She’s a good girl. She wears the barrettes her mother made, pink with dotted flowers, her name in tiny white script. She calls home Sundays, she wears heels only on weekends, and when the rascally boys come into the store she checks at, she never looks them in the eye.
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It is what I’ll
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boyfriend brews, poisoned three times over, foamed thick....answers the door. She...
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