Fashionably Dead by Robyn Peterman Page B

Niecey informed me. She was about four and a half feet tall with a shock of white hair that stood straight up on her head. “Been there for two days.”
    A few in the class snickered. WTF?
    “Do the nurses know?” I asked Niecey.
    “Yep, said it’s their own damn fault,” she grinned, shaping her clay into a penis.
    “Okay, um . . . why’s it their fault?” I asked, removing the phallus from her hands and giving her a new hunk of clay.
    “Because they’re gonna try out for American Idol,” she told me, as if that made sense.
    “I like cheese,” Charlie yelled.
    “That’s great,” I told Charlie. “What does sitting on the toilet and trying out for American Idol have to do with each other?”
    “Your bosom looks wonderful,” Niecey said, ignoring my question and creating another penis. I had to stop letting them play with clay. “We were so worried about you. That skinny bitch subbed for you and told us she hoped you got fired for cussin’ all the time.”
    “What the fuck are you talking about?” I was gonna rip that skinny, skank born-again loser a new one. She’d been after my job for months.
    “Yay,” Charlie yelled. “I just won five bucks!”
    “Fine,” Niecey huffed, handing the money over.
    “Told you she’d say fuck within the first ten minutes!” Charlie was thrilled. I noticed he’d made a set of knockers with his clay, or maybe it was testicles.
    “Shit, did I say fuck?”
    “Five more bucks,” he shouted.
    Oh my God, he was taking bets on my potty mouth . . . and winning.
    “Niecey, why’d you take a bet you knew you were going to lose?” I asked, handing her some paper and charcoals and removing another clay penis from her hands.
    “Charlie’s cute,” she whispered. “I want to get in his pants.”
    Had I had still been able to eat, I would have thrown it back up at the mention of Charlie in a sexual way. He had no teeth and no hair and was fond of grabbing any breast within reach. “Oookay, that sounds like a plan. Can you tell me why Martha and Jane have been in the bathroom for two days?”
    “Laxatives!” She burst into laughter.
    “Explain,” I said, grinning. I had no idea what in the hell she was talking about, but her laugh was contagious.
    “I can’t,” Niecey snorted, unable to stop.
    “They snuck into the kitchen and ate all the pies,” Mrs. Jenkins, a bulldozer of a little old lady shouted, throwing her clay at Charlie. Clearly he’d tried to adjust her lady bits.
    “And?” I prompted, moving Charlie to the corner for his own safety.
    “They have big plans to be rock stars on American Idol, but since they ate too much pie they felt fat,” Charlie said, placing his hand on my ass. I took Charlie’s hands and tied them to the chair with craft yarn. “Dang it, Astrid, how am I supposed to get some if I’m all tied up?”
    “You’re not supposed to get anything in here except art lessons,” I snapped. “Finish the story.”
    “Can I touch your butt again if I do?” he negotiated.
    “Possibly.”
    “Great!” he grinned. “They felt fat from the pies and have a tryout coming up, so they took an ass-load of laxatives to get skinny before they become stars.”
    “Did you intend that pun?” I asked.
    “What’s a pun?”
    “Oookay, let me get this straight. Martha and Jane are trying out for American Idol, stole and ate pies from the kitchen, felt fat, took a wad of laxatives to get their figures back and are shitting their brains out as I speak.”
    “She said shit,” Mrs. Jenkins bellowed. “I win ten dollars.”
    I ignored her.
    “That’s about right,” Charlie said. “Can I touch your butt now?”
    “Sure.” I untied his hands and let him touch it for three seconds. “Aren’t they a little old to try out for American Idol?” They were ninety if they were a day.
    “Don’t let them hear you say that,” Charlie whispered. “I only have one gonad left because I told them the same damn thing.”
    “Has anyone checked on