I follow the rasp of his voice to the counter. “What’ve you got for personal protection?”
Rather than answer, he pushes a towel into my hand.
“Thanks.”
I pin my cane between my knees, rubbing my hair dry, wiping the back of my neck where my wet collar chafes. Throughout, his silent stare grows heavier.
“It’s albinism,” I say, throwing the towel back harder than I need to. “It’s not catching. Does that get me a discount?”
“Nothing gets you a discount in this economy. What’s that muck on you?”
“Just mud. Some boys jumped me in the park.” Two teenage girls just sounds embarrassing. “Do you have switchblades?”
“Christchurch is rotting from the inside.” There’s a scrape of old laminate boards as he opens a cabinet. “We got knives, but they’ll just take them straight off you.” Metal clinks on glass. “This here might work.”
My groping fingers find the cool metal cylinder.
“Pepper spray,” he explains. “Easy to carry and fits into your palm. Sounds timid compared to a switchblade, I know, but works well enough for police.”
“Is it legal?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll only use it when someone else is already breaking the law.” He sucks air over his teeth. “Does make it pricey, but.”
“How much?”
“You’re looking at fifty bucks. Cheaper than a doctor’s appointment,” he adds, anticipating a protest.
The canister’s weight feels good. Like a secret. Like a promise. “Can you hold it for me? I don’t have the cash right now.”
“Happy to do a week. That good?” At my nod, he takes it from my hands.
I walk back outside and flinch at the light, blinking rapidly while my eyes adjust.
Fifty dollars is doable. My allowance evaporated last year, but Bryan keeps a small amount of cash in his top drawer for emergencies.
My stomach pinches at the thought of stealing, but he probably wouldn’t mind, and being assaulted in the park sure seems like an emergency to me. If he does notice it missing and asks, that’s all I’ll say.
No mention of illegal weapons or revenge.
I imagine unloading the pungent chemicals into Chelsea’s face. Her long fingernails clawing at her throat as she inhales fire, eyes rendered blinder than mine, screams sweeter than the prettiest birdsong.
It’s not long until the senior dance. Chelsea’s last chance to laud her popularity over the rest of the student body.
How fitting would it be for me to spray her outside, ruining her evening beyond repair?
Leaning back against the peeling paint of the shop frontage, I program the side-button of my phone for one-touch recording, then start on the trek home.
Next time, I’ll be the one triumphantly posting a video on my socials.
CHAPTER TWO
DAMIEN
I pullinto a student carpark and kill the engine, my tyres crushing the weeds growing through the cracked asphalt. In front of me is a weathered brick classroom, the grouting more lichen than cement.
In their online brochures, Regency High School labels these old buildings ‘heritage,’ but up close, the place just looks like a dump.
A dump that’s costing my dad a six-figure tuition, even though there’s only three months left in my senior year. Apparently, there’s no pro-rata discounts when your school exclusion record is as long as mine.
