Fighting Words: Chapters 1–13

"It's an ampersand," I say, careful to pronounce the word correctly.

Not only is she incarcerated, she had what's called a psychotic break as soon as she got to prison. It comes from the meth, and it means she's bad crazy in a permanent way.

She wouldn't likely even recognize us were we to walk into her cell, not that we could, since she's incarcerated in Kansas somewhere, which we have no current means of getting to.

Then she asked what I was doing instead of the assignment, and then she agreed that drawing a wolf seemed like a reasonable compromise.

Clifton threw everything we had onto the burn pile in the backyard, doused it with gasoline, and lit a match.

"Y'all going to court? Prosecuting?"

You're underage. I don't contribute to the delinquency of minors.

She held her right hand up, fingers splayed.

"And your mother should have lost her parental rights when she got sentenced to such a long prison term. But that never actually happened. The social workers are getting you and Suki named wards of the state. Until that goes through, I don't actually have much power."

The school was big, brick, kind of shabby, just like my old one.

She made a list of stuff I wasn't never supposed to talk about: Mama. Clifton. (Especially not Clifton. Not that he was gone most of every week, not that he wasn't our kin.)

"I don't qualify for a government phone. I got a real job. I don't make minimum wage."

I added bristly eyebrows and fangs.

I tried to sound casual. Didn't need Nevaeh feeling sorry for me.

The ball bounced once and hit me in the gut. It ricocheted off me and knocked into—oh, snow.

She's in remedial everything.

"Let's look at the feasibility of what you're saying."

Francine said, "We need some mental health evaluations on these two."

Francine said, "There are a lot of ways to be traumatized. Their mother—"

Fun was Suki and me and Teena, watching game shows all summer morning, sprawled across our living room floor.