A Test of Loyalty

Part 2: Ashleigh

I was eager to see who'd be moving into Snake's old apartment. Of course, I couldn't let the others see; I'd look stupid, as eager as a little kid looking for someone new to play with. But the truth was, I was sick of my friends. Sick of this street, sick of being tough all the time, sick of being poor, sick of everything.

I was especially sick of Jeff, my mom's druggie boyfriend. It beat me how a smart woman like her always picked such losers. But this one was the worst.

At least with Snake's midnight move, his major drug connection was gone. It was too much to hope that he'd straighten up though. He'd probably already found another dealer.

I leaned casually against the moving truck, and lit my last smoke. I didn't even know what I was hoping for, something to get me out of my life, I guess. I didn't get it.

What a wimpy, prissy little daddy's girl that was, coming down the front steps like she owned the place. And look at the sour expression on her face, like she thinks it smells here. The others stirred restlessly, they didn't like her.

"You shouldn't be leaning on the truck, my dad won't like it." I couldn't believe she said that. Challenging me right in front of everyone. Was she suicidal? Maybe she was just stupid.

I pushed myself off the truck, blowing out a thin stream of smoke from the cigarette. I'd always thought that looked threatening when I saw it in the movies.

She cringed, I hadn't even done anything and she cringed. Good god, what was she doing moving here?

"Hi. We're just moving in."

The girls rolled their eyes while I just continued staring.

"No shit, Sherlock," I looked her up and down, her clothes said money. Those were Tommy Hilfiger jeans, and not from the Goodwill either. They were bought new. Her t-shirt was covered in glitter, who would wear that to schlep boxes unless they didn't own any old ragged ones?

I could almost hear Francine adding up how much this boob was worth. Francine thought of everything in terms of money, and hated people who had more than she did. And since she didn't have any...

Then I heard her dad coming down the stairs. I knew it was him, hard, fast and clicking steps. New shoes, lots of energy. There was no-one else it could be. I was pleased to still remember what my dad had taught me about tracking, I was only five when he went to jail.

I could find out more later, I didn't want to meet her dad, not like this. So I pushed myself off the truck and, flicking my cigarette butt at her, leaned in close, smelling perfumed soap.

"Watch your step, daddy's girl because if you make a wrong move, I'll cut your pretty face." Francine was quick to second that. She was always looking for a fight.

"She's done it before, even did time for assaulting some skank." Two months in foster care, with other native kids too young to go to jail, too bad to ignore. But it sounded serious when Francine said it.

After supper, I was just hanging on the porch with the gang. I'd lifted a couple of Jeff's beer, and Francine had them out of sight in her backpack. I hated the taste of it, but a few beers certainly softened the edges. Not as much as grass did, but Jeff would've noticed anything gone from his stash.

Soon enough, I heard the new girl's footsteps tripping lightly downstairs. Like she had the world on a silver plate, I wasn't sure if I hated or envied her, but I was definitely puzzled by her. Why was a rich kid moving into this neighbourhood?

I soon found out. They weren't rich anymore, though the snobby little bint still acted like she owned the world. I was curious to see what Francine would do. But I'd have to stop her if she went too far, last thing I needed was another brush with the cops. Even Jeff was better than that, I could avoid him.

Then that little shit, Muslim creep showed up. Always staring at my boobs or butt, and calling me a whore if I called him on it. How did a fifteen year old boy learn to act like that, anyway? Not from his uncle, he seemed a decent sort. Smelled like weird spices all the time, but that was to be expected. You don't eat all those amazing smelling curries without absorbing some of the spices.

Not like the prepackaged crap that was all her mom had time to make. Even birthdays were cake mixes and cans of frosting. Could be worse, though. She could be Francine, and barf up her own birthday cake.