PUSY presumably meaning PUSSY, but with these jackholes, who can say?

She about falls asleep in Mrs. Lewis’s class. Which does not score her any more points with the teacher, but the Adderall is fading fast, and the woman is going on and on about someone named Wilfred Owen. Even the strongest upper is no match for the downer that is World War I British poetry.

After class Mrs. Lewis tries to flag her down, but Atlanta mumbles something about, “Oh, heck, I’ve got a . . . tooth . . . vasectomy . . . can’t stay, sorry, bye now.” And she ducks out.

And runs smack into Chomp-Chomp. She shoves him back and cocks a fist. “Wait!” he hisses, wincing, ready for the hit.

Instead she grabs him by his ratty Brooks & Dunn T-shirt and drags him through the nearest open door. Which is, of course, the girls’ bathroom.

A girl with pink hair—Suzi or Soosie or something—yips like a spooked coyote and hurries out when she sees what’s going on.

Chomp-Chomp yelps as Atlanta slams him against the sink. “I didn’t do it!” he says.

“Do what, big mouth?”

“The cat. The brick. I didn’t do it.”

“So you knew about it.”

“I was there! But I told them not to. Look, here . . .” His hand goes into his pocket and he pulls out a fistful of dollar bills. She sees a five sticking up out of there. “This is twenty-three dollars. I wanna help pay for the window.”

She snatches the money. “Twenty-three bucks? Dang, do you know how much windows cost?”

“No.”

She doesn’t either, but she’s not going to tell him that. “You’re not very bright, are you?”

Again he answers: “No.”

“Why do you hang out with those fuckwits, anyway?”

“I dunno. Because they let me.”

Things start to click into place. Tumblers in a lock. She remembers hearing about this kid who will do all kinds of stuff for money. Nothing kinky, but he’ll eat nasty garbage, he’ll headbutt things, he’ll say crass shit to teachers, all for a couple bucks. She looks down at the wad of ones in her hand.

“They make you do stupid shit for money. Don’t they, Chomp-Chomp?”

“My name’s Steven. And yeah.” He protests, suddenly: “But I like doing it.”

She shakes her head. “Then you’re a dumb-ass, dumb-ass.”

He shrugs. “Well.”

It’s hard not to laugh.

“Okay, Chomp—er, Steven. I’m going to bring hell down on their heads for this. I am not a happy girl, and I am eager to take out my unhappiness on those who pee in my Cheerios.”

“They peed in your cereal?” She shoots him a look. “Never mind,” he says with a flinch.

“Either of your buddies got a car?”

“Uhh.” He hesitates but then sees her face. “Jonesy’s got a Mustang. A ’67 1/2, I think. Fastback or something? Green like a pine tree. Why?”