Firstlife Read Free Page B

Question everything .
    â€œMaybe not, but I’ll still make the offer. Yesterday, today and tomorrow, my actions matter.”
    In that, I agree with her. I’ll even take it a step further. The most destructive or constructive actions begin with a single thought. And, ultimately, a single action can decide the direction our lives take. And our deaths.
    I will choose my path. Me alone. My choice will affect no eternal future but my own.
    She opens her mouth to say more, but I shake my head. Subject closed.
    She hops up and walks around the room, studying every nook and cranny, finally stopping to gape at my calendar. “Seriously? You’re using a finger pen? No wonder everyone calls you Nutter. You’re the biggest nut in the whack shack.”
    She just got here. How does she know what I’m called? “Everyone calls me Nutter because of the size of my lady balls. That, and I tend to smear my opponents across the floor like peanut butter.”
    She thinks for a moment, frowns. “If your lady balls are so big, why don’t they call you Hairy Cherries? Or Furry Meatballs?” She taps her chin. “Well, duh. Because neither name describes your explosive temper. Oh! I know. I’ll call you Sperm Bank! It covers the balls and the explosions.”
    I snort-laugh. She’s brave, so gold star for that. In a place like this, lack of fear is rare and precious. Of course, if she threatens me in the slightest way, I won’t hesitate to end her. Survival first, nothing else second.
    â€œIf anyone calls me Sperm Bank, my temper is going to explode all over you ,” I say. “Meanwhile, I’ll be sure to call you Hatchet. The tool used to cut your hair, I’m guessing.”
    She fluffs the ragged ends of her style . “I used a kitchen knife, thank you very much. I’m confident the trim properly highlights my beauty.”
    Have to admire her positivity.
    My internal clock suddenly goes off, the conversation forgotten. “Breakfast!”
    She sighs. “Mealtime. Yay.”
    â€œOur cell will open in three...two...one.”
    The double doors slide apart.
    â€œWe have thirty seconds to exit the room,” I explain. “If the door closes while we’re still inside, we’ll miss the meal.” The food sucks, nothing but slop, but that slop has enough vitamins to keep us somewhat healthy. And really, anything is better than starving.
    â€œSo we’re like dogs in a crate, taken out only at scheduled times so we won’t crap on something important or chew on the furniture. Awesome.”
    Together, we dart into the hall. Our blockmates do the same. In total, there are twelve of us.
    Twelve: the number of months in a year, members on a jury, and the hours on the face of a clock.
    For a moment, we take each other’s measure. Anyone going to uncage the rage today?
    When no one makes a lewd or violent gesture—hey, this might be a good day—we head for the exit at the end of the hall.
    Jane, one of the older inmates, mutters to herself and stops to bang her forehead against the wall. Skin splits at her hairline and blood trickles down her cheek. Everyone else keeps walking, head down and arms wrapped around the torso, as if to protect the vitals—or stop an avalanche of pain and misery from spilling out.
    I march determinedly beside Bow, for the first time noticing she exudes a fragrant mix of wildflowers and lemon drops. I like it, but I know it won’t last. Our water smells like chemicals, and the soap we’re given smells like grease.
    A high-pitched whistle cuts through the air, making me cringe. “Well, well,” a voice says from behind me. “I just lost a bet I’d assumed was a sure thing .”
    â€œLike Becky,” someone else calls, and snickers erupt.
    I don’t have to glance over my shoulder to ID the first speaker. Sloan “don’t hate me because I’m beautiful, hate me because I