#y as

        “ men are asshats. “  she sinks back in her seat, as if she wants it to swallow her whole any minute now.  “ i mean - tell me, dude . . . why does nobody fuckin’ want me ? am i HIDEOUS? “ 

“Guess a spaghetti sandwich sounds a helluva lot better when it’s still warm,” brow furrowed, Tulip’s hunched down to level her eyes with her sandwich, silently criticizing it. It’s not like she’ll eat the school lunch; that shit’s nasty enough that she’s stuck making lunch for her and Jesse. Foster parents got pissed when she tried using the normal fridge food for her own damned good (they are getting paid to take care of her, aren’t they?), so she’s stuck making leftovers work for them. “It’ll taste better than it looks,” the girl manages a smile, her expression faltering as she notes that her boyfriend’s zoned out, well beyond the sound of her voice. 

                  ‘  look at this    —— ‘  the way she looks at rose is as if she’s her disapproving mother.  glasses are perched on the end of her nose, blue hues narrowing a little in displeasure.  she has the arm of a garment between her fingers, holding it up to show rose, to show her what she’s unimpressed with.  ‘ what is this ?  a  PUFFED  sleeve?  are we in the nineteen eighties ? ‘  she drops the material now, as if it burns her to hold it for too long, shaking her head and waving her hand, gesturing for somebody to take the whole railing of clothing away.  ‘ i hired you because i was impressed with the dress that you made daphne kluger at the met gala this year.  i had high hopes for you and yet you bring me that pile of, well,  trash. ‘  she purses her lips, letting out a breath.  ‘ i don’t want to have to fire you but it really, truly, isn’t looking good. ‘ 

yo no cumplo más años