Kid Stuff

by Tommi Howard

She said, “Don’t touch that.”

“Why n—”

“Shut up!” she hissed, whipping a pair of slick, leather gloves from her fanny pack. Her eyes insisted. I’m so dumb. I’ve never even nabbed a nail polish from Rite Aid. It’s a good thing she’s here. Miami girls have street smarts, and in our business, it’s every girl for herself, anyway.

I’m at the beach. I’m driving down the highway at sunset. I’m in lotus on my yoga mat. Inhale, deep, deeper, sigh it out. Oh bullshit, I love the rush. I mean, what are you supposed to do when even roller coasters can’t do it for you anymore? We had made it here unobserved, Crystal and me. This was kid stuff for her. Still, you try to not fuck up.

Rosie drives a ’69 Camaro. A fucking Camaro. I don’t know shit about cars, but this one’s a beaut. Big Al the boss said he would teach me something about ’em, and yes I was curious, but we all have dreams and pigs still can’t fly. I guess I shouldn’t be so negative. I’ve only been down here a few months, and I haven’t sucked anybody’s dick for a solo yet, like Rosie. God, I hate Rosie. I’d never even danced for a big company back home like she had. So why did she decide to make my life hell? Crystal had learned to deal with her, but you shoulda seen the Cheshire smile she got when I told her the plan. At least I had a car back home.

Real time, the blonde mess that’s my wig is getting itchy. Nobody’s gonna see us, but Crystal has some priors and we aren’t taking any chances. The moon glints hard off the water, and I swear the damn Camaro is reflecting the stars as I thrust knife into tire. Dog shit under the handles. Smeared into “cunt” on the back windshield. Glass on the ground and we’re giggling. Poor car, Daddy’s money will fix you. I’m Ellie McGregor, Karma’s angel. How else are people going to get what they deserve?