The Chocolate Money by Ashley Prentice Norton Read Free Book Online Page A

start to give, Babs cuts up her underwear with a pair of kitchen scissors and buries them in the trash.
    She does this to stop the
freaks out there who want to whack off with the lingerie of chocolate-heiress pussy.
Once, I dug a strip of her panty fabric out of the garbage. I made it into an anklet and wore it in the tub while I chased the smash. I was so worried she would find out that I threw it away two days later. I guess I am a sneak and a liar after all. Babs does have to be on her guard, protect herself from me.
    I watch as she moves on to the pockets of my pants. It’s strangely comforting to see her take such an interest in my things. In me.
    By three A.M. , everything I own is in a huge heap in the middle of the floor. Babs seems happy with her work. Another opportunity to use her parenting skills to turn me into a decent human being.
    She’s finished. Maybe we can get back to the mags. Wrong. She still has one thing left to do.
    Babs walks over to my desk. Picks up the picture of Brooke.
    “How stupid of me,” she says. “I almost overlooked Brookie.”
    Babs undoes the frame. My picture of Brooke and the autographed cocktail napkin go tumbling to the ground.
    I try to think of something I can offer her in place of Brooke. But I’m naked. Have nothing. And Babs does not give options.
    Don’t, Babs, don’t, Babs. Please don’t.
    Babs throws my treasures on the bed by my feet.
    “So, babe. An eye for an eye, I think.”
    She turns back to my desk and picks up a pencil. I wish she would take the pencil to me. Poke me in the cheek with it, maybe. Write some obscenity on my forehead. But no. She goes right for the picture of Brooke and scribbles all over her face.
    Babs gains momentum. Presses harder. Makes deep grooves in the picture. She keeps going until Brooke’s whole face is covered with marks. Brooke looks like she has really bad acne.
I can always get another picture,
I think.
This isn’t so bad.
    But Babs isn’t done. She picks up the cocktail napkin. Brooke has actually touched this. It’s irreplaceable. It’s the very best thing I have. She reaches down to the side of the bed where the ginger ale spilled. Pats the wet spot with the napkin. She holds it up. I can see that Brooke’s signature has run to the point of being illegible. I can live with this, I think. Brooke still took pen to this small napkin. It’s still worth something. But there are to be no consolation prizes tonight. Babs holds the napkin to my face. She rips it up until it is just white strips. Just like her old underwear.
    “See! This is what it feels like to have someone fuck up your things. But now you can take inventory. Keep the things you want and throw the rest away. I will bring up a garbage can from the kitchen. When you are done, your closet will be neat as a pin, and getting dressed will be like shopping at Saks! Everything will be in its place with only the things you like to choose from.”
    She leaves to get the garbage can. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to put my nightgown back on or if I’m supposed to tackle this project naked. I give myself a minute to consider this. I look at the magazines, which are still sitting on the end of my bed. I wonder if we’ll ever get back to the shoe project. Probably not. But I was so close.
    Later that night, as I sift through the huge mound of my things, throwing most of them away because I am too tired to put them back, I discover that Babs has left behind one important thing. Her cigarettes.
    I take one of them in my left hand, put it to my mouth. Light it. The inhale is disgusting. The nicotine hits my bloodstream so fast my head reels and I clutch the post of my bed. I take it from my mouth. Come up with another idea. I can’t help but be angry at myself for having caused the whole room-thrash.
    I stretch my right leg out. Bend over and look for a good spot. My wrist is off-limits. Babs has given me too many how-tos on death to do otherwise.
If you are going to