The Care and Feeding of Exotic Pets Read Free

slid her out from under the car, rolled her over, and pulled her to sitting.
    â€œWe’re going inside. Now.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou’ll see.”
    â€œI don’t want to.” She could not stop her tears.
    â€œI’m not going to kill you.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a flat folded knife. It opened with a press of his thumb. The blade was long and partially serrated. “But I will hurt you if I have to. I will.”
    He did not look at her as he said it. He seemed to be staring at his knife, at his hand holding the dark handle, and then at his other hand circling her wrist.
    â€œI will,” he said again.
    He was young, younger than Winnie first thought. His skin was as smooth and flawless as Lacy’s. Had he grown up setting cats on fire, ripping the wings off butterflies, beating up kids for their lunch money? His fingernails were gnawed to the quick. His cuticles were raw.
    â€œWhy are you doing this?” she asked. “Why me?”
    â€œWhy did you get in the car?” He pushed the knife toward her belly. “Stand up.”
    Slowly, she got to her feet. She would go inside. There had to be a phone, window, a front door that did not need a remote toopen. He took her arm and pulled her to the door that opened into the house. Hot air whooshed out and engulfed them, so intense Winnie coughed to get her breath. The heat was shocking. The house was on fire. She tried to stop on the threshold, but he dragged her inside.
    â€œIt’s too hot. I can’t breathe.”
    â€œShut up.”
    He kicked the door shut behind them.

2.
    As soon as Lacy stepped into her first period class her cell phone went off, blaring the obscure heavy metal music she chose because it was the most annoying in class, in restaurants, in the movies. Her chemistry teacher, Mr. Bronson, sighed. He put his hands on his funny, womanly hips.
    â€œIt’s my mom,” Lacy lied. “I forgot my homework and she’s bringing it.”
    She ducked out into the hall and answered her phone, breathless, laughing, “What do you want?”
    It was the guy, her twenty-five-year-old guy. Again. He would not leave her alone; he called all the time. She had never before been pursued.
    â€œYes, yes. I just got to school,” she said into the phone. “My mother’s taking her car to the shop. She dropped me off on the way.”
    She smiled as he flirted with her. His voice was deep. She had told him she was eighteen—and a senior. She liked older men, or imagined she would.
    He asked her about her mother’s car—typical man—and she rolled her eyes. She didn’t care. “She has a really, really ancient Peugeot. Weird French car.” Then she remembered the lies she had told him. “It’s very rare—and expensive. One of two in the world.” Such bullshit and he bought it every time.
    â€œAre you okay?” he said. “Was last night horrible? Are you bruised?”
    She had also told him her mother had hit her with a hair-brush and locked her in her room. Some story about a sexy dress Winnie forbid her to wear, a dress Lacy did not really have and would probably never really wear. “It was okay. Listen, I have to go to class.”
    â€œI’ll call you right after school. Before orchestra.”
    â€œOkay.”
    She snapped the phone shut and slipped back into the classroom.
    â€œTurn your cell phone off, Ms. Parker.” Mr. Bronson did not turn from the board as he spoke.
    â€œI did.”
    Ten minutes later when her phone started screaming again—this time it was her stupid father—she was the only one who laughed. The rest of the class had seen it before. Mr. Bronson had seen it too many times.
    â€œThat’s it.”
    â€œIt must’ve turned on in my pocket.”
    â€œGet out,” Mr. Bronson said. “Go to the office.”
    â€œYou’re kidding. C’mon, Mr. B, it