Part 97 (1/2)

With a little squeal, Thresa sprang up. She didn't want to spoil her

perfect record with a demerit. ”Come over at ten, and I'll give you the

notes. Then you can do it.”

”Fine.”

Teresa put her hands on her earlobes. ”I can't wait.”

”Neither can I.” She waited until the door closed. ”Little s.h.i.+t,” she

muttered, then moved over to drape an arm around Emma's shoulders. ”You

okay?”

”It never goes away.” She stared at the picture. It was a good one, she

thought dispa.s.sionately, well focused, well lit. The faces weren't

blurred, the expressions quite clear. It was easy, all too easy to see

the hate in her mother's eyes. ”Do you think I could be like her?”

”Like who?”

”My mother.”

”Come on, Emma. You haven't even seen her since you were a baby.”

”There's genes, heredity and all that.”

”AJI that's bull.”

”Sometimes I'm mean. Sometimes I want to be mean, the way she was.”

”So what?” She rose to take Springsteen off. Sister Immaculata

might come along any minute and confiscate it. ”Everybody's mean

sometimes. That's because our flesh is weak and we're loaded with sin.”

”I hate her.” It was a relief to say it, a terrible, terrible relief. ”I

hate her. And I hate Bev for not wanting me, and Dad for putting me

here. I hate the men who killed Daffen. I hate them all. She hates

everyone, too. You can see it in her eyes.”

”It's okay. Sometimes I hate everyone. And I don't even know your