Vicious Little Darlings Read Free Page B

I never know what I’m going to say or do. The nerve of this guy for even thinking he has a chance with Maddy. Where does his deluded sense of confidence come from?
    â€œHey.” I wave at Bobby to get his attention. “Maddy has a boyfriend, so maybe you should go hit on someone else.”
    He withdraws his hand from Maddy’s hair and looks at me. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, I’d give you a shot, but I’m not into scrawny chicks.” He laughs hard, pounding the table with his fist.
    Joe lets out a guffaw.
    â€œThat’s okay,” I say. “I prefer guys with brains anyway.”
    Bobby stops laughing. His chest begins to heave and his biceps appear to be flexing of their own accord. Now I’m a little scared. I wait for him to say something.
    A whole minute passes before he says, “Care to repeat that?”
    Still possessed, I say, “I think you heard me the first time.”
    His nostrils flare. “I know what your problem is, sweetheart. You’ve never been with a real man.”
    A bead of sweat trickles down my back. “Actually, I have.”
    â€œYeah? Why don’t you tell me about it?”
    â€œIt’s none of your business.” I glance at Maddy, who has turned an unnatural shade of pale.
    Bobby looks at Maddy and then back at me. “Tell you what, tough girl, I’ll make you a deal. You tell me about the last time you spent the night with a real man, and I’ll leave you and your friend alone. Okay?”
    Or we could just walk out of here. Unfortunately, Maddy is wedged between these two yahoos.
    Sensing my fear, Bobby smirks. “Well?” He turns and makes a kissy face at Maddy.
    Out of nowhere, a small, bony hand reaches forward and grabs Bobby by the ponytail. His head jerks back. “What the fuck?” he yelps.
    Standing next to me is a short, anorexic, homely-looking girl with a dark brown bob and a death grip on Bobby. She leans in close to Bobby’s face and whispers something in his ear, and then, surprisingly, Bobby gets up and leaves with Joe trailing closely behind.
    â€œHow did you know we were here?” Maddy asks the girl with the bob.
    â€œYou weren’t picking up your cell, so I called Sebastian,” the girl says.
    Maddy slides out of the booth. “But I told Sebastian we were going to Antonio’s.”
    â€œIt was closed. I drove around until I found this place. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
    I follow the two of them outside, where Maddy introduces me to her friend Agnes Pierce. Although I’m grateful to Agnes for sort of having saved my life, I instantly know that I’m not going to like this girl. There’s just something about her. She’s got small, hateful blue eyes and an unnervingly steady gaze. Her lips are thin and unsmiling, her cheekbones sharp, and she’s wearing the strangest outfit for a girl our age: a boxy, baby-blue cashmere sweater set, cream-colored pants, and pearls. From the crook of her elbow hangs a quilted ivory Chanel bag. She looks like she could be her own mother.
    â€œWe should go,” Agnes says.
    Her black Mercedes sedan is parked right in front of the bar. I reluctantly climb into the backseat, which feels like a coffin: chilly and airless.
    â€œI know a place,” Agnes says, starting the car. She turns on the stereo, blasting classical as though it were gangsta rap.
    I once read that listening to classical music was supposed to make you smarter. This was when I was still in high school, about a month before I had to take the SATs, so naturally I was curious about the theory. Every day for a week, I listened to those old guys: Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Tchaikovsky—but by the end of the week I didn’t feel at all smarter. And then I started thinking, why do I want to be smarter? Smart people are never happy, and since I’m already depressed, classical music could have