Page 8 of Scaredy Cat
You were kind of a bitch while you were on the show…
You didn’t have to be so weird just because Blake asked about Miscreant Manor. You should learn to be nicer.
Do you think you’re better than them?
You’re really pretty when?—
“Persephone.”Madison’s displeased voice cracks like a staticky whip over the phone, and I force myself to close my laptop mid-comment, rolling my eyes up at the ceiling.
I wish I wasn’t like this. I hate this habit, though it’s one that’s gotten worse and worse ever since I started getting paid for what I do. My fingers curl around the edges of the sleek, silver device, and I set it back on my nightstand. “I’m up,” I mumble. “Sorry, Mads. I’m up. I’m alive. My eyes are open. And now I’m hanging up on you.”
“Only if you swear you’re actually up and not still reading comments.”
“I swear I’m up and getting dressed,” I assure her. “Literally stripping right now, actually. Do you want a play-by-play?” Now that I’ve pulled myself away from the screen, things feel less heavy, and it’s easier to want to do things other than roll myself up in my blankets like a burrito.
“Oh, I would absolutely love a play-by-play,”Madison invites. “Let’s go. What are you taking off now?”
I snort, shaking my head as I lay the phone on top of my dresser. “My boxers.”
“The ones Brynn got you? The ones with the cats on them? You kept those?”
My answering snicker is muffled as I yank off my shirt. “Well, yeah. And they aren’t just cats. They’reScaredy Cats. Plus,they’re comfy as hell. I didn’t shave yesterday, by the way. Or the day before. And I’m absolutely wearing shorts. You’re welcome.”
Madison doesn’t answer, and I hear her soft, annoyed huff of air a second later.“Your neighbor is coming out to check up on me,”she informs me.“Come out before she calls the cops.”
“Sure.” Madison hangs up even before I’ve said the word, and I quickly throw on a comfortable sports bra and t-shirt over the loose shorts I already pulled out. My legs aren’tthatbad, from a distance greater than five feet. And unless I’m setting a man on fire to sacrifice him to some vengeful or mildly inconvenienced female deity, I don’t plan on being that close to anyone.
With my phone in my pocket and my sneakers half on, I stop only to swish some mouthwash, and grab my keys and hairbrush before opening the locked front door, automatically flipping the light off as I go. Outside, I subtly spit my mouthwash into the bushes, and swipe my hand across my face like a heathen.
“Hi, Mrs. Elmore!” I call, voice louder than it needs to be. Even though Madison hung up on me at least three minutes ago, my ancient neighbor is still hobbling up my short driveway, her cane scooting along the asphalt ahead of her.
She smiles up at me and stops, puffing out a breath. “I was just coming to make sure everything was okay, Persephone,” Mrs. Elmore calls back, her voice shaky and quiet with age.
“You’ve seen me before, Mrs. Elmore,” Madison calls out from her car window, waiting for me to lock the door and check it a few times before I turn to jog down my sidewalk toward her blue Charger.
“Doesn’t mean I like you any more than I did the first time you showed up, Madison,” Mrs. Elmore replies in a surprisingly cheeky tone, not missing a beat. Her words make a surprised whistle escape my lips before I can stop myself, but Madison only sticks her hand out the open window and flips the old lady the finger.
Mrs. Elmore cackles and turns, shuffling back down the driveway. “Have a good day, Persephone,” she calls back to me as I open the passenger door of Madison’s car.
“What about me?” Madison calls, and this time sticks her head out the window to crane her head back so she can see Mrs. Elmore.
“Have the day you deserve, sweetie,” is my neighbor’s quick, unhesitant answer as she continues to hobble her way across the street. I can’t help but snort as I try to muffle my snickering with one hand while clumsily trying to buckle my seatbelt.
“I could run her over,” Madison informs me, backing down the driveway with her gaze fixed on Mrs. Elmore for longer than strictly necessary or polite. “All you have to do is back me up and say she jumped in front of my car. Old people do that sometimes, you know.”
“Jump in front of cars?” My brows rise toward my bangs. “Since when do they jump in front of cars, Mads?”
“Since they’re two centuries old and senile,” she grumbles, waiting impatiently for Mrs. Elmore to cross the road back to her house.
I swear I’ve never seen my neighbor move slower, but all I can do is try not to laugh.
With bleach tinglingmy scalp and foil wrapped around almost half of my hair, I feel like I can barely move. Even though Madison has assured me I’m just being dramatic at least eight times, I’m still sitting at her table, hunched over, with my phone in my hand.
“Are we almost done?” I grumble, elbows on the table as I doom scroll through any social media app that draws my attention. Though today, I care less about my content and more about the drama from anything else. Having already read fourstories on the breakup forum and three more on thewhat the fuck are mensection of social media, I’m getting bored.
“You’re the worst client a hairstylist could ever ask for,” Madison tells me, tucking her silver-blonde hair behind her ear. As always, she looks like she’s going to a highbrow job interview, or like she already works as a corporate member of society. If I wore the kind of pencil skirt, tights, and blouse she’s wearing, I worry I’d look frumpy instead of accomplished.
“Good thing I have you then?” I offer, finally swiping away from social media to go to my blog again. There are more notifications, of course, so I navigate to the comments section of my newest post. Once more, I swipe through the ones from earlier, my eyes and mind lingering for too long on the unpleasant ones.
