“Shut up, nerd. No one asked you,” one of Chelsea’s lackeys sneers, and my last nerve is done. Lunging forward, I grab Chelsea by the throat, pushing her back until she hits the closest wall. One thing I find useful from my non-memories is the shit my body can do automatically with no idea of how or where I learned it. Fighting is apparently something I can do, which came in handy when my foster brothers used to slip into my room. “Take it back and tell Jimmie you’re sorry.” I ease the pressure so she can talk. “S . . . sorry,” she stutters. What amazing friends she has. I expected more of a
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