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Pigs' Blood

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            Everyone gapes: the preppy cheerleaders who are taped into their dresses and the sluttier girls who are spilling out of theirs; the boys in tuxedos, adjusting their bow ties or tugging at their starched shirt cuffs; the Christian girls with their demure necklines and the nerds in their loud ties. The chaperones forget that they’re supposed to be in charge. The music comes to a jarring, uncoordinated halt as the band forgets to play. A glass hits the floor and shatters, punctuating the silence.

            Wednesday Adams runs a single finger along her cheek and licks it slowly. Smiles.

            “Pigs blood,” she says. “You shouldn’t have.”

            They really shouldn’t have.