Free Deviant by Helen Fitzgerald

called for.
    “No ta, it doesn’t agree with me,” Abigail said.
    Becky studied her face. “It calms me down. I don’t do anything else, but I love this stuff. We don’t look alike, do we?” She blew the smoke out the open window. “You look like him. Your eyes. But you must have some of her. You’re much better-looking than he is. Mind you, he was cute when he was young.” She took another drag. “He was so different when he was young.”
    Abigail had been sitting with her legs crossed, too, but it was getting uncomfortable. She dangled her legs over the side of the desk and leaned back on her arms.
    “You don’t talk much.” Becky’s smile widened.
    An answer wasn’t required, so Abigail didn’t offer one. She looked around the room. It was a mess, papers and clothes all over the floor. There was another desk with two computers on it. The floor was covered in files, paints, cardboard, and other art materials.
    “Are you a happy person?” Becky asked.
    Oh please, not stoner talk
, Abigail groaned to herself. “How would I know?”
    Becky laughed and took a sip of her bottled sparkling water. “You’re happy then.”
    Abigail raised her eyebrows.
    “You don’t notice being happy,” Becky offered. “You notice being unhappy.” She giggled. “I’m sorry. I say a lot of dumb stuff that I think sounds profound.”
    Abigail laughed in spite of herself. “So what do you do with yourself, other than smoke?”
    Becky rested the joint on a posh china saucer and took another sip of water. “Hmm. Well, Dad wanted me to study law. That was an argument!” She picked up the joint again, inhaled, exhaled, and then stared into Abigail’s eyes. “I don’t want to be stuck-up, play the game.” Becky’s face was too close to hers now, getting more and more intense. “See, I believe in freedom of expression. I believe that most old, rich folk should be shot. Especially if they tell young, poor kids that it’s their fault they’re poor. I believe in having fire in your belly.” She pounded her flat stomach. “No one should be allowed to extinguish that, no one.”
    Abigail sighed. The rant took her back to the commune on Sunday evenings, when Nieve and her friends would take turns to address the community from a large wooden box on the loch side. Such passion seemed just a wee bit misplaced here with this privileged girl, in her posh room in her posh house, smoking a joint and drinking bottled water that probably cost more than a pint at the Solid Bar. But maybe a lot of Nieve’s friends had come from privilege, too. She’d never stopped to think about it.
    Becky stubbed out the joint and gestured to the art materials scattered around the room. “I’m an artist.” She blushed. “Oh, jeez—that sounded so pretentious, didn’t it?”
    “No.”
    “What do you believe in?”
    Bollocks
. This is the conversation her sister wanted want to have? Now Abigail was pissed. Becky had no idea about poverty. She hadn’t lived in a hostel filled with heroin addicts and prostitutes. This was all naïve and clichéd.
    “You’re kinda scary!” Becky exclaimed loudly.
    Abigail sighed again, more loudly than she meant. Not only was this naïve and clichéd, it was irritatingly familiar. In No Life Hostel, the girls would smoke dope in the bathroom and get all weirded out by each other.
    “Tell me what you believe in,” Becky asked again.
    Abigail bit her lip.
    Becky laughed uncomfortably. “You’re freaking me out. Say something!”
    “It’s just the dope.”
    “It’s not. I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re so guarded. Anything, anything. Quick, before I explode.”
    The ghost is stoned
. Now was not the time to share her questions about their dead mother. Nor about why their dead mother might want to keep their living father in the dark about the letter. Nor was it the time to talk about the letter itself, or about the £25,000 she had for Becky.
    So Abigail said this instead: “I believe in