100 Days by Nicole McInnes Page A

I’m not sure if she’s talking about me or this Jamey person, but Agnes clears it up. “He’ll have to go to your house next, I’m pretty sure.”
    â€œNo, he won’t.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause he won’t, that’s why.”
    â€œIf you’re talking about paid work, I need the money so bad, I’d actually consider going to your house,” I say under my breath. “But there’s no way in hell I’m doing it for free. I don’t care what the school says.”
    Moira looks like she’s turned to stone. Apparently, the comment wasn’t as under my breath as I thought, and it’s pretty clear she can’t believe the servant boy is daring to speak. It’s beyond satisfying to leave her speechless for once. It’s intoxicating, really.
    â€œMaybe I’ll show up at your front door with my rake and my leaf bags just to piss you off,” I continue in a louder voice this time. “Man, I’d love to see the look on your—”
    The comment is cut short by a red-hot pain shooting through my left butt cheek. I’m so surprised that I instinctively drop the rake and grab my own ass, hard, with both hands.
    The girls howl like a couple of coyotes circling in for the kill.
    Doing my best to act casual, I release my grip on myself and look around, trying to figure out where the pain came from. Did somebody shoot me with a .22, a neighbor boy, maybe? Finally, my eyes rest on Agnes, who’s doing a poor job of hiding what looks like a wrist rocket–type slingshot inside her jacket. When I was little, my father tried to show me how to shoot birds out of trees with a weapon that looked just like it (of course, I kept missing the birds by “accident”). Agnes gets up quickly from the step, not taking her eyes off me.
    As I stand there shaking my head and glaring at them, the girls exchange grins before turning around and disappearing into the house. “Show up at my place and a slingshot will be the least of your worries,” Moira yells right before she slams the door.

 
    20
    MOIRA
    DAY 81: APRIL 5
    I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror, practicing my death scowl. I’m convinced it’s the thing that makes other people nervous enough to leave me alone. I don’t care what they say behind my back. I assume the worst, and that’s fine. It is what it is.
    But this scowl? It’s my armor. More than that, it’s my middle finger to the world, specifically to the world of high school and all the lame-ass cretins therein.

 
    21
    AGNES
    DAY 80: APRIL 6
    â€œYou need to stay home today.” Moira’s voice is hoarse at the other end of the phone line.
    â€œI’m not sick,” I tell her.
    â€œBut I am. I don’t want you going to school without me. People are assholes. Sorry—jerks.”
    â€œI’ll be fine.”
    â€œI’m serious, Agnes.”
    â€œI’m serious, too. I have a geometry test.”
    â€œYou didn’t mention anything about a test yesterday.”
    â€œSo now I have to tell you every detail of my academic life?”
    The line goes silent.
    â€œSorry,” I say. “I just—”
    â€œNo worries.” Now Moira’s voice is suddenly breezy.
    â€œEm—”
    â€œNope. It’s fine. You’ll be fine.”
    â€œI will be fine,” I tell her. “But—”
    â€œHave a good day.”
    *   *   *
    When our homeroom teacher, Mr. Jeffers, realizes Moira’s absent, he asks me if I want him to call the front office so they can assign another escort to walk with me between classes.
    â€œNo,” I tell him. “That’s okay.”
    There’s a late morning awards assembly for the fall sports teams. Everyone’s jazzed up when it’s over, shoving one another toward the exits and creating a bottleneck of students at one end of the gym. I stay put in