Page 73 of That Pucking New Girl

Her voice is low and throaty, but tends to whine when she’s put out or being judgey. Does she treat all of her clients like this? Just because I’m a kid, doesn’t mean that I don’t have feelings.

Roxy continues to make comments under her breath, and I focus on her clothes as she moves around toward my side. She’s wearing a black long sleeved top with a long skirt, and I can see tattoos peeking out of her clothes here and there. The top layer of her hair is pulled into a knot to keep it out of her face, and I can see that she’s wearing a lot of makeup in an effort to appear as if she’s not.

This close, I can tell.

“You have a bruise,” she mentions, pointing to my hand. I was dropped a few times by the guys, so I’m not surprised. I have a lot of bruises and scrapes all over my body. It’s apparently a growing trend now. “Is that normal for you?”

“It can be,” I say cryptically. I don’t want her to think that my foster family did this. They don’t need the hassle of dealing with child protective services if she decides to report it. “I’m still getting the hang of the layout of this house. I can be clumsy.”

That’s a half lie. While I do tend to walk into things, it’s more due to being inattentive in a new place than because I’m clumsy. It’s different.

“Yeah, well I see how that can happen,” Roxy says with a half laugh. “How do you feel about bangs, Noor? The front here is really jagged.”

“Umm. Bangs? I haven’t had them since I was six,” I murmur.

I don’t have any photos from my childhood. There was no time to get anything before I went into foster care. The house was yellow taped with caution tape and I was too out of it to think to ask for anything.

All I have are vague memories of my childhood. I don’t remember what my mother smelled like anymore, nor do I remember my father’s favorite color. Things are slipping away the older I get.

“Hmm. That’s not an answer,” Roxy complains, continuing to brush, glare, and cut my hair.

“Are you going to leave any on her head?” a deep voice asks, scaring us both. “Hey, mija.”

I don’t have to turn my head to know it’s Emil.

“Hi,” I breathe as he comes around to see me, his hands deep in his pockets. “I thought the kids were with you?”

“Julia tired them out,” he chuckles. She’s Rachelle’s mom, though I rarely hear them use her name. “The girls are napping. All three of them.”

The fact that Rachelle’s mom also needs a nap makes me giggle, and Roxy looks surprised by the sound.

“How are you feeling? I heard it was a rough couple of days,” he says.

“Slightly better. As long as I don’t get another migraine tonight, I’ll be in the clear. It’s like the little things that happen throughout the day decide to dogpile on top of each other until I crash by the end of the day.”

“That’s a strangely descriptive way of explaining things,” he murmurs. “What are your hobbies?”

“I love art,” I admit with a smile. “I have some charcoal that’s calling my name, I just need to be able to see straight so I can draw.”

Emil’s eyes are sharp as he takes in Roxy’s every move. I would be insanely nervous if I were her.

“How much longer are you planning to take?” he asks.

I make a face at him that screams ‘she has scissors, can we chill the fuck out,’ which he ignores.

“Almost done,” she grunts disrespectfully. “Do you want to give me some space here, Grandpa?”

“Come mierda!” he yells, making me jump.

“What happened?!” Rachelle gasps, rushing into the room. “Fuck, there’s no blood. Right? Shit, am I wrong?”

“Rachelle, can you get him out of here?” I hiss, my hand on my chest as adrenaline rushes through my body. “I swear, he’s gonna give me a heart attack.”

“She’s cutting too much!” he complains. “We should have gone with the hairdresser I found. He seemed nice.”

“Emil, come see the pretty drawings the girls did,” Rachelle says, ushering him out of the room to distract him.

“Your family is kind of crazy,” Roxy mutters.