Angela and I are leaning toward each other across the formica tabletop as we speak, but we both jump as the door is slammed open so hard the bell crashes to the floor with a cacophony. A frighteningly skinny woman strides in, her blonde hair over-processed and greasy. She has so much jewelry on that she jingles as she walks, a deranged reindeer with no sleigh. Her makeup is overdone and smeared in a few places, the liner smudged under her eyes and her lipstick bleeding at the corners of her lips. She’s wearing this ridiculously short, and I mean you could see her panties if she’s wearing any, leopard print mini dress with matching platform heels. If I didn't know better, I’d think there’s a prostitution ring in Forks. She marches up to the counter and starts yelling, and nobody in a five mile radius could miss what she's saying.
My eyes widen on Angela, because just as she spews her verbal vomit over the counter, I recognize her.
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