by M. O. McLeod
Chelsea was devastated. The other girls had to drag her into the SUV before they fled away.
Chelsea caught Kurma by the neck and squeezed her windpipe tight. She was so distraught that Kurma had killed her friend April.
Kurma let Chelsea take out her frustrations on her. She held her breath and jerked her head back and forth as Chelsea choked her. All the girls tried to pry Chelsea’s hands from her neck, even O’bellaDonna, who was driving and swerving.
“You gotta calm down, Chelsea,” screamed O’bellaDonna. “It was either us or her. April made her decision and she chose her brother, just like Nina chose the Jeers when she ratted us out!”
O’bellaDonna sped past the bike lanes and dodged in and out of the traffic. “Don’t turn on us too, Chelsea. I mean that. I don’t want to lose you.” She peered into her rearview mirror and saw Chelsea was calming down.
Kurma massaged her neck and tried to moisten her throat. Chelsea had a mean grip.
“Where are we going now?” Rimselda asked.
“I’m going to that party,” answered O’bellaDonna.
“There’s no way I’m going clubbing after one of my best friends was stabbed in the back!” Chelsea screamed.
“I’m the one who’s driving! Not you.” O’bellaDonna veered onto the expressway. “And I say I need a drink and an excuse to forget what happened tonight.”
Rimselda didn’t think it was right just to leave April like they had, but then again they couldn’t take on all of the Jeers by themselves. The Jeers had come out of their shock and looked to kill after Aaron died. At least Aaron and April were both together in heaven. Well, April was in heaven. Rimselda couldn’t say where Aaron was.
“Who’s with me?” asked O’bellaDonna.
“I am,” replied Jackie. She wanted to forget tonight, Aaron, and all the blood that had run from April as she died. Jackie didn’t blame Kurma. She just wished she could have killed Aaron without killing April too. “I wanna get drunk, period.”
“That’s exactly what I plan to do.”
The girls sped off into the night as the city of Alexandria crawled with something that was worse than Jeers.
24.
L for Leon the Lame