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The vendetta I launched against my new step mother, when I was twelve or so. My best friend at the time helped me concoct downright inhumane schemes against “daddy’s new playmate.” The worst was when we topped off her wine with nail polish remover during a neighborhood Christmas party.
I managed to avoid Buddy’s lecherous company until what would be my final shift at the coffee shop. He was there when I arrived, wearing mirrored glasses behind the counter, surely warding off a monstrous hangover. I immediately regretted my choice of work attire — a thin cotton shirt and low-cut shorts.
