“Ambrose Rhett Casablancas, where are your manners?” Zeta shrieked. “The trash?” Dylan guessed. “Buried twenty feet under, next to radioactive waste?” Rhyland suggested. “Maybe he left them in the womb before you pushed him out,” Dylan theorized, picking frosting from her split ends. “What happened? You used to be fond of her.” Zeta wiped her forehead with her elbow, a smear of spaghetti sauce running across it. “Give the girl the time of your day.” “Last time I gave her the time of my night, she ruined it.” He bared his teeth at me.
