Chapter Seventeen
What the f**k?
The stinging sobers me up enough to decide that I’m going to give this waif the smackdown of her life.
You don’t grow up with seven sisters without getting into a fight or two, with and without hair pulling.
I raise my fists like a pugilist. “You’re dead, whoever you are.” I mean to sound cool and sinister, but the words come out slurred.
Instead of fighting me with honor, my assailant just rolls her eyes, then turns on her heel in a way that suspiciously resembles a pirouette.
“Wait a sec.”
She doesn’t. She prances away, making it look annoyingly elegant.
Oh. I remember now. She’s the ballerina I saw on stage the other day. The one I nicknamed Black Swan. The one who was much too chummy with Art on stage—performance or not.
Bitch. I should smack h
