Don't Breathe a Word by Holly Cupala Page A

giggled.
    â€œWant some? Sorry to say it won’t be one of your Macchiato Skinny Latte Almond Split-Shots, and you might accidentally swallow some grounds, but it’s not half-bad free coffee, if I do say so myself.” She picked up a steaming cup from the floor next to her and held it out to me.
    I popped off the top to inspect the contents—brownish water with a few floating bits and a swirl of cream—and took a cautious sip. Hot, bitter, with a hint of grit.
    â€œNot bad,” I said.
    â€œNot bad? That’s some quality brew, ’Burbs.”
    Joy, I nearly blurted out. “How did you get it?”
    â€œSecrets of the trade,” May answered languidly, stretching her toes out against Creed’s stomach.
    He snorted. “Used coffee grounds—any café has bags and bags of it they just give away. Then you get a cup—”
    â€œThat reminds me,” interjected May, “don’t wreck the cup—that’s your cup now.”
    â€œâ€”and the hot water and cream are free,” Creed finished.
    May opened up a waxy brown bag and took out a chunk of what looked like blueberry scone. “Want one?” She tossed me a brown bag of my own, and I opened it to find a bran muffin.
    â€œSorry,” she said, “that’s always the one they have left. Always bran muffins. Like we need any more shit around here . . .”
    Creed tilted his head and glared, which, I realized more and more, was part of their routine. Part of becoming a family was finding your place in it. And despite the terrible air, I hoped there would be room to breathe in this one.
    Suddenly, with a wild spiral of legs, May was off the couch and in my face. I’d thought we were about the same height, but now I realized I towered over her by a good three or four inches. How she made herself seem taller was one of the deep mysteries of May. “That reminds me,” she mumbled with a mouthful of scone, “we’ve got to do something about your hair.”
    I tried to tuck it behind my ear, like I would have when it was long, but the ragged ends slipped through my fingers.
    â€œOh, no,” said Creed. He got up from the sagging couch, a tweedy brown in the dappled light. “I’m outta here, before this gets ugly.” He picked up his guitar. “May, you’ll take care of her today?” It was more of a statement than a question.
    â€œHmmph,” May grunted. She scrutinized me, picking up locks of hair and letting them fall limply. Other than the occasional quick scrub in a public bathroom, I hadn’t bathed since I’d left. Two weeks ago? I’d lost track.
    Finally she sighed testily. “Could you . . . sit down or something, so I can get a better look at you?”
    â€œUm, okay,” I said, feeling like the matter had already been settled long before I came on scene.
    Creed disappeared around the corner. “I’ll be back later,” he shouted, then pounded down the stairs with his guitar.
    I sat up straight on the couch as May ran her fingers through my scalp, still tender from my Manic bleach job.
    â€œOh my God. No wonder. Did you do this yourself?”
    I nodded.
    â€œOh. Ouch. You totally burned your scalp.” She combed through my hair with surprising tenderness. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about the color until it heals, but at least I can give you a decent haircut. Don’t tell me—you did that yourself, too.”
    I nodded again.
    â€œWell, whatever it was you ran from, it had to be bad if you were gonna give yourself the fucking worst haircut I’ve ever seen. Wait here.” A second later, she appeared with a pair of shears.
    â€œDon’t tell the boys I have these, or they’ll use them to pull nails out of their boots or some stupid shit like that.” She brandished the scissors in front of my face to emphasize the point.
    â€œNo problem,” I said.
    â€œGood.