Girl on the Verge

by Pintip Dunn

  Kan had said that Shelly had lots of admirers. Ha. Nobody had ever looked at Shelly that way, ever. She would know, because she wasn’t a complete and total fool.

  That was the first time Shelly wanted to punch Kan. To hit her so hard her teeth would go flying out of her mouth, and then, maybe she wouldn’t be so pretty anymore. She hoped, for Kan’s sake, that her new friend wouldn’t be the same as her last one. But she wouldn’t. Shelly was sure of it. Yes, Kan had made the statement about the admirers, but she had also made Shelly a shirt. A lovely, lovely blouse, sewn with Kan’s very own hands. It fit like a dream, and it made Shelly feel something she had never felt before. Beautiful.

  Even before the scar on her cheek, she’d never felt beautiful. How could she? She’d been ugly from the moment she was born. Nobody cooed at her. Nobody patted her head. She had been treated like a household pet—and not even a valued one. She was a rodent who wandered through her mom’s living quarters, scrounging for food.

  When she was six years old, her mom had a boyfriend who would come to their apartment. He spent most of his time in the master bedroom, where he would make loud grunting noises. When he did appear, he would slouch on the couch with a hand down his pants, and if Shelly walked by, he would pelt her with popcorn. “Who’d your mom screw to end up with such an ugly kid? Didn’t know she was into bestiality!” He’d then roar as if he’d told the best joke in the world.

  So, beautiful was not a word in her vocabulary. Until now, when Kan had given her a glimpse of the fairy tale.

  Was it possible? Could she become the girl she had always wanted to be?

  Like with everything else, only time would tell.

  Chapter 10

  The sound of frying bacon wakes me up. Except it’s still dark outside, and there’s no accompanying smell of grease. Crap. That’s not bacon, after all, but a torrential rain pounding against our roof. Exactly what I need on a Monday morning.

  With the exception of my brief moment of euphoria when I finished Shelly’s shirt, I spent the entire weekend sulking. Wrapping egg rolls with Khun Yai and replaying the scene with Walt Peterson in my head. Lying listlessly on my bed and imagining Ethan hooking up with another girl. I was so mopey even I was beginning to get bored.

  I wanted to turn things around this week—but now, this weather is like a slap in the face. You think you’re going to have a good day? Yeah, good luck with that!

  I drag myself out of bed and to my computer. It’s too early to be awake, but my mind is so cluttered that going back to sleep is out of the question. Idly, I type in a search for Sheila Ambrose’s death. I’m curious about Shelly’s past, about what she’s been through. But I don’t know how to bring up such a sensitive subject with my new friend.

  My hand hovers above the ENTER key. This information is in the public domain. I’m not really prying into her privacy if I take a peek. Right? Maybe. Ugh, I don’t know.

  I press the button before I can change my mind.

  And wish I hadn’t.

  Article after article about Sheila Ambrose’s demise pops up. I guess when you die in a spectacular way, all the newspapers in the area turn into tabloids and rush to report on the juiciest details. I’m surprised I hadn’t heard of her death, but the Ambroses’ hometown, Lakewood, is a few hours away.

  Sheila Ambrose was found in a church early Sunday morning, hanging from a rope attached to the second-floor balcony. She was wearing a wedding dress, complete with a mesh veil, lace-up ballerina heels, and even a garter with tiny sprigs of blue flowers. A suicide note was tucked in her bodice, one that explained her dissatisfaction with her earthly life and her desire to be united with her one true love and savior: Jesus Christ.

  Oh, man. I bring my hand to my mouth. No wonder Shelly seems so desperate to hang on to our friendship. The one person who should’ve loved her most chose to leave her alone in this world.

  But there’s more: the one detail over which the newspapers went wild. Sheila Ambrose was never married. She never had a wedding. She never owned a wedding dress. This meant, of course, that in preparation for her suicide, Sheila had to shop for the gown. She had to compare varying lengths of veils; she had to choose among garters with bits of lace or silk or flowers.

  I click through the articles, my nausea like a stone at the pit of my stomach. The same details are rehashed again and again. And then, on the seventh page of the search results, I come upon a Web site that leaked a photo of her corpse. With the same sick compulsion that draws onlookers to car accidents, I enlarge the photo of Sheila Ambrose’s body.

  The picture is fuzzy, as though it was snapped from someone’s cell phone. Sheila is hanging from the rope, her head slumped forward, the dress on full display. Tiny rhinestones are sewn all over the bodice, and even though the lighting is dim, I can tell the dress would sparkle brilliantly under any kind of bulb.

  I scan the photo, taking in every column of the banister, every fraying bit of the thick, twisted rope. And then, my blood freezes. On the dead woman’s cheek is a freshly cut scar. It zigzags from her eyebrow to her jaw like a lightning bolt.

  And it looks just like Shelly’s.

  * * *

  A couple hours later, the questions are still chasing each other through my mind. Did Shelly’s mom cut herself before she died? Why? Is Shelly aware of this little detail? How did Shelly get the scar in the first place? Was it something more than just an accident?

  I sneak a glance at my friend as we drive to school. She’s dreamily looking at the rain slicking down the window. Unlike me, she’s been smiling and whistling for the last two days.

  There’s about a zero percent chance that I’m going to ask her these questions, unless she brings up the subject herself. I may be nosy, but I’m not completely insensitive.

  We arrive, and I pull into my assigned parking spot. The rain had subsided briefly, leaving the sky cloudy and gray. But now, the clouds break open again and start dumping buckets of rain on us.

  “Race you inside?” Shelly asks me, with an impish smile. Before I can respond, she opens the car door with a squeal and makes a mad dash for the building.

  Slowly, I get out of my car. I would wait until the worst of the storm passes, but if I get another tardy, I’ll have detention. That would make my life just perfect.

  I don’t hurry, though. Being drenched can hardly make me feel any worse, and maybe it will ease the questions pounding my brain. I take my time locking the car door. The water runs freely down my face, plastering my clothes to me.

  And then, abruptly, the rain stops. Or, at least, the water no longer pelts my face. I glance up and see the underside of an umbrella. Whipping my head around, I look directly into the eyes of Ethan Thorne.

  My breath catches. He’s wearing his trademark black shirt, and he’s close to me, so that he can stand under the umbrella, too, and not get wet. His chest is inches away from my face, and the shirt hugs every contour of his torso.

  Warmth travels up my body, and suddenly, I’m overheated in my thin blouse and leopard-print scarf. If he keeps looking at me like that, with his eyes hot and his lips solemn, I might go up in flames.

  Without a word, he begins to walk toward the school, and I shuffle forward to stay with him and the shelter of the umbrella. The concrete bites through the thin soles of my shoes, and flecks of rain blow against my already wet skin.

  It’s not easy for two people to walk underneath an umbrella side by side. Our shoulders keep bumping, and both of us keep straying outside the circular canopy and into the rain. This is so awkward. I wish I weren’t lurching around like a giraffe with a broken leg. I wish—

  He wraps his arm around my shoulders, and I about die. My heart tries to sprint out of my chest, and my mouth dries. I’m tucked against his body, nestled against the very muscles I was admiring. They look good, but they feel even better, all warm and firm and solid. He smells like Irish Spring, and his hand is on my shoulder, near my hair. I can feel a slight tug on my roots. Is he playing
with my hair? Good god, I want him to play with my hair.

  Stop it, I order myself. He’s not interested in you. He met another girl at the party on Friday night. For all you know, he kissed her. He’s just being courteous now. It’s raining. He had an umbrella. End of story.

  But with his arm draped over me like a cozy sweater, and my head practically snuggled against his chest, I can’t be logical. I can’t listen to reason. It’s all I can do to hold myself together.

  Too soon, we reach the roof that hangs over the school’s entrance. He removes his arm from my shoulders—slowly, reluctantly, or is that my imagination?—and shakes out the umbrella, so that water droplets fly all around us.

  We’re dry now underneath the ledge, but a foot away, the rain continues to pour down. The pelting against the roof sounds like a drumbeat, underscoring the chaos shooting around inside me. I can hardly see the row of parked cars through the blur of the drops. It makes the moment even more intimate, as if the rain is a sheet separating us from everything else.

  I look into his eyes, those gorgeous blue eyes that look even darker today. Stormier, as though they’re reflecting the weather.

  Silence blooms between us, but it’s not empty. It’s filled with those eyes, so deep and bottomless. With his warmth that I can still feel. With his lips. They linger above mine, just inches away.

  I open my mouth to thank him, to quip something witty about the weather. Hell, to express my approval that he wears these shirts every day. Before I can connect my brain cells to my mouth, however, he nods, touches a finger to my nose, and then disappears into the mob inside the school.

  All without saying a word.

  Chapter 11

  My hands drift to my nose. Did that really happen? Did he actually touch me? The moment was so fast, so transient, I can’t tell if I imagined the whole thing.

  I rise on my toes, attempting to pick Ethan’s muscular back out of the crowd. I can’t find him. If he was ever here—and he was, I’m not so far gone that I made up the whole encounter—then the people have absorbed him like bees converging on a honeycomb.

  No matter. My nose tingles, and I can still feel a delicious, invisible weight on my shoulders. If you put me under a black light, I swear I’d be shining. Imaginary or not, this contact will keep me smiling for the rest of the day.

  The warning bell rings, and I realize that the crowd has dissipated. I’d better hurry if I don’t want to be late. I round the corner, heading toward my locker, when Walt Peterson materializes in front of me. Deliberately, he steps into my path so that I plow right into him.

  So much for my smile.

  “If you want a piece of me, just say so,” he says. His hands move to my hips, ostensibly steadying me. “You don’t have to pretend to bump into me.”

  “Get your hands off me,” I snarl.

  He leans in close, so that I can feel his hot breath against my face. “You’re a spicy one, aren’t you, Kan? No wonder Brad prefers you to your plastic friend, Ash. I’d do you, too.”

  He backs away, his eyes flickering over my body, a lascivious grin on his face. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and my hands begin to shake. His words make me feel like I need to scour my body with boiling water, but I know it has nothing to do with me or even Ash. He wants payback for Shelly kicking him in the jaw. I should’ve spit right in his face. I should’ve kneed him right in the groin. I should’ve screamed until a teacher came running.

  But I didn’t. I don’t want to get Shelly into trouble. Maybe if we ignore Walt, he’ll just go away.

  I lean against a locker, breathing hard. When my heartbeat starts to resemble something close to normal, I continue down the hall.

  Before long, I glimpse a knot of my friends gathered around Ash. She’s model-tall and towers over the rest of the group by several inches, so I clearly see her red-rimmed eyes, the mascara running like ink down her face.

  My steps falter. What’s going on? Did Walt harass her, too?

  We may have had an argument, but I still care about her. Damn it, she’s still my friend. I don’t want her crying and hurt. I don’t want anyone hurt—least of all, this girl who’s been on my side since before she knew my squinty eyes were different.

  “What happened?” I ask. “Is Ash okay?”

  Izzy flips a hot-roller spiral of hair out of her eyes. “As if you didn’t know. We only texted you ten million times! Guess you were too busy with your new friend to care.”

  “I didn’t get a single text this weekend.” I fish my phone out of my backpack and show them. When I go into the zone, like I did when I was making Shelly’s blouse, I banish my phone to a distant corner of the room. Normally, I surface to a gazillion messages, but not this time. I assumed my friends were keeping their distance—and I didn’t mind. After what happened Friday, I wasn’t quite ready to pretend that everything was fine again.

  Lanie takes my phone and scrolls through the messages. “She’s right. There’s nothing here.”

  “Let me see that!” Ash comes out of her stupor and grabs the phone. “It wasn’t just me, you know. We all texted you, multiple times. Are you sure you didn’t delete your messages?”

  My stomach flips. “Why would I do that?”

  “I have no idea, but I needed you this weekend, Kan.” Her voice drops, the brashness and bravado disappearing. “I needed you.”

  I soften. I can’t help it. I can’t look at my old friend, listen to her kitten-like whimpers, and not forgive her. “I’m sorry, Ash. I have no idea what happened to those texts. Is this about Brad?”

  “No, it’s not about Brad,” she says, her face crumpling. “It’s my mom. She has cancer. That’s why she and my dad have been fighting so much. They’ve been dealing with her diagnosis and trying to figure out how to proceed.”

  My throat convulses, trying to draw in a breath. Oh god. Not a disgusting boy, after all, but the c word. The disease so nasty it unites us all. The same killer that stole my father.

  “Oh, Ash, I’m so, so sorry,” I say again. But the words were inadequate when my father’s body was lowered into the coffin, the round torso I’d known all my life deflated like a beach ball. Words couldn’t bring my father back to me then; they didn’t allow him to sneak into the kitchen one last time for his favorite snack, honey-roasted peanuts.

  Those same words are inadequate now. But maybe hugs aren’t. So I step forward, and I wrap my arms around Ash, and I hold on, as tightly as I can.

  “How can you forget about me already, Kan?” Ash mumbles in my ear. “You’ve known her for five minutes. I told you before: The girl is bad news. We’ve been friends for fifteen years. I’m your best friend, Kan. Not her.”

  * * *

  I spend the rest of the day trailing after Ash, rushing to meet her in between classes, leaving flowers in her locker, buying her favorite foods—salt and vinegar chips and ice cream sandwiches—from the cafeteria.

  Shelly rolls her eyes when she sees me juggling my backpack and the overflowing lunch tray. “Seriously, Kan? Do I have to remind you how she turned on you last Friday?”

  I bite my lip. “You don’t understand. She’s hurting right now, and I want to be there for her.”

  “You were hurting, too. You’re hurting now. Did you tell her what Walt did to you this morning? I bet she couldn’t care less. I heard her talking about you in class. She was telling the other girls that you think you’re all that, now that you’ve straightened your hair. She’s threatened by you, Kan.”

  I rest the tray on the table, fighting the wave of nausea that’s rising in my throat. “She said that?” It doesn’t sound like Ash, but maybe she was still upset from last week. Maybe Shelly misheard her. I shake my head, telling myself it doesn’t matter. “That’s not important right now. Friendship is something you give, not something you trade for.”

  “It’s not even a real cancer, anyhow.”

  I sink into the seat across from her. “What?”

  “Lanie told me Ash’s mom has thyroid ca
ncer. Highly treatable, highly curable. She’s going to be just fine, but that doesn’t stop Ash from milking it for all it’s worth.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not real.” I clench the table. “That doesn’t mean she’s not scared.”

  “Please.” She grabs an apple from my tray, but instead of taking a bite, she kneads it between her hands. “Ash is manipulating you. Can’t you see that? She wants you to feel sorry for her, and it’s working! Look at you. You’re running around without any lunch, all because her mom got diagnosed with a disease that’s ninety-seven-percent curable. Most likely, she’ll have one little operation, and then she’ll be just fine.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “My mom.” Her voice hitches, as though she’s near tears, and the lightning bolt wavers back and forth. “She survived her bout with cancer, but that didn’t mean she was fine. ’Cause there are other sicknesses more dangerous than cancer. I lost her.” She lifts her shiny eyes to me. “I don’t want to lose you, too.”

  I swallow around the lump in my throat. Ash isn’t the only girl who’s hurting. She’s not the only one who needs me. But while Ash has a half dozen friends around her all the time, Shelly has nobody.

  She shrugs out of her raincoat, and that’s when I notice she’s wearing the white wrap-around blouse. Again. For the third day in a row.

  She blushes. “It’s clean, you know. I wash it out in my sink every night. I don’t want you to think I wear dirty clothes.”

  “Of course I wasn’t thinking that!” I exclaim. “I’m just glad you like it.”

  She smiles. “It’s the nicest shirt I’ve ever owned.”

  “I’ll make you another,” I say. “A different color this time. What would you like? Tangerine? Lime green? Sky blue?”

  “Oh, gosh. I’d love any color you made me. But honestly, you don’t have to do that, Kan.”

  I look at the salt and vinegar chips, the ice cream that’s already starting to melt. I’ll have to buy a new set of snacks for Ash. But for now, I can be a good friend to Shelly.