Page 13 of The Wrong Side of the Law

“I’ll see you later,” I tell her, trying to keep the edge of malicious glee out of my voice. “Don’t wait up for me.”

When I hang up, I feel the tiniest bit guilty.

“No,” I scold myself. “No, no,no. You willnotlet her play you like that.”

Margaret’s not really stuck at home. She could take public transportation, if she truly needed to get somewhere. Of course, her high-class “friends” would look down on her for it, so Key West will probably be covered with glaciers before Margaret sets one of her delicate little toes onboard a Point Lookout city bus.

Time to answer Rita’s text.

6:11pm—Wilson, Emily—Where???

6:11pm—Reyes, Rita—Andolini’s. Duh. I’m 5 mins away.

6:12pm—Wilson, Emily—Coming!

No sooner do I put the car in drive than my phone rings. It’s Margaret, of course. Again.

“Nope, sorry. I’m driving,” I say, letting it go to voice mail. “Safety first, y’know?”

It pisses me off that I feel even slightly guilty about ignoring her calls. Even while I’m insisting that I won’t let her manipulate me, I’m still planning to pay for her damn car to be fixed. Why am I being so stupid about this?

I stew in helpless, hopeless self-condemnation during the short drive to the pizza place – ignoring another call from Margaret – and when I get there I turned the phone off and stuff it in the bottom of my bag. My stepmother always says that if you ignore a problem long enough it’ll usually just go away on its own. Maybe I can use her own techniques against her?

A knock on the car window startled me. Rita’s here already. I open the door, and Rita practically drags me out of my car, folding me into a hug that could take down an NFL linebacker.

“Rita, I swear, in your last life you must’ve been an octopus!” I laugh, feebly pushing back against the hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Let me get a look at you,” she says, holding me at arm’s length. Her eyes narrow as she looks me up and down. I feel absolutely transparent under her stare, but all she says is “Mmm-hm.”

“Now that’s what I call a real welcome,” I say, feigning cheer and energy that I don’t feel. The last several minutes of shifting emotions – unsettled shifting into guilt, then fury, and finally to joy – have left me utterly wrung out.

“Why do I have the feeling the wicked witch didn’t greet you with open arms?” Rita asks, opening the door for us.

“I wish you wouldn’t call her that,” I protest softly, as we slide into the empty booth.

“Why not?” my friend asks. “I mean, in the stories the evil stepmother is always a witch, isn’t she?”

I cradle my forehead in my hands.

“Spill it, sister. You know I can read you like a book. And not even one of those, like, big chapter-books with all the words. You’re like, I dunno, a Dr. Seuss book. Six words per page and a big colorful picture so you don’t miss anything.”

A waitress with an order pad and two big glasses of ice water saves me from having to give an immediate answer.

“Fresh garlic still your favorite?” Rita asks. She doesn’t even need to look at the menu.

“Definitely!” I say, and my enthusiasm isn’t fake. Extra cheese and fresh garlic has been our go-to pie since we were thirteen years old. My mouth waters in anticipation of the hot, melty goodness, and I could almost forget about all the troubles I have piled up.

“How’s business going?” I ask, once the waitress leaves. “You look great.”

“Oh, I can’t complain much. I’m working my butt off,” she says. “But I’m scraping by.”

“Scraping? Right.” I laugh, and cringe inside at the edge of bitterness I hear in my own voice. Anyone who can just toss a Coach purse casually around without checking to see if the table is sticky or nasty first—the way that Rita did when we sat down—hasn’t got much to worry about. Just a few months ago, that was me, too.

Rita gives me a flat stare, her lips compressed into a thin line.

“You done now?” she asks. “Something’s eating you up inside, and you’re going to tell me what it is.”

I shrug, looking down at the table.

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