Cane Crackin' “Hmmph…” I duck my head, closing my eyes, as Dulce, the seventeen year old tyrant, marches back and forth across the room – well, as much as she can with the wooden stick she uses as a cane. The perfect example of what happens when someone too young is in charge. Cheer boot camp, just with life-threatening consequences if you crossed her. “You-“ She stops in front of me, predictably. I’m always the one she stops in front of. She thinks she can tell me what to do, but she has no control over me. She might be able to make the younger ones cower in fear, but me – I’m not stupid. I chewed girls like her up for breakfast and spit them out on the sidewalk when I was her age. “You told them she was here.” Dulce’s cane points towards the corner. Green eyes pierce mine, while the rest of her face forms a glare as soon as she swings her glance back to Dulce. Her arms are already bruise-swollen, and tiny dribbles of blood cut her chin awkwardly in half. Dulce was res