Free Deviant by Helen Fitzgerald Page B

a dozen of the burny beasts in the curry. She took a breath, wiped the sweat from her forehead and swallowed a large piece of leathery chicken. “That was right thoughtful, thanks Melanie.”
    “Sorry, what was that?”
    Abigail blinked nervously. Had she said something wrong? “I said that was right thoughtful of you, the curry and all.”
    Melanie patted her hand against her chest and laughed. “It’s your accent! God willing it’ll soften after a while. I’ll catch every lovely little thing you say.”
    Abigail made a mental note to practice an American accent. The quicker she got rid of her rough brogue, the better. After the ordeal of the main course came burnt caramel shortbread which Melanie had baked “to make you feel at home!” Conversation was polite, and all about the party. Melanie had spent the day making arrangements. It would be tomorrow night. Everything would be Scotch.
    Scottish!
    “I’ll get you a dress for the party and some other clothes in the morning.” Melanie shot a hard glare at Abigail’s T-shirt. “I see Becky gave you one of
those
. Do we know if it even means anything yet?”
    “Pardon?” Abigail asked, lost.
    Grahame took it upon himself to explain. “I’m sure you don’t know anything about this, Abigail, coming from a more civilized continent.” (She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.) “For the past month, there’s been a graffiti campaign here in LA. The images are the same as those on your T-shirts. Rumor has it there’s one letter to go. It’s become a kind of cult. Sad to say, the more susceptible teens of LA, like Becky here, have subscribed to it.” He cast a sidelong glance at his daughter. “The press has called it ‘The Graffiti Tease.’ To me,it looks like an advertising campaign—probably building up to launch some kid’s amateur homemade zombie movie or something. In my honest opinion, though, it’s just vandalism, pure and simple.”
    For the first time, Abigail saw some passion in her father’s eyes. The subject of graffiti had eroded his guard. She liked that something upset him. It made him more real.
    “It’s freedom of expression,” Becky said, staring back at him.
    Abigail suddenly wished she’d worn her STUFF THE MONARCHY T-shirt instead. She wanted to remain invisible here. Political protest in the UK seemed to be a less contentious issue than vandalism in LA. Fine by her. She had no political allegiances whatsoever.
    “I’ll get you some new clothes tomorrow,” Melanie said, ever the peacemaker.
    “I have plenty of clothes for Abigail,” Becky said. “We’re sisters, you know. They’ll probably fit.” Her tone was flat.
    Grahame and Melanie glanced at each other.
    “I hope you don’t mind,” Grahame said. He wiped his mouth with his serviette, folded it neatly, and placed it beside his empty dessert bowl. “We have drinks tonight with our good friends, the Howards. Planned it ages ago. We’d take you, but—”
    “You’d be bored out of your brain,” Becky finished.
    He smirked. “Well, yes, frankly. Becky will look after you.”
    “But I’m going out, too.
I
planned it ages ago,” Becky protested.
    “Take Abigail. I’m sure she’d love to go.”
    “It won’t be fun for her.”
    Abigail swallowed. They were suddenly talking about her as if she weren’t in the room. Bad sign. It was the same thing social workers always did whenever she was about to be moved.
    “Becky, it’s your sister’s first night here.” Grahame’s voice hardened. “Either don’t go out or take her with you.”
    “It’s your
daughter’s
first night here,” Becky snarled, grabbing her dishes in a huff and storming off to the kitchen.
    A BIGAIL COULDN ’ T CARE LESS about going out. She didn’t want to tag along with Becky. Mostly she wanted to snoop around the house, alone. But she did hate the fact that she was already a nuisance. It was clear Becky resented her. Who wouldn’t? A brand-new sister: a crazy street punk