Gray metal lockers line both sides of the school hallway. I glance at the time on my phone. Three minutes until I need to get my ass to class. As luck would have it, Chrissa Lawrence saunters by with her entourage.

She coughs loudly. "Slut!"

It's aimed at me, of course.

Pretending to be unbothered, I continue making out with Brody Carlisle and release an exaggerated, porn-star-worthy moan against his mouth just to piss her off.

Chrissa and her minions scoff and huff at my antics before moving along.

My attention flits back to the boy in my arms. Brody's hands roam up and down my back. His fingers dance around the clasp of my bra. I feel his fingertips linger there until, suddenly, his palms dip down as though he's copping a feel on my ass.

He slides some cash into my back pocket.

I tuck a small plastic bag into his varsity jacket.

He plays for the school basketball team. Brody is also one of my best customers. I use this routine with some of my regulars. It lets me deal at school in plain sight.

"Same time next week?" he murmurs against my cheek.

I nudge him aside. "Yep."

A pause stretches between us. I never know what to say once a transaction is over.

It was fun making out with you?

I fiddle with my hair, twisting the dark wavy strands between my fingers in the way I've always done when I feel a bit uneasy.

Awkwardly, Brody and I mumble to each other at the same time—

I say, "I guess I'll see you around."

He asks, "You going to Sam's party this Friday?"

My eyes go round.

Weird.

Brody has never shown interest in talking to me about anything other than weed.

I nod. "Yeah, I'll be there."

Parties are good for business, and Sam's parties, in particular, are great for business. I could, easily, make a couple hundred bucks a night with his crowd, probably even more now that I have my new quap from Jake. A lot of Sam's friends went to prep school. They were my favorite kind of buyers: Rich kids with cash to burn.

"Wanna go together?" he asks.

Not really. Showing up with other people usually distracts me from pushing my product. I brush him off with a laugh, "I don't think so."

His gaze darts towards my boobs for a moment too long. "Why not?"

It makes me a little uncomfortable.

Does Brody want to fuck me?

I need to shut him down before he gets the wrong idea. But I also don't want to lose his business. "Uh—"

The minute bell chimes through the speaker system overhead, interrupting us before I can come up with a diplomatic response. Anxiously, I urge, "We better get going."

Brody swings his backpack over his shoulder and agrees with a sigh, "Guess so. See ya around, Athena."

"See ya."

As Brody walks away, I push aside the weird, awkward vibe between us. It doesn't matter. Because I'm fifty dollars richer. Fifty dollars closer to my goal.

Brody can look his fill.

Girls like Chrissa can call me whatever the fuck they want.

Slut.

Bitch.

Dealer.

Labels don't matter. Because I know what I'm doing. I'm hustling, grinding, saving up, so I can get the fuck out of Scottsdale the moment I turn eighteen. Persie is waiting for me. 

She's my baby sister.

I'm seventeen. She's eleven. Persie and I might have been separated when our mom passed away, but we still talk every week. We still miss our mom every fucking day. It gets easier to smile and pretend to be okay as time goes on, but, deep down, the hurt doesn't ever really go away.

Mom didn't have roots as a kid. She grew up in foster homes. Much like my sister is now.

Mom's background was a mystery. Her appearance was ambiguous. Mixed. Most people assumed that she was Latina, or maybe black, because of her brownish skin and darkish hair. As far as I know, her blood probably carried a melting pot of several different cultures and heritages. They're lost to us, though. I doubt we'll ever have access to any of it.

Mom never felt like she belonged anywhere. She always regretted not knowing where she came from. So, she wanted to give Persie and me our own sense of belonging. A sense of self that we could cling to with pride. Even if that sense of self was all made up. Born from mythology.

Mom adored Greek lore, so she named me after the goddess of wisdom and warfare and gifted my sister the same name as the Queen of the Underworld. When we were younger, she made us believe that we were the descendants of Athena and Persephone. It was like our version of Santa Claus.

Sadly, though, once Persie and I got older, we realized that Mom's stories were only that—stories.

Unlike Athena and Persephone, neither of us have much power over our lives.

My sister and I have different fathers, so, after Mom's accident, I went to live with my dad's sister, Aunt Katrina, in Arizona, and Persie stayed behind in New Jersey, entering their foster care system. My dad is technically my legal guardian, but he's been paying Aunt Katrina to look after me for years. He has since remarried, and his new wife doesn't want anything to do with me.

It's fucked up, I know. 

What's even more fucked up? 

My dad and Aunt Katrina refused to take Persie.

I don't think I'll ever forgive them for turning my sister away. You don't need to share blood to have a fucking heart. My baby sister puts on a brave face for me, but I can tell she hates being a foster kid. In the past, social workers have reassigned Persie at the drop of hat, telling my sister to pack up her clothes and toys in a plastic bag before whisking her away to a new family of strangers within a matter of hours. Her life tends to stressful, unstable, and full of uncertainty.

I feel guilty whenever I compare Persie's situation to mine. Aunt Katrina may be annoying as hell, Ron is kind of pretentious and way too quiet in a creepy way, and the spawn just makes me want to scream every time he enters my orbit, but, at least, I know where I'm going to sleep every night and where I'm waking up every morning. I worry about my sister all the time. Once I turn eighteen, I plan to become Persie's legal guardian.

Until then, senior year of high school can't go by fast enough.