If he hadn’t stolen my parking space, dismissed me in front of my crew, and put a knife to my throat, I might actually have a crush on him. I know as well as any other girl here that there’s a certain aura of poison in the air around Prescott, a haze, if you will. It taints us all toxic and makes us do horrible things. It makes Lemon fuck old, married guys searching for a way out; it makes Nisha punch the walls in the hallway when she’s mad, leaving dents in the drywall; it makes Bastian dance for money at the gay club with a fake ID. It makes me steal cars and get crushed on by psychos.
