Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1)

by Charisse Moritz

  CHAPTER 18

  Tia:

  When I was little, getting sick meant lying on the couch, wrapped in dad’s robe, watching TV and mom bringing me ginger ale in a fancy glass with a straw. Now, I just feel like a bucket of suck while doing the same as everyday.

  I felt horrible yesterday and feel worse today. I skipped my morning run, swallowed two Tylenols for breakfast and crossed my fingers, hoping Terek would show up and drive everyone to school, so I could sleep for a couple of hours. He didn’t, and the twins have been permanently ejected from the bus. Tully is too precious for that mobile petri dish, and unless I want the whole tribe playing hookie, I need to get my butt moving. Hello Friday morning.

  We pile into the Ark with the two hyenas in the far back, three siblings across the middle row and Frannie sliding into the passenger seat. She lives a few houses down the street.

  I chant, “Please-start, please-start, please-start,” as I turn the key. The sounds from under the hood don’t exactly inspire trust, but the Ark rises valiantly to the challenge.

  “He’s not here,” I say when I catch my bestie staring at my house.

  “Whatever, I wasn’t …” Frannie waves her hands and shakes her head, but her lust for my older brother is as obvious as it is uncomfortable. “I just … Nothing. Wait till I tell ya what I heard.”

  “Enlighten me, oh gossip guru.” I check the rearview, make sure everybody’s safely buckled and wonder how Mora got by me in an infant-sized shirt and is that a push up bra?

  Frannie digs my cell out from under her butt and holds it up. “I’d have told you already if you checked your messages.”

  “Ah-ha! I’ve been looking for that.” I drop the phone into the cup holder, unearth some old take-out napkins that smell like ketchup and blow my nose. “So what’s the big news?”

  “Taz,” Frannie starts, but Tully cuts her off by shouting, “Ten tooted!”

  “Oh heaven help us, what is that smell?” Frannie slaps both hands over her nose, swivels around to look in the back and demands, “What did you eat?”

  “Pizza!” Baby Sis answers.

  “Way to tattle,” Hem snaps at her.

  I fumble the Ark, tires veering over the centerline and Theo yelps, “Watch it!”

  I yank the wheel back in line and glare into the rearview mirror. I’m on the verge of giving birth to a live, full-grown, mooing cow. How. Dare. They.

  “Pizza?” I echo.

  “Windows! Windows!” Mora stabs at the button.

  After a satisfying “Muahahaha” cackle, I announce, “Child locks on the windows and I have a stuffy nose. So guess what? Y’all be holding your breath until you fess up.”

  Here’s the thing. Last night I googled a recipe for macaroni and cheese and followed it to the letter. Almost. I may have mixed up the teaspoon with the tablespoon when measuring the pepper. And switched condensed for evaporated milk. But they both come in a can, so how different can they be? Then I covered the slightly over-boiled pasta in tons of cheese and even sprinkled the whole thing with extra paprika.

  I am the best, most selfless sister EVER, and my siblings, dog and cat all paid tribute to my culinary genius with hugs and much applause. Since I was too sick to sit down and eat, the kids herded me off to bed with the promise to clean up, and I nearly wept at their generosity. So … I’m confused. Where does an extra large pie fit into this happily ever after?

  “Tia,” Frannie whines. “What if the stink sticks to my clothes? I can’t walk around all day smelling like a fifth grader’s fart. I’m model office!”

  “I’m not letting the windows down until the traitors come clean.”

  Ten is the first to cave. “One bite of your cheese-muck-thing fried my tongue.” Then Hem tacks on, “I literally pooped fire.”

  “That’s not what literally means,” Frannie corrects. “You didn’t literally have fire coming out of your bottom.”

  “Did so,” argues Hem. “My butt literally exploded with flaming turds.”

  “That’s not,” Frannie starts, but I cut her off.

  “Did you guys throw my dinner away?”

  “You might have maybe added too much chili powder.” Theo wrinkles his nose at me.

  Chili powder?

  “It was nasty,” Ten confirms.

  “But, but … where did you guys get the money?” I wish I could gobble those words right back up. Money worries don’t belong to my brothers and sisters. They’re all mine, all my fault, and I need to just somehow stretch every dollar a little further and learn how to cook.

  Then Mora says, “I used my birthday money to pay for it.”

  She is my favorite sibling, and I’m pretty sure my flu symptoms are cosmic punishment for my failures as a human being. I deserve to be overtaken by mucus.

  “They watched Ankle Man too,” Tully blurts and the whole tribe moans.

  “Told ya we should have locked her in her room,” Ten grumbles.

  “Anchorman? Are you kidding me right now?” OK, I’m officially pissed again. They know I love that movie.

  Tully raises her hand and says, “I watched Hairy Toppins.”

  “Suck up,” Hem grumbles.

  “Mary Poppins,” I automatically supply.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You’re not in trouble, Baby Sis. It’s the rest of these butt monkeys.” I glance in the rearview. “Windows are staying up, and you losers can walk home.”

  “We’ll set the table,” says Hem.

  “And take the garbage out,” adds Ten.

  “I’ll load the dishwasher,” Mora offers.

  “I need more.”

  “You’re mean,” my sister huffs. “We could die without proper ventilation. Ten’s farts are toxic. I think my nose hairs are melting.”

  I shake my head. “You rejects didn’t even save me a slice.”

  “Fine,” Mora gives in. “I’ll read to Tully tonight.”

  “I want Doll Matings,” Baby Sis says.

  “Dalmations.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Theo?” I prompt.

  He takes a second, biting at his lip while Tully pokes at the dimple in his cheek. He finally says, “I’ll take laundry.”

  “Windows!” Mora yells. “Before brain damage sets in.”

  I open the windows. The twins celebrate by shouting “Score!” They turn it into a two syllable word, pitch their voices weird and echo each other over and over and ...

  “Boys!” Frannie swivels around to stink eye them. “You’re annoying everyone in the car.”

  If she hasn’t made it obvious already, Frannie is an only child and totally innocent in the ways of sibling warfare. The twins now grin, join forces into a single chorus and my sanity splatters.

  We’re pulling up to Tully’s school when Frannie remembers she had something to tell me. “So Taz …” She glances toward the back seat, then lowers her voice. Might as well throw sparklers, kittens and candy in the air. “I hear he’s been bumping uglies with Sasha Taber.”

  “What’s ugly bumping?” Comes the small voice from the car seat behind me.

  “Thanks for that,” I snark at Frannie. Swallowing the fresh taste of bitterness on my tongue, I explain to Tully, “It’s a dance.”

  “Teach me!”

  “Um. Sure. Later. When we get home, maybe. We’ll need lots of space.” To Franny, I say, “Why did I need to know that?”

  “Because it’s good gossip. And if you aren’t smart enough to stay away from Taz on your own, you gotta respect Sasha Taber. That girl will carve out your heart with a grapefruit spoon. So no more feeding scary strays.”

  I decide not to tell her what I have hidden in my backpack.

  CHAPTER 19

  Tia:

  I find Taz in homeroom. I try not to picture him with Sasha Taber, but I totally do. She’s this tiny, dark haired, badass chick, who scares me a little and suits him perfectly. Which is no big to me, because I’m just his student liaison and E
nglish Lit partner. That’s it.

  Oh who am I kidding? I’m currently tapping on his desk with toddler-like desperation for his attention.

  “I didn’t see your bike in the parking lot this morning.” Tap, tap, tap. “So I’m guessing it’s still not fixed?” Tap, tap, tap. “Do you need a ride?”

  No answer but his pale eyes give a hard shove.

  “I can take you,” I blurt. “Not take you, take you. Not a hostage situation. Obviously.” My laugh, which he doesn’t share, turns into a wet snort. “Take you home with me.” My face heats up as I escalate to hand motions. “Not my home. Not a kidnapping. Unless you want to. Not be kidnapped but come home with me. You could. Or not.” Holy Captain Crunch, he gets it already. Somebody please gag me. “We can go to your house. Not we. Just you. But I’d be along for the ride. Duh. I’ll drive. We’ll ride together. To drop you off.” Stop talking immediately. “I’m, you know, available to give you a ride wherever it is you want to go. With me. Or without me. Or not.”

  I widen my eyes at him and pant. My sinuses are plugged and all that babbling has left me winded. He blinks rapidly. I’ve traumatized him.

  “So. Yeah. There’s that.” I drop my forehead to the desk, squeeze my eyes shut and hack an ugly cough. I’m capsizing and this boy won’t even send up a flare. It’s going to be a long day.

  By fourth period, my nose is a faucet, I’m shivering, sneezing and should be sealed inside a test tube and studied for boy-repelling bacteria. Instead, I plop down right next to Taz, ready to win him over or at least get him to participate in our partner project. So far I’ve strapped him to my back and carried his dead carcass toward the A+ grade I need. Even though Mr. Weston is now so scared of the scary boy he pretends Taz doesn’t exist, I’m unwilling to risk failing this course and don’t think it’s fair that I’m doing EVERYTHING while he gets to just sit there looking hot. He could at least take his shirt off.

  I slide my notes onto Taz’s desk. I’ve scribbled three pages of complete nonsense. There’s butter smeared across page two and somebody’s drawn a kickline of dancing penises in the margins. I don’t want to name names but Ten and Hem are so not my favorites right now.

  “Feel free to toss some ideas in my direction,” I tell Taz, flashing my palms with a shimmy. “I’m open.”

  He stares at my boobs. My nipples stand up and wave hello. Please, for the love of all things sacred, let my padded bra live up to its potential.

  “We …” I point from him to me. “Can’t finish this project until you …” I point at him. “Give me …” And then I dissolve into a sniffing, snorting, hacking fit, while he jerks and flinches as if my germs are poisoned darts.

  “You need to participate in this,” I blurt. “I’m using Beauty and the Beast to pull together our two stories, and I’m focusing on trust as the main theme. I think trust is the reason Belle first resists the Beast and why the spell is finally broken. I’m also throwing in some secondary issues, like abandonment, self image, redemption and growth.”

  I blow my nose into a hunk of toilet paper that is not quite as soft as a hairbrush. A muscle twitches in Taz’s cheek, his nails scrape against denim, and he’s as much fun as stepping on a thumbtack. I may need first aid after this, but I smile. I’m not done with him.

  “We’ll focus on how the Beast is super stubborn, overwhelmed and in need of an extreme makeover.”

  One corner of his mouth curls in a way I’ve learned is not the start of a smile but a warning. If I don’t want to get bit, I’ve pushed this puppy far enough.

  “I’m thinking my brothers and sisters are perfect for the candlestick, clock, feather duster, tea cup and all that stuff, except in a version rated R for violence, language and foul bodily functions. All the bills piling up are like Gaston and the townspeople coming to get me. But if you’re going to be my Belle, I’m gonna need some background.”

  His eyes snap to mine, and I’m flooded in a surprise of blue. I once again point to him, “Beauty,” and then to myself. “Beast.”

  I wait a second for him to chew on it and remember the scene from yesterday, when Mr. Weston targeted Taz and the boy turned inside out trying to get away. I’ve never seen a person in such a panic. Had he stuck the landing, I’d have scored his backward vault over the desk a perfect ten.

  “I’m not the enemy, Taz. Stop fighting me and start fighting for yourself.”

  He leans toward me. He’s going to speak. My heart leaps and twirls in a kaleidoscope of hopeful sparkles. I shift closer and hold my breath, just to hear him better.

  Tilting his chin toward my ear, he says, “Stay outta my shit.”

  His impersonation of a complete asshole is so convincing, I’m sold.

  CHAPTER 20

  TAZ:

  I stumble out of counselling and the hallway grows long in front of me. Lights too bright, noises too loud, I turn in place, grab my head and squeeze it back together.

  Some kid steps into my path. I shove so hard, he lands on his ass and skids a good three feet. He starts to bitch, then gets a look at me and scrambles away, telling me, “It’s all good.”

  No it’s not. Fuuuuuuuuck!

  Maybe I should just run. Go back to hiding under a bridge because anything is better than this. Almost anything. I’m ten months from eighteen, and if I get busted again … no, no, no. I won’t survive it.

  My heart thumps hard enough to hurt. My brain climbs to the top rung of my sanity and roars. The need to destroy, to hurt somebody is nearly overwhelming, and if I don’t get control, I’ll get buried under the mess I make.

  I zero in on my locker, just to have somewhere to go, something to focus on. I pop the lock and hang off the door. Voices, footsteps, the squeak of a rubber sole, a book dropped on the floor, the sounds of movement crowd against my back and I don’t like it. My right hand curls into a claw, and I can’t peel my fingers open. I close my eyes, dive into my private hive of anger and get lost there for a minute, maybe longer. Then I remember her voice.

  Start fighting for yourself.

  The look in those dark blue eyes of hers was a slap across the face. The girl turns me dizzy. Seriously, I’m on the verge of passing out. And now I realize I’m holding my breath. I’m so many kinds of messed up, a lobotomy might be an improvement. I inhale deep, pull air into my starving lungs and open my eyes.

  WTF?

  There’s a brown bag in my locker. It sits on top of the books the teachers handed out on the first day. The ones I tossed and forgot.

  I glance around, my shoulders pulling inward as I check to see if anyone’s watching. I’m expecting a bag of literal shit, but no one’s paying me any attention. No Prick. No Balls. No Asshat.

  I lift the bag, check the weight of it, then peel it open real slow and careful. There’s a sandwich inside. It gets better. It’s a peanut butter and jam sandwich. Crunchy peanut butter. Grape jam.

  CHAPTER 21

  Tia:

  I am the Amazing Sweating Woman. Any second, I expect to burst into flames. I fling clammy sheets off my body, kick my legs to get free of them, and remind myself to be thankful. I have a roof over my head and a soft bed. I also have a plentiful supply of mucus, sore throat, damp pajamas, and now I’m cold. I shiver, grab for the blankets, burrow deep, sneeze, blow, and hack up globs of snot and switch back to sweating. So many wadded up tissues litter my floor, it looks like the cotton fields at Tara.

  I’ve been napping since today’s after-school meeting with Mrs. Hardick. I didn’t even know we owned a staple gun. It’s been confiscated because the twins used it as a “weapon of destruction.” An exaggeration. They stapled a few things. Notebooks, the teacher’s sweater, a purple thong to the bulletin board, which I’m pretty sure was Mora’s, and yeah, they stapled this kid named Lenny Woodley to his chair. But nobody got hurt, and Lenny is a nasty little bully who will now think twice about calling Hem a pussy.

  I jump up, race to the bathroom and can’t decide whether to kneel or sit. My belly is SO UNHAP
PY. I’ll spare you the details.

  Crawling back to bed, I find Sam and Tully waiting for me. “Hey there, Baby Sis. What’s up?” I have no idea what time it is, but I need to get up, make food, check homework, clean something and start the weekend taxi service.

  “I’m bored.” Tully kicks at a pile of snotty tissue. The dog hops up on my bed, yawns and scratches his ear hard enough to turn it inside out. If he has fleas, he’s sleeping with the twins tonight.

  “Where’s Mora?”

  “Football game.”

  “Theo?”

  “Hockey game.”

  “Twins?”

  “Same.”

  “Why didn’t anybody wake me? How’d they manage rides?”

  “Theo says you’re sick, so they made rain man.”

  “Made what?”

  She scrunches her nose, giving it some thought. “Range mens?”

  “Arrangements.”

  “That’s what I said. Theo put toons on TV, but he’s been gone FOREVER, and there’s nobody to play with me. Isn’t somebody posed to be watching me?”

  “Yup.” I start to sit up but get dizzy. “We could color? You get the crayons, and I’ll be there in just a minute.”

  And then I fall asleep, because I’ve entered the qualifying rounds for worst sister of the year award, and I’m determined to at least medal. The next thing I know, I wake up to Sam barking and Tully running into my room, jumping around and yelling, “Somebody’s at the door! Somebody’s at the door!” Then she takes off faster than the White Rabbit in Wonderland.

  I croak, “Wait!” but I’m too late.

  Since Baby Sis knows better than to open the door to strangers, there’s no reason for me to chase after her. I do anyway and the stairs nearly defeat me. I cling to the railing and dissolve into a wet, coughing, full body heave.

  When I finally reach the bottom, I’m tempted to just lie down, right on the floor, but this is princess Tully we’re talking about, and what if there’s a perv with a shopping bag full of Skittles on the other side of the door? He’ll want help finding his missing puppy, and I’ll never see the littlest West again, because she’ll spend her life chained to a radiator, forced to worship a toilet plunger.