Little Battles Read Free

shit.”
    “Whatever.”
    “No, not whatever. I’m not a bank and I don’t give out loans. You want some shit, you’ll have the fucking money in-hand first.”
    “Fine,” Jason cut in, this time grabbing my arm and pulling me toward him. “She gets it, okay?”
    “She’d better, Fox.”
    Aiden walked away and Jason opened the car door for me. It wasn’t until we were both inside that he said, “Jesus Christ, Sophie.”
    “What? I’ll pay you back when we get to my house.”
    “That’s not the fucking point. You can’t keep Aiden waiting like that. He’s not like me. I get my weed from laid-back hippie folks who grow just to have something to do with their land. The people he gets his shit from are bad people. They’d have no problem killing him if the money wasn’t right, and let me also explain to you how Aiden would also have no problem kicking the shit out of you if you owed him money.”
    I rolled my eyes, but knew he was speaking the truth. I’d known dealers worse than small-town Aiden. “Don’t be so dramatic, Jason.”
    “Don’t be so fucking stupid, Sophie.”
    In my room, as I shoved money in his hand, he said, “You could say thank you.”
    I could’ve if I really meant it, but I didn’t need Jason saving me. If Aiden wanted to hit me over sixty bucks, it would have been fine with me. I could take a punch and wasn’t afraid of a little pain.
    I immediately went for the button-fly of his pants. “If you say please, I’ll say thank you.”

    I didn’t go to school on Tuesday. The mere mention of “female problems” and Tom flew out of the house, mumbling something about heating pads and a busy day. I’d thought that it would be a peaceful, restful day, but I was wrong.
    There were even fewer distractions at home than there was at school. Fewer distractions meant more unbidden thoughts.
    So I slept.
    I slept from eight in the morning until ten at night. I vaguely remember Tom knocking on the door, saying something about eating, but other than that, I was out.
    I dreamt and as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t seem to wake from it.
    It was after eleven when I finally opened the two e-mails from Elliott. The first was our usual question and answer. The second one asked just one question: Are you okay?
    Why the hell couldn’t he just not care like every other person in my life? Why did he have to be so damned concerned and shit? Couldn’t he just want to bang me like everyone else?
    Hell, no. Elliott had to be all kind and caring with his puppy eyes and Otis Redding dances.
    No, Elliott, I’m not okay, I replied. But I’ll answer your questions anyway.
    My favorite smell and my favorite flower are the same: Lilac.
    I like books that are about things I’ll never experience. Classic romance stories are all about how tangled up one can get with all that shit, and I’ve never allowed myself to get tangled up.
    I like ice cream, but I don’t eat it much.
    I don’t dream or have career goals because what’s the point? I could say that I want to be a photographer, but who gives a shit? I’ll probably just end up working at IHOP or something.
    I don’t think there would be anything I wouldn’t do on the day before the earth exploded.
    You can come over tomorrow. I’ll cook you dinner.
    Here are my questions:
What’s your favorite smell?
Why didn’t you watch cartoons as a child?
Out of everyone in the world, why on earth do you want to be friends with me?
You do realize just how fucked up I am, right?
Do you realize that I’m not a good friend?
    Bonus: Is there anything that you’ve done that you wish you could take back?
    I’ll see you in school tomorrow.
    S.
    I probably should have just cut the whole thing off with Elliott, not even answering the email and not letting him entertain the thought that it was a good idea to be my friend, but I had to acknowledge there was something about him that made me need to be around him.
    I was going to have to rein myself in just a little