Dorothy sat cross-legged on the bench, picking at the scabs on her knee with her left hand while her right held a cigarette. She’d probably kill me if she knew I’d called her by her given name. She insisted we call her Calamity, or just Cal for short.
She was always so goddamned dramatic.
Anyway, Cal was telling us about some guy she met last week. A married man. And how she skipped third period and went to his house. And how she got the rug burn on her knees. I knew she was lying. But the two other girls looked at her like she swung down from the clouds on a sunbeam, so I let it slide.
She could never fool me, and she fucking knew it.
These other two hung on her every word, and when she finished one cigarette, they practically fought each other to pull another one from the crumpled pack between them and hand it to her. Cal lit it and continued her tale of illicit passion.
It was lifted pretty much word for word from some French movie we saw last night.
I started to fidget and get up to leave, already practicing my excuses. I had homework. Needed to babysit my brother. Had to help with dinner. But Cal saw me, and turned away from the other two for just long enough to wink at me.
Her heavily shadowed eyes closed and opened and just like that I was back under her spell.