says, taking the Swiss army knife from the girl and, peeling the scissors from the steel grip, starts cutting his nails.
    The girl’s smile deepens. She reaches into the young one’s other pocket.
    Here? she says.
    You got it, he says, then plucks the joint from her mouth. But how about a kiss first?
    She tilts her head up, her lips still parted.
    You want to fuck? she whispers, before he can kiss her, and for a moment the boys are frozen.
    Hey now, the young one says, giving the girl his smooth laugh. He grinds the lighter, flipping on its weak fire: smell of burning, of a good time. The young one takes a deep breath. The girl licks her lips.
    *   *   *
    The dark-haired one sees it happen first: the emergence of the girl’s real face. Her eyes seem to blacken; her mouth discards the dull smile. She is no Laura, it occurs to him; she is not an Allison or a Sarah or a Tiffany. There is no way this girl has a name like any name they know.
    Hey—the dark-haired one says, trying to get the attention of the others, but they are still playing with the joint and their own anticipation; the dark-haired one might as well be a tree or a block of night sky.
    The young one exhales into the girl’s open mouth. That what you want? he says.
    Ooh, she croons, running her finger down the young one’s chest. You’re gonna do it to me, I know it.
    Their smiles flicker, fade. The girl turns to snatch the knife out of the tall one’s half-clipped hands.
    You wanna screw me with this?
    What the fuck, the young one breathes, dropping the joint. He takes a step back.
    You, she says. You can choke me. That will feel good, won’t it? If you do that?
    We’re not into that shit, he says, wincing, hands up.
    It’s okay, she continues, pulling each tool from the red case, one by one. You can do it. I like it.
    The tall one reaches for his knife but she whips it high above their heads, its splayed tools twinkling.
    Maybe you should calm down, the dark-haired one says.
    The girl sharpens her gaze on him.
    You can watch, she says. And then you can have your turn.
    What the fuck is wrong with you? the young one says.
    Nothing, she says, blinking, eyes wider and wider. What’s wrong with you ? Why isn’t your cock hard?
    She nudges her knee against the inside of the young one’s thigh; he jerks away.
    This better be a joke, he says.
    Why? she says. You feel like laughing?
    Seriously, what the fuck is your deal ?
    Don’t you like me? I thought you liked me, the girl says, pouting. She moves her head from side to side, like a leaking balloon, lips pushed out, making the high-pitched whimper of a dog. The knife lands in the dirt; no one moves to touch it. Her shoulders start to shake and her frown melts down and she