for you, or do I need to draw you a fucking picture?” If there had been any doubt Krista had been present during the spray paint purchase, it quickly evaporated: she had taken to clearly articulating the “ing” at the end of her expletives, a trait she had in common with Courtney MacMillan.
“Mrs. Ellory, perhaps you’d like to speak with your daughter a moment to see if you can convince her to talk with me?” I wasn’t hopeful, but Krista’s mother sat forward in her chair as though she was reluctantly willing to try, before Krista abruptly cut her off.
“Just sit back and keep your fucking mouth shut,” she told her mother. “I don’t need my fucking mother to speak for me. Anything you’ve got to say, you’d better have the balls to say it to me.” I was trying to picture speaking to my mother with that language and in that tone. Right about the time the last word of the sentence escaped my lips, I’m quite certain my father would have intervened. He would have killed or at least seriously maimed me for even thinking of speaking to my mother like that.
“Krista, please,” Andrea said calmly. “I really am trying to help you here. Couldn’t we just talk, woman to woman?”
“Sure. Right after you do some ditch-licking, you fucking dyke.” It took some seconds before I even understood the metaphor.
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