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“Think of me as your father,” the model agent said. “I’m going to take such good care of you.”
“Dads are dicks.” Ava kicked a pebble at his shins.
“I’ll be your mother then.”
Ava pointed to her so-called mother, who was leaning against
their dilapidated double-wide trailer. She slurped wine from a McDonald’s soda cup. Her eyes blinked in a flurry, trying to stay open. “Moms are worse.”
The model agent reached into a leather bag and pulled out a heart-shaped music box filled with golden-wrapped chocolates. “How about a lover?”
Ava crunched strawberry Pop Rocks between her teeth. She stuck out her tongue, and the candies let out a crackling hiss. “That’s creepy. I’m eleven.” She spat the Pop Rocks in his face. The little red candies sprayed like soggy confetti.
“Ava. Don’t be a brat,” her mother said in a drunken slur.
But he laughed it off, swiping the spit from his stubble. “Not a lover in a romantic way. I’ll care for you. It looks like you could use some love.”
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