Читать книгу Tart - Jody Gehrman - Страница 7

It’s midnight in Austin, and I’m starving, but I refuse to indulge in French fries at the all-night diner; I’ve got a bus to steal.

The air is warm and rich with jasmine in an upscale, arty neighborhood near the university. It’s a Saturday night, and I can see a girl in a white halter top smoking a cigar in the kitchen across the street. I feel a pang of envy; I want to be her, a carefree chick in a skimpy ensemble, playing the tart at a party, preparing to start the school year with a hangover. I used to be her, but things have changed. Just look at me now: sweaty and furtive, crouching behind an SUV, psyching myself up for a life of crime.

The party crowd spills out onto the porch. I watch the pretty twentysomethings clutching red plastic cups and pray they’re all drunk enough to be unreliable witnesses. I inhale deeply, whisper my mantra, “He gets the jailbait, I get the wheels,” and make my move.