Some girls become stuck-up bitches early in life, and at eighteen, Theresa was just as stuck up as any of them. Always good, always correct. She sat up straight and chewed with her mouth closed, said please and thank you and dressed right for the occasion. It was an accident of her birth, that perfection. None of the rest of us were as pin straight as she was. She wore her little soup of redheaded genes like a tiara. I had no idea why she even showed up to see me. She hated me.