‘Better to reign than serve,’ the poster on my pale pink bathroom wall greets me.

I scrutinize myself in the bathroom mirror.

My hair needs better styling, my makeup appears too light, I need a stupid new white shirt, and my worn, scuffed, black shoes need to get thrown in the garbage.

“Lisa, we will talk about it after school,” Dad responds from my sister’s room.

Since Mom left, he has spent every night in her room, sometimes late for work.

We need a new house. I can’t keep sharing the washroom with my sister and my dad. Maybe I will move into his room and take over his unused washroom.

“I want to talk about it now!”

I remove the ugly shade of lipstick, throwing the casing in the garbage.

“Let Dad finish. I can’t be late for work again.” My sister grunts and moans while her bed creaks through the thin doors.

Whatever.

I find an acceptable shade, but I want better shades. I need more selection.

Dad opens the door, limp dick dripping, and walks in to use the toilet.

“Love you,” I kiss his forehead, leaving lip marks. I know what he hates.

“Love you,” he calls as I sprint out the door.

I grab a granola bar in passing.

Slipping into my cherry red convertible, my love, I turn the key, engaging the growling engine, enjoying the powerful vibrations through the black, faded leather seats. The scent of others having lived their lives excites me. I imagine all the sex people had in the big back seat. The faint tobacco odor tells of a time when people acted as people, had vises, and did naughty things.

I hum to Springsteen’s song, “Glory Days, in the Wink of a Young Girl’s Eye.”

Gently, I back out of the driveway, still upset at the ding on my beloved chrome bumper.

Humming, I text Amara, ‘Have you done it yet.’

Amara, ‘No’

I swing into the handicapped parking. I give the hunched man with the little dog a smile and a just-a-second finger. The dog won’t shut up, but he doesn’t say anything.

Daddy’s partially-owned coffee shop has my triple espresso waiting in a steaming little paper cup. The strong coffee aroma promises hyperactivity and a sharpened mind.

I wave to Demi (real name Elysha), thanking her for the coffee. The university student’s purple lips smile while her yellow-capped fingers flicker a wave back.

Back into the Landyatch and “Born, in the U.S.A.” The finest album ever recorded.

I sip my coffee, text, yell at an erratic driving jerk, and arrive at school ready to learn.

Mrs. Fowelly attempts to hand me a flyer, but I give her my empty cup instead.

Ms. Barrett smiles, her bright white teeth conveying warmth and seriousness, “Good Morning, lovely weekend?”

I give a half-wave, “Yes, Miss, thank you for asking.”

Amara waits for me in the classroom. She smiles, showing her extra white teeth between her dark red lips, while her gaze glances at my imperfect shoes.

“Good morning, Lisa.”

I nod and sit.

Amara leans close, wringing her hands, “I brought the carrot.”

“Good Girl.”

“What do you want it for?”

“I’ll tell you after class.”

Amara pulls out my school stuff, neatly placing the gold-trimmed pen on the worn desktop. I rub my palm along the side of the old desk. Did the previous girl have a rich, crowded life, rebelling against the rules of our church? Or did she conform, contorting her nature to live a life of virtue for the promise of heaven?

“Why haven’t you done it yet?” I spin the pen on the desk—the gold glints and flashes in the classroom light.

Her eyes dart around before leaning closer. She smells woodsy with a cherry blossom scent.

“No,” she breathes stale air with a hint of citrus.

I raise my eyebrow and glare at her.

“Mom’s been home, and well, yeah,” Amara frowns, eyes wide, while her scent grows more metallic.

“If you can’t do it, that’s fine,” I dismiss her.

She sighs and sits straighter, her hands clasp and unclasp repeatably.

I pull out my phone and text Morgan,’?’

She texts back immediately, ‘1113!’

Not enough, we need more help.

I text, ‘Vivian, help?’

‘No, but I may have someone.’

She’d better. We will never reach my goals at this rate. By my calculations, we need at least 1500 a weekend this month.

In Math, I sit between Morgan and Vivian, forcing Amara to sit on the other side of Morgan. Mrs. Waters instructs us in algebra.

“Mrs. Waters, can you tell us about Return-On-Investment today?” I interrupt her in the middle of her explaining something. None of the girls mind the change in topic. Most of them claim they don’t need Math, which I love. Their ignorance gives me power.

She pauses, nods, and begins to talk about the equations.

“Morgan, who is it?” I lean over and whisper.

“I have three possibilities. All from the public school.”

“Tonight?”

“Wednesday morning.”

Interesting, before school means she takes this seriously.

In science, Mr. Ryan drones about cell membranes. I sit between Morgan and Vivian with my phone’s calculator, calculating how much more money I need to set up my network. I repeatably show Morgan the numbers. She rolls her eyes but nods.

At lunch, I ignore Amara’s frantically waving arm and drive away. I pick up pasta from Dad’s partially-owned restaurant. The new chef makes a great red sauce and does not over-sweeten the noodles.

I swing by the public school, my bright red car calling out to a few boys on the football team. One, Andrew, rushes over, gasping for breath.

“Lisa, I found one.”

“Excellent. Who?”

The boy points to a scruffy-faced man-child.

“Tell him - I want whatever he is selling.”

Andrew turns and rushes over, his white Chuck Taylor Converse shoes barely touching the ground—the two meet. Andrew points to my car. I nibble on some pasta, savoring the spicy sauce.

The man-child saunters over. As he approaches, his grin turns down. Attempting a frown when secretly excited does not help uncover officers. I will have some fun with him.

“Hey, what do you need?”

“Let’s talk in my car. Get in.” I motion to the passenger seat, moving the partially eaten pasta to the back.

The guy slips around the car, bouncing and rushing slightly too much.

As soon as his designer jean butt touches the seat, I slam the pedal down. The car roars into action, the door shuts and bangs his hand.

“Shit!” He brings a dirty finger-nailed hand to his pale pink lips, sucking on the edge.

“Sorry.” I laugh.

“So, what do you want?” He tries to act calm, but the eagerness slips out with a clipped ‘so,’ and an emphasized ‘you.’

I careen around the corner into a back lane between two old brown brick buildings, stopping beside a full metal garbage bin.

He glances around at the colorful walls before turning to me. “I have everything you need,” His tongue darts out and moistens his lower lip. His coffee-scented breath fills the space.

“Come around to this side. I need to show you something.” My finger lightly touches his ear and traces down his smooth skin and through his sharp stubble.

He glances behind us. I allow the silence to build, pushing him to make a choice he already made when he entered the car.

My baby’s metal door creaks open before slamming shut. I open my door, twist, and place my feet on the edge of the door.

He hesitates at the front of the car, staring at my profile. He remembers to hunch and saunters around to stand in front of me.

“I could use some relief,” I say while I pull up my skirt, exposing my pink, heart-covered panties.

He forgets his hunch, stands tall, and closes his hands. I rub the center of my panties, and liquid seeps through the thin fabric.

His stare does not leave my panties while his tongue darts in and out.

“Drugs, I’m here to sell drugs.” He stammers, bending at the neck for a better view.

I continue my caress.

“Ok, officer.” I coo.

His eyes grow while his pupils shrink. He turns and sprints from the ally.

Shit, I pushed too hard. I need better finesse in the future.

After school, I stride out the front doors when Amara rushes up, out of breath.

“You didn’t wait.”

“You didn’t do it.”

She slumps and stops as I keep walking.

“I will.”

“Great, do you have the carrot?”

She rushes up.

“No, I ate it for lunch.”

“You what?”

“I...”

I hold my hand out.

She glances around, with her face burning, hands trembling, as she reaches up under her skirt and pulls off her panties, handing me the white cotton.

I drop them and stride to my car. She bends for them.

“Leave them.”

She sprints to catch up.

We drive to Marco’s Vintage Wear, the best drip place in town. The small store in the middle of a strip mall holds old, musty, classic clothing stuffed and falling out of cubby holes. The reek of people’s lives mixes with the mint and clover the store uses to dull the smell.

I find a classic pair of pants hanging just inside the door, artfully placed to show off the permanent leg stains. I hold them up for length, but the previous owners must have lived a stale life. The dirt scent mixed with sweat tells me they worked hard for a living. Hard work does not mean a better life. A better life means a better life.

Amara fingers a few pairs of classic 501s. Today, she tries on a baggy pair. She tweets something about school, maybe the answer to her question about Boys growing condoms and how she wants to grow jeans. Amara makes little sense, but I enjoy her quirky comments.

I glance around for the owner, Jeff. He folds pants near the back, like every day, arranging clothing in a perfect, casual tossed display.

“Nothing new?” I ask.

“A few classic rock shirts. One’s a Springsteen shirt.” He says.

“Fucking High Hopes, most useless album ever.”

“That’d be Lucky Town.”

I flash him my palm.

“Luke’s in the back.” He says.

I groan at the news. I hate the little brother.

Jeff finishes his arrangement and offers me his arm. I stride beside him towards the backdoor. Amara places a shirt back and turns to join.

“Stay,” I say.

Her eyes fall. She turns to browse through the shirts.

The back room appears the opposite of the front, with neat, ordered piles of used clothing on tables. Two guys loom over a round table in the middle. Luke, in his classic white muscle shirt, and Paul, in his lumberjack shirt, sit staring at their coffees.

I sit beside Paul while Jeff takes a seat beside Luke. Jeff lights a cigarillo, breathing too deep and coughing up blue smoke. The wine scent of the foul tobacco does nothing to improve my mood.

“Is the coffee fresh?” I ask. The coffee aroma fills the room.

Paul jumps up and rushes over to the coffee maker. He washes a classic heavy white coffee cup and fills it with black coffee, glances back at me, dumps the coffee, re-washes, and pours caramel syrup and a generous dose of cream before re-filling the cup with coffee. The cream and syrup mix but will concentrate at the bottom, making for a progressively sweeter drink.

“So, someone’s selling quality stuff. Who? Jeff?” Luke asks. Luke flexes and unflexs his hand, small veins popping on his skinny forearms.

“I don’t know who’s supplying them, but a girl from Lisa’s school deals.”

Morgan, they finally found out about her.

I frown with glee at the news. The boys don’t know she’s making the stuff nor where she’s getting the capital.

“What’s her name?” Luke growls.

“Mary, maybe.” Jeff swishes his cigarillo around, swirling the smoke in looping arcs.

“Do you know a Mary?” Luke’s gaze threatens me.

“Sure, which one? I go to a Catholic school. About a hundred Mary’s.”

“A hundred? Shit.” Luke says.

Luke, whom I call Baby Scary, winces and scowls at his white coffee, swirling the half-full liquid till a drop slips out and splashes his hand.

“Not an actually hundred, what five or ten?” Paul says.

Paul, Hippy Dude, smirks and taps his finger on the table.

“I know of three. But I don’t know many younger girls. Could be more.”

“She’s your age,” Jeff says. Jeff blows the smoke up in the air. He claims the smoke and coffee help cure the clothing. While I agree, I hate sitting in the backroom getting cured.

“Ok, then just one. A new girl, a public school girl, always wears her hoodie up, but not dealing. She’s too innocent.”

“Maybe it’s not a Mary. It starts with an M,” Jeff comments, playing with the cigarillo more than smoking it.

“Martha, Morgan, we have two Isabella’s.”

I slip my coffee, savoring Jeff’s specially purchased caramel syrup.

“Well, Paul, you head by the school and ask around,” Luke says.

Hippy Dude nods, sipping from his black coffee.

“Yeah, that works. Big long-haired freak asking cute little catholic girls - hey, you got any drugs? Psst, hey you - yeah, you little blonde brace-faced girl, you got any smack or crack? How about coke?”

“Ok, bad idea,” Luke stops his swirling coffee cup.

“Yeah, and little blonde cutie will pull some coke out of her backpack and give it to you.”

“Ok.” Luke lifts the cup, glances in, then places it back down.

“So, how do we figure it out?” Paul asks.

Baby Scary audibly sips from his milky drink.

“How much?” I ask Baby Scary.

“How much what?” Baby Scary, a pale imitation of his older brother, stares at me.

“How much business have you lost? Like, is it even worth it?” I sip the strong coffee with only hints of the sweetness to come.

“It’s crumbs. But it’s the principle. Our town, we own it. They need permission from us to sell,” Luke grumbles.

“Oh, so if they ask - ‘Hey, can I sell some MDMA? I promise I’ll keep it small. No? What about meth? Just a little, please???”

“Fuck Lisa, you know why,” Luke lowers his head before sitting tall, and wrinkles appear over his nose.

“Sure, but who cares right.”

Amara sticks her head in, “Hey Lisa, do you like this shirt?”

She holds up an old Nickleback shirt.

“You planning to burn it?”

“No, I just like the color.”

“They suck. Jeff, why do you have a Nickleback shirt in your collection? I thought you only had good drip.”

“Because people buy it,” Jeff takes a puff, blowing out the smoke around his hand.

“Amara, throw it here.”

Amara steps into the room and tosses the shirt.

I grab it and attempt to rip it as the stupid, long-haired singer sneers at me from the front of the shirt. I need a knife. I hand it to Hippy-Dippy Dude, who easily rips it.

Jeff chuckles while Amara’s eyes widen, and her mouth opens as if screaming.

“Hey, do you know a Mary at your school?” Baby Scary nods at Amara, who squeaks and rushes out.

“Fucking children. Why don’t we use a kid to buy and find out for us?” Luke asks.

Jeff waves his cigarillo around like a gangster movie villain. Paul tosses the shirt pieces over his shoulder.

“Hey, kid. Yeah. You, on the monkey bars, come here. Can you go to that Christian school and ask the girls for some drugs? I can give you candy. Look, I have gummies and chocolate if you do it.”

“Fuck off. Lisa.” Luke squeezes his coffee cup.

“I can get some chips or pop. Just ask for some MDMA. Not MMA, that’s fighting. M.D.M.A.”

“Fuck off!”

Paul silently chuckles while Jeff grins.

“So, I’ll figure it out,” I say.

“Jonathan wants to know today.”

“Big brother can wait.”

“Do you want to tell him?”

“Only when he’s in a good mood. So, call me when you’re going down on him.”

“FUCK YOU!” Luke throws his cup. It bounces off the cheap drywall, leaving a small dent and a white-brown coffee stain.

“Better clean that up. The milk will spoil,” my voice doesn’t break, and my trembling hands remain well hidden under the table as Luke squeezes his fingers hard together, white knuckles turning red, face scowling with his cute little nose contracting.

“Today,” Luke growls.

I nod and glance at Paul, who holds in his laughter.

“Let’s go,” Luke says to Paul.

“Later, Lisa, say ‘Hi’ to your sister for me,” Paul says. I wave my hand in dismissal. My sister hates Paul, but Paul has crushed on her since they attended kindergarten together.

“Well, that was fun.”

Jeff stubs out his cigarillo and nods, “Back to work.”

Jeff leaves. I sit and savor my coffee. Paul always gets the ratios correct. He might excel in bed, so eager to please and so considerate.

How much do I tell Jonathon? Do I give up Morgan and get deeper into Dad’s world, or do I keep forging my path?

Morgan makes good stuff, much better than Dad’s, but she cannot do the quantities needed for us to grow.

Dad’s world will eat me. I don’t want to grow into an appendix like my older sister. I cannot live in his shadow.

“Lisa?” Amara slips into the room. She picks up the discarded cup and places it into the sink. She removes the other empty cups and full ashtray, wiping down the table and washing everything up.