Hell On Heels(8)

I was seriously unsure of why she was in my therapy group. That sounded pretty evil to me. I needed to reconsider the sweet thing. She was making it increasingly difficult to be friends. I could have possibly gotten past the fact that she glued on facial hair but this was a deal breaker. Janet the Fake Bearded Lady had succeeded where many had failed. She had rendered me speechless. Not to mention implanted visions in my head that would take years of therapy to erase. I really tried to speak, but my voice was gone.
Janet giggled and braided the left side of her mustache. “I think mustard yellow paint would be lovely in your den.”
I nodded, still in shock.
“How about a mossy green in the bathroom, a candlelight yellow in the kitchen, and a warm peach in your bedroom?”
I nodded again. She could have said she was going to paint my entire house crap-brown or lime green and I would have nodded.
“Great!” She hopped up and hugged me, tickling my neck with her beard. It was not soft and silky. “It was soooo much fun talking to you. I’m going to go mix some paint, and if Carl’s in the van. . .” She giggled. “Well, you know.”
Oh Holy Lucifer, unfortunately I did know. I watched in abject terror as Carl did lewd hip-hop moves all the way over to the van—followed by Janet, seductively twisting her gnarly beard with her stubby fingers.
“Carl’s really got moves,” a wistful voice behind me said.
I whipped around to find Myrtle watching Carl longingly as he and Janet raced to the van for their love fest.
“Myrtle, if I were you I’d stay away from Carl,” I said as I tried to save her from a sure death.
“Oh I know—Janet’s already beaten up twenty-two low level Demons and a zombie over Carl.”
“I heard she would mutilate and kill anyone who even looked at Carl,” I casually informed Myrtle, fearing for her life. It was difficult to kill a Demon, but Janet’s recipe would definitely work.
Myrtle laughed. “She wouldn’t really kill anyone—she’s too sweet for that. Plus, I don’t want Carl that way. I want to dance like he does.”
Weird didn’t even begin to describe that statement so I backtracked to something even weirder. “Did you just say zombie?”
“Yeah,” Myrtle said, “and you think we’re disgusting and gross.”
"I don't think you're disgusting or gross."
Myrtle peeked out from behind her hair and stared at me. She took a long pause and simply said, “Maybe you don't, but everyone else does. We’re the freak Demons—we’re not beautiful like the rest of you.” With that she picked up a hammer, stepped on instead of over Wolf Boy, and went back into my house.
Carl, Janet and Myrtle weren’t freaks, they were just alarming looking semi-violent Demons who had the same problems that I did. Well, some of the same problems. My father would kill me if he found out how much compassion I felt for others, including my violent and bizarre little therapy group. Truth be told, I liked my therapy group and I did fit in with them. Why was life so damn complicated? Myrtle was a person, no matter how stinkin’ weird she was or looked. She had feelings—they all did. I turned just in time to see the van roll over onto its side due to the disgusting and illicit activities within. Well, some of them did.

Chapter 4
 
My commissary disappearing act with my sister Sloth the other day had caused quite the stir. I was going for a low profile today. Being Satan’s daughter made it kind of difficult to blend in, but I tried. It was a little strange when underclassmen bowed to you, insisted on giving you their lunch money and offered to carry you. Not my books. Me. I shoved stuff into my messy locker and swore for the millionth time I’d clean it out.
“He’s going to the library.” Stella ran up and knocked me into my locker, causing an avalanche of the entire contents to come falling out.
I glared at her. “Stella, look at what you’ve done.”
“I did you a favor,” she retorted, grinning from ear to ear. “Now you don’t have to clean it. Did you hear what I said?” she panted, out of breath from her sprint down the hallway and her flying leap into me and my locker.#p#分页标题#e#
“No. I was busy getting nailed in the head by my History of Mortals textbook,” I sarcastically explained as I began to pick up the mess on the floor.
“I said he’s going to the library,” she repeated impatiently.
“Who’s going to the library?”
“Your boyfriend,” she yelled eagerly.
“Be quiet.” I rolled my eyes. “He’s not my boyfriend. I’ve barely ever talked to him.”