Lisa Clark O’Neill
Copyright 2013 Lisa Clark O’Neill
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That was the singular thought floating in twelve-year-old Tate Hennessey’s head as she watched the empty Coke bottle spin on the cabin’s plank floor. The tinted glass blurred, executing revolution after revolution, finally slowing to a drunken and uneasy rest.
Its open mouth pointed at her.
For one perilous moment the only sounds in the musty dark were the mechanical whirr of the ceiling fan and the rasp of her uneven breathing. Up to this point she’d been lucky, as for the past fifteen minutes of this dumb game no one had any reason to pay her any attention.
Looks like her luck had just run out.
“You know what that means, don’t you Tate?”
The nasty, sing-song voice belonged to Lacy Chapman, a viciously perky blonde who’d already developed breasts. Real breasts, the kind that required an actual bra as opposed to one of those training jobs Tate’s mother was always trying to push on her. Lacy’s boobs apparently bypassed training entirely, heading straight to the Major Leagues. Rumor had it she’d let one of the boys from the other side of camp touch them. Tate wasn’t sure if that was true, but she knew for a fact that Lacy was trouble. Her angelic looks belied a bully who liked nothing better than to make other people squirm.