In Hell We Dance

Fake

I keep my distance. At first. Just watch, keeping quiet. Well mostly quiet. They haven't even damn started yet. Just drawing shit and showing Connor, and he always has some witty retort that cracks her up. I shoot daggers his way, but so far my silent prayers for something foul to befall him have gone unanswered.

Nothing serious, mind you. Just enough to hospitalise him. Like what if he 'accidentally' fell down the hole?

'Course, that's not happening. There he is, making small talk, being a natural charmer. Either he's a fake ass bitch; he's doing the best damn acting I've ever seen, or my little rabbit has grown some damn balls. If that's true, seems this twat is doing alright for himself. For once. Not the damn crybaby who yearned daddy's approval.

Fuck, I think I'm rubbing off on him. 

You'd think that was good. And maybe it is, but that puts my chances with Corin at a knife's edge. Like it's not already there...

Still, man, I'm like... a fucking troll, lurking bout in the background. Mr Suave over there getting all the screen time. Damn.

You ever find yourself in a group, but you're pushed to the back, and while everyone else is having fun, you're being ignored, and when they look, it's with eyes that scream: 'OK, now please shut up. The cool people are having their say?' Yeah, I was a kid once. I know, hard to imagine. Innocent little me. 

Hah. Like you'd believe that shit. Had my first joint at eleven, and got piss-drunk at twelve—weird order, I know. Lost my virginity the same year, so it all balanced out.

Anyhow, my point is, you try and make friends. You think those you have will stick by you, blood brothers and all that shit. And maybe you're lucky. Most of the time, it ain't gonna be that simple. See, even nice people are conceited. They hide behind their iPhones and plastic white smiles, expensive cars—maybe they talk about donating to charities. But they don't give a shit. It's all appearances. They want the same vain crowd, pumping shit in each other's ears. And, man, they believe they're so damn decent, they even manage to delude themselves.

Fuck, man. Picture that. All these fake-ass bastards and they don't even know it. Small wonder I fucking despise everyone.

'Cept maybe Connor. He's teetering though. Just gotta make sure he falls my way. And falls hard.

Corin's said some harsh things, but man, if I let that stop me. She's a keeper. Her friend, eh... I mentioned a sea of fours yesterday. Sophie is a one. One and a half if she put on some damn makeup.

Acne-ridden, portly, and with weedy ginger hair, she's a freaking scarecrow, and I don't see how someone like Corin could associate themselves with this hag. But I've gotta play nice, so the moment they showed up, eight am in my domain, I acted the part of the generous host. This I learned from Connor. Seems we're taking from each other, and I don't know if that's a good thing.

Corin had a bag slung over her back and a smaller one in her hand. Same deal with Sophie. As they set to work, I watched as the two of them sorted through paint tubes and brushes, lining spray cans against the wall. Connor was nowhere to be seen—and he wasn't answering any of my texts. The garden crew were noticeably absent too. The grass is all set out, the bridge is complete, and the willow tree pops, but there's no water. The ditches need something more, and I have just the idea.

"Hey," I beam, standing with my arms folded behind my back, facing them both. Sophie's face becomes a distortion of lines, till she looks like a withered pumpkin. "You think you girls would be up for painting the ditches where the water's gonna go?"

They share a look, and then Corin nods.

"It'll cost you more, but that's not an issue, right? Just need mummy's permission, don't you?"