Anyone with experience in dealing with a bratty adolescent girl knew it all too well. Pursed lips, lowered eyelids, folded arms. As if the stink of shit were wafting from the bathroom and down the hall of Zeb’s childhood home, directly punching his half-sister in the nostrils.
At first glance, a high school sophomore in an oversized Salty Dog Cafe sweatshirt and a pair of running shorts would never come off as threatening. But there was a hint of flame behind the irises complimenting the resting bitch face.
“THIS AIN’T ABOUT YOU,” the voice of her brother called out from the kitchen.
“Don’t interrupt me,” Kendra spat. “Keep yer damn mouth shut and lemme handle my bisness.”
Hope you ain’t lettin’ me sayin’ you’s cute get too much in your head, Teddy. Trust me, if I wanted me a older man who carries on and on ‘bout the one dang time he won somethin’ that mattered, there’s a couple creeps still hangin’ round Comer still braggin’ about ‘rasslin tournaments they’s in back in high school. And if one of them even thought about touchin’ me, they’d have another thang in common with ya: a woman givin’ ‘em a broke arm.
But, my brother’s right. It ain’t about me or what I can do to ya. It’s about what y’all gonna do to each other in that cage. I don’t claim to be no expert ‘bout wrestlin’ or MMA fightin’, but the way I see it’s this. Neither one of you fat enough tuh just sit on the other’n like that one bitch did tuh me in elementr’y school when she called me ugly and I pulled her hair out her scalp. Y’all ain’t takin’ the needle off a tube uh muscle juice and drankin’ the dang thing, neither. Just two pretty boys beatin’ on one another in jeans ‘til the other says to quit.
Which, by the way, I agree with ya: Levi’s is better than Wranglers. But heck, only thang my brother knows ‘bout fashion is where the men’s aisle is at Walmarts.
Not shore why you so hung up on what kinda denim’s coverin’ his ass, though. Matter of fact, based on the way you talked ‘bout him, I don’t thank Zeb needs tuh wear jeans on Saturdee at all. Probably go’n be safer around you wearin’ steel underwear. Especially if y’all are in a cage together. But hey, he mighta liked what you said about tossin’ salad: he ain’t so much as brought no girl home with him since he moved up yonder.
“KENDRA. What th’ hell?”
…I’d reckon y’all should wait until after the match, though. Make up sex is always better.
“And how’n gawd’s name would yew even know ‘bout that?”
I SAID don’t INTERRUPT! I heard it on Teen Mom 2!
“Not the show you need tuh be watchin’.”
Don’t tell me what to do.
Teddy, I know you gotta lotta motivation when it comes to winnin’ this thang. I’m a pitcher, and ain’t nothin’ more disappointin’ than givin’ up a home run to a star that ya struck out their last at bat. And hey, from everythin’ I seen, you kin slang fists ‘n feet with the best of ‘em.
But you gonna be goin’ up against somebody that has every dang ounce of ability and drive you do. Yeah, you can rattle on about the fact he can’t even grow more’n peach fuzz under his nose. And that he ain’t so much as gotten out of boot camp tuh measure up to a vet’ran uh war like you.
Last I checked, though? Age don’t make a damn when yer limbs get twisted up like a funnel cake. Experience looks real nice on paper, but paper kin be ripped. Jus’ like a bicep, Teddy.
This weekend, you goin’ up against my hero. And my hero’s gonna win.
“Awww, am I really yer hero, Kennie?” Zeb teases, poking his sister in the ribs.
“No,” she retorts. “I just need ya to win this thang and make more money so you kin start buyin’ me better Christmas presents. And if I gotta tell a lil’ white lie to inspire ya, so be it.”
The Watson Mill Kid shoots her a look. “I bought yew a dern MacBook! Them ain’t cheap!
“Yeah,” she grins, “but by next Christmas I’ll have my drivers license.”