For a moment he imagined Roxanne in the backseat. Her lips sucked up under her teeth. Moving the flesh over her chompers, producing a sound, lovey-dovey noises, noises like someone pretending they were going to eat you up. He’d forgotten how she came up with that, the lipless routine, just one of the hundreds of ways to torture a little brother. Quite the feat, once a week, an all-new weak point exposed, exploited. Sometimes she roped a friend into helping. Greta outgrew torturing Sipe. But Roxanne reveled in it. There had been another lipless god. Some other girl, pretending to take bites out of Sipe, holding him down, those lipless, toothless mouths snapping at him, gouging away, Roxanne losing it, laughing when her partner-in-crime started chomping Sipe’s crotch, through his pajamas, Sipe screaming, convinced the Colvin girl was going to chomp off his little boy weiner and he’d have to pee out of his butt from then on. Sara. Jenny. One of them, the older one, the Colvin that didn’t pick her nose and eat the gold on the bus.
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