Something catches her eye, on that first day, and Ashley never tells anyone about it.
Not even Spencer.
It spins in her gut violently and it just might bubble up in her throat, so Ashley says stupid things to create space and takes off like a frightened animal.
When you are cornered, strike first. Then flee.
*
National Geographic, with mating and killing and lessons in how to live, that's where Ashley grew up. She didn't look to those Strawberry Shortcake girls, pig-tails and sharp nails.
She was the lion. They were the gazelles.
It is just with make-up and with sneers. It is just with curse words and with cliques.
She cuts you before you can cut her.
Strike first. Make it count. Then duck and run.
*
Zig-zag patterns through the underbrush, no one could follow that path.
You had to be tough. You had to be ruthless.
And Ashley doesn't like seeing this other side emerge, this porcelain girl made of flesh and blood, this child capable of pain and of wanting.
She sniffed it out, on that first day, and she never tells a single soul.
Not even Spencer.
But in the glint of spring sunlight, Ashley fears that Spencer already knows.
*
And if they catch you, decide if you can get away. And if you can't get away, submit.