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"My nose!" she shrieks "You brokebitch!"

I’ so badly,as if they’re on fire frolass stuck to ht hand are nu fro both rainwater and o inside and lie down for a while and

But I can’t Because I haveher nose with one hand, and the stun gun in the other, when I tackle her, flingingher down like a hundred and twenty pounds of Manolo Blahniks She falls, writhing in un fro Not with fear, like she should have been--because,her--but with anger, her dark eyes glittering with such intense hatred ofit there before

"Nice girls finish last, huh?" I say, as I kick her as hard as I can in the knee "How’s this, then? Is this nice enough for you?"

Except that it’s like I’ one of those crash test du to do with her face Her precious nose, for exaer than I aht and weight I can’t budge the gun from her hands I’ve read about people who, in th of someone twice their size--mothers who lift cars off their injured infants, mounted cops who pull their beloved horses out of sinkholes, that kind of thing Rachel has the strength of abefore hiive up until so that that so to be me

It’s all I can do to keep un My fingers are slick with rain and blood, and sore from the stitches and the pepper foaed to clis out fro rain for le has sent us staggering dangerously close to the terrace wall

Soes to twist herself so that it’s eranium planter not unlike the one that nearly killed Jordan My face toward the sky, I can’t see with all the rain strea down I close my eyes and concentrate on the nearly ih above s anywhere near ive, and though I don’t open my eyes, I hear the enormous crash it makes seconds later as it hits the sidewalk below

The th of time that elapses between the moment the planter careens off the terrace and the sound of the impact as it strikes the earth I count to nearly ten

Ten seconds of freefall Ten seconds to conte, because the salt fros the cuts on

"See," she’s saying "I told you, Heather You’re too nice to win Too weak Not in good enough shape Because size twelve is fat Oh, I knohat you’re going to say It’s the size of the average Ae American woman is fat, Heather"

"Oh my God" I spit rainwater and blood fro really wrong with you! Let ot to live for, anyway?" Rachel asks, as if she hasn’t heard me Because she probably hasn’t "Your music career’s in the toilet Your boyfriend dumped you Your own mother stabbed you in the back You should have died yesterday, in the elevator And you should have died the day before, only irls never win--"