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If Tears Were Wishes Ruth Nestvold The smell of industrial strength cleansers was laced with the smell of urine. In the back of her mind, through the pain and anger and fear, Brooke registered that the girls' bathroom didn't smell this way, pungent behind the clean, the traces of decades of boys and young men missing the urinals impossible to get out of the walls and the floor. The gag in her mouth tasted like dusty cotton. "Do you really believe that stuff about the wishes?" the guy guarding the door said, his voice slurred with drink. She thought his name was Damon. Another one, blond and sleek, one of those jocks who hung out in the west wing, yanked the rope tighter around her wrists and pushed her to her knees. She hit the tiles hard, and pain shot up her thighs. "Only one way to find out," the blond said, and kicked her in the stomach. A third teenager pulled out a couple of vials he must have stolen from the chemistry lab, kneeled down beside her, and held them to her tear ducts to capture the valuable liquid. Brooke jerked her head away. She and her twin sister had always given their tears freely to those who asked --but no one had ever beaten her for them |
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