Secrets of Southern Girls

by Haley Harrigan

  “I don’t remember it all. I must have startled her. We argued—on the bridge, I think—and I-I pushed her.”

  “What did you argue about?”

  “I don’t know. You, I guess.”

  “And then what? Did you try to help her?”

  “I…” She is a coward, an evil, useless coward. “I ran.”

  “You ran?”

  She nods, trying to pull herself together, trying to prepare herself for his wrath.

  “Do you remember pushing her?”

  “Not exactly. But I did it. I’m almost sure of it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was there. I know I was there, and he said if it wasn’t for me, she’d still be alive.”

  “Who’s he?” When she doesn’t answer, he says it again. “Who’s he, Jules?”

  She doesn’t remember pushing Reba, not the act of it. But he told her it was all her fault, and she does remember being there, remembers that volatile scene on the bridge, remembers seeing Reba tumbling down into the water. She feels guilty enough for it to be the truth. It is the truth. But August is looking at her as if it isn’t true at all, as if it just doesn’t sound right.

  “Toby.” Her memory of that day is very clear, of the hospital bed she was lying in when he told her what she’d done, when he showed her the newspaper article with Reba’s smiling face. Of the vicious growl of his voice, his red-rimmed eyes.

  August grabs her by the shoulders and finally she sees the anger she’s been waiting for. “Someone told you that you killed a person, your best friend in the world, and you just believed them?”

  It’s momentarily tantalizing, this idea that maybe she didn’t do it after all. But it can’t be real. She already believed she killed Reba, even before Toby confirmed it. “Why would he have told me that if it weren’t true?”

  “Great question,” August says. “Why would he?”

  Julie sits down on the riverbank and puts her palms to her forehead. She wishes she hadn’t shared the whiskey with August, wishes she could think clearly without the fog of alcohol. Here, at the bridge…it feels like that night. Why would Toby have lied? Toby had nothing to do with Reba, with what was going on at that time.

  Except…that wasn’t entirely true, was it?

  It occurs to her that the only place she might find answers is in the diary. But if Toby is in there, if her own flesh and blood is involved in this somehow, then she needs to know, needs to understand, before she shares it with August. She has to read the diary, all of it, no matter how painful it is, no matter how much it hurts her.

  “You need to talk to Toby.”

  “Yes.” Except, she isn’t sure she really wants to. Not until she finishes the diary, at least.

  “Let’s go. You said he’s still here in town, right? You know where to find him?” August’s hands are on his hips; he’s full of drunken bravado. “Let’s go now, find out what he knows, and why he knows it.”

  “It must be two a.m.,” she says. She shakes her head. “I’m too tired to think right now. We can track him down tomorrow. Let’s go back to the hotel, okay?” She remembers leaving in the car a snack-size bag of pretzels from the airport. If she gets something in her stomach, she should be able to make the drive. It’s not the smartest decision, and she’ll be disappointed at herself in the morning, but right now, all she wants is to get as far away from Hobart Park as possible.

  August opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but then he shrugs. “Okay. Whatever you want.”

  45

  REBA’S DIARY, 1997

  Isn’t it wonderful, being in love, or at least feeling something that might, maybe, possibly be love?

  It doesn’t matter that, now that the meetings with August have become more and more frequent, I wake dazed, sleepy-eyed, and squinting, with my mama knocking loudly at my bedroom door. It used to take only a light tap to wake me. At school I am tired but smiling, secretive, and carrying around this lovely lavender notebook that Jules never thinks to ask about. It’s a piece of August, the only piece I can carry with me publicly.

  If it wasn’t for the play, if Jules wasn’t engrossed in the life of fictional Juliet, then maybe I would worry. Maybe I would be more careful. But she’s hopelessly distracted. Does it make me a bad friend to say I’m glad?

  I spend each day looking forward to the nights I know I will spend with August. We have a marker, there by the river, a meeting spot—the little broken bridge I pointed out to him in the beginning. We sit on the banks and talk, and kiss, and do other things on the rocky, grassy slope. Just the thought of which makes my entire body flush.

  It’s been this way for a while, now. I sneak home in the early-morning hours, sometimes barely making it through the front yard and back into my window before my daddy leaves for work at five thirty. My jeans (or skirts, or shorts, depending on the weather) have gravelly rocks stuck to the back that I shake off onto the carpet of my bedroom, then gather into my hands and toss out the window. There are grass stains on my clothes from clinging carelessly to him as we roll along the ground in darkness. When I wear shorts, I come home with scrapes and scratches on my legs, mostly from the rocks on the bank. I hide them with long skirts and jeans, but I wear the thin scars like jewelry that he can never give me. I am proud, though no one can see.

  46

  Julie and August leave each other outside the hotel elevator, with a plan to meet back up in the morning, to talk to Toby and to finish reading the journal. But when Julie has the door to her room closed and locked, she turns on every light, starts a pot of coffee, and sits down at the tiny table with Reba’s lavender diary.

  Then, armed with her own memories from ten years ago, she begins to read.

  47

  REBA’S DIARY, 1997

  It happened, tonight. A curtain has been lifted, and now I know a little bit more about the kinds of things Jules is always hinting about.

  Except maybe it wasn’t like the things Jules does at all, because nothing has ever felt so real before, so sincere. I know I should have been afraid, but I was a wildflower, unfolding in the darkness beneath the sunshine warmth of his hands.

  48

  A hot shower doesn’t help August unwind, maybe because the water coming from the showerhead is lukewarm, headed rapidly toward cold.

  He wishes he had a cigarette. He’s not a smoker, but every now and then, when he feels like this, he buys himself a pack. He imagines himself now, sitting near the opened window, cigarette smoke drifting out while he regains his equilibrium.

  As the cool water falls languid against his back, he thinks of Reba’s hands on him, thinks of the first time they made love. He wasn’t prepared, couldn’t have hoped for such a thing. He hadn’t brought a condom, and she didn’t ask him for one. Things had gotten out of hand. One minute they were fooling around like always, and the next minute, they were doing something more. It surprised them both. And it was fast, and he was embarrassed. He’s even more embarrassed when he thinks about it now.

  “I’m sorry,” he said afterward, shaking his head.

  “For what?” Reba was so innocent that she didn’t know yet how it was supposed to be.

  He’d felt her tense up, and he’d whispered, “Are you sure?” She’d nodded, but her teeth were clenched and maybe he should have stopped. But she was clinging to him, pulling him closer and closer. The wild honeysuckle bushes framed her head like a halo.

  He hadn’t thought to bring a blanket. He’d been careless, and twigs and pebbles and dirt clung to the back of her knees and calves. A trail of liquid, thick and pearly, marred her thigh. He vowed, then, that he’d never do it this way again, not with her. She deserved better.

  His undershirt was missing, and he fumbled for it, then used it to carefully clean the mess from her thigh, folded it, and wiped gently between her legs. He’d known it would be her first t
ime, should never have let things get so far. He could have made it perfect for her.

  She was quiet while she slid her underwear and skirt back up over her hips, tank top over her head. He dusted debris from the back of her shirt, then dressed himself, leaving the undershirt crumpled beside them. He sat behind her and pulled her up so that she leaned back against him. She was trembling, light as the flapping of a moth’s wing against his palms. He buried his head in the place where her neck met her shoulder, her hair falling into his face.

  “Reba,” he whispered in her hair.

  When he said her name again, she nestled against him and whispered, “Shh…”

  August turns off the shower faucet and rubs the rough hotel towel furiously against his body, like he could shake away the memory. He doesn’t want to be alone with it, with these memories of her. He wonders if Jules is awake, what she would do if he knocked at her door. He toys with the idea of it for a moment, and then gives up on it and starts to dig through his suitcase.

  There’s got to be a cigarette in here somewhere.

  49

  REBA’S DIARY, 1997

  Oh God. I’ve been caught.

  I was meeting August at the river tonight when the rain began to fall, splashy wet missiles exploding against my face, my white tank top, my thin jacket.

  “Reba, let’s go home,” August said, hands on my arms. “It’s late. It’s horrible out here. We can come back tomorrow night.”

  “No.” For me, it had to be tonight. It was the first time I’d seen him, outside of school, since we did…what we did. In the days since, I had almost convinced myself that it hadn’t really happened, that it was nothing more than a lovely dream. I needed it to be real, needed to touch him again.

  “Follow me,” I said.

  I led the way to Nell’s shop and reached for the set of keys still nestled in my jacket pocket from work that afternoon. August and I were soaked, water seeping into our clothes and skin, by the time we crossed the field and reached the shelter of the covered wooden porch. The back door creaked as I turned my key in the lock and pushed it open.

  “We’ll be dry in here,” I said.

  August looked around, uncertain. “Reba, should we be here?”

  I could feel my skin buzzing. I felt timid, but I wanted him all the same. “No. No, we really shouldn’t.” I shut the door behind us anyway, twisted the lock, and pressed myself into August’s arms.

  50

  “Here you go, darlin’,” the bartender says, as she slides another bottle Toby’s way. The bar is mostly empty tonight, and he’s been occupying this stool for hours. How many beers can one guy drink, anyway, before sleep overtakes him? For him, it’s a lot. He could up the ante to something stronger, and maybe he will, if these damned thoughts don’t go away.

  “Hey, Toby,” the bartender says. Shit, she knows his name, and he can’t think of hers to save his life. He’s always been bad with names. “Want to talk about it?”

  He doesn’t reply, but his glare says enough, he’s sure. Better that he doesn’t know her name. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He never wants to talk about it, but every now and again, it seems like she can’t help but ask.

  The beer signs glowing red in the window are giving him one hell of a headache. He rubs his temples with his fingers and thinks of the night he learned Reba’s big secret.

  He’d left his cell phone at the damned flower shop that night, and he couldn’t do business without it. He had to be available at all hours. That was why he’d bought the thing in the first place, wasn’t it? No one else had a cell phone then; Molly still had that goddamned car phone thing that looked like a suitcase lying around somewhere. Jules had been so jealous when she saw his new phone. He liked the idea of having something that she wanted. She’d been a pain in the ass ever since she moved into the house.

  So he got the cell phone, and what did he do with it? Left it at the shop when he went to pick up his deliveries. It was late when he remembered, middle of the night almost, but all of a sudden it hit him why his phone wasn’t ringing—because he didn’t have it. And that girl was supposed to call, the sexy one with the coke habit. He’d been sliding freebies her way here and there…when she made it worth his while.

  It was raining buckets, and the car wouldn’t start when he tried to crank it. Time to upgrade was what he’d been thinking, not that it helped him then. Walk to the shop in the rain, or get his phone the next day? He thought of the sexy blond—Cara, she said her name was, but he never knew for sure. People gave him fake names all the time, made them feel safer or something. He slammed the car door and started in the direction of the shop. He’d never been one for walking that path, but he’d seen Jules and Reba do it plenty of times. He was drenched by the time he got to the old guy’s house—Nickel, his name was. His boots and the bottoms of his jeans were covered in mud and wet grass and who knew what other shit, and the whole thing was starting to put him in a really bad fucking mood.

  His mood sure didn’t let up when he reached Nell’s, soaked to the bone and reaching into the pocket of his wet jeans for his door key, and he saw shadows moving inside. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mumbled. What the hell was he supposed to do, confront an intruder in Nell’s shop? Be some kind of hero? Why would anyone want to rob Nell’s, anyway? Not exactly like she was bringing in the big bucks. He probably brought in more in one good night of dealing that she did in a whole week of running the store. Stupid high school kids, maybe. He leaned in closer to the window to get a better look. And about pissed his pants when he saw them.

  He could see almost everything in the red glow of the Exit sign. Pretty little Reba—he’d know that hair anywhere. Virginal Reba, or so he’d thought. He’d been wrong, though, because there she was, up against the wall with her arms around some guy. That dark skin in the red light, all over her. Those fingers pushed her tank top over her head, and he’d been right all along—there was a hot little body under those clothes. If Jules could see this, he thought, chuckling to himself. Jules had this messed-up idea then, God knows how she came by it, that she could screw around all she wanted, sleep with all the boys in town, as long as she stuck to pure, sweet Reba like glue. Like all that purity would rub off. Looks like all that purity is out the window, baby.

  Well, well, well. It was a good show. Reba wasn’t the prude he’d thought she’d be, and he’d thought about her that way hundreds of times. He could see it on her face when the guy finally got inside her, pleasure and relief and anguish all mixed together—and damn, he wanted her looking at him that way. He could hear her moaning, softly, through the window. He’d have liked to make her moan like that. Louder. He’d have liked to make her lose control.

  But what the hell was she doing with that guy? It was some serious shit around these parts, especially then. Black guys didn’t mix with white girls. Especially not with white girls like Reba. It was no secret that her daddy was as racist as they came, part of the generation that still thought that way. Toby didn’t give two shits about color (still doesn’t). He may be a lot of things, but he’s not a racist. Still, it was pretty messed up on Reba’s part—dangerous too. Her daddy could have actually killed the kid. It was a serious secret, not like the girls sneaking out to play at Southern Saddle, not like the things Jules got up to when Molly was away.

  The girl had gotten herself in deep. If anyone found out, there would be hell to pay…and the only thing standing between that big secret and the rest of the world…was him.

  51

  REBA’S DIARY, 1997

  Putting the words on paper makes it more than just a bad dream. But I have to get it out.

  The rain had stopped, but the ground was wet and my feet were making squishing noises as they sank into the muddy grass, and it made the walk home sound so much louder. I felt equal parts blissful that I’d seen August again and anxious that it was over now, and I was going home
alone. My clothes were uncomfortable, stretched loose from taking them off and then putting them back on in their dampened state. I hope I cleaned our footprints well enough from the floor of the shop.

  I had barely lifted myself in through the windowsill when I heard a casual cough. I jumped, and a thousand thoughts rushed through my head. My daddy. Oh God, I was dead. And August too. I’d have to lie. Think of a lie, think of a lie. Poor planning, really, not to have thought of the story I’d tell, if I was ever caught.

  I looked up, would rather have died than face him like this, but it wasn’t like I had a choice. Except it wasn’t my daddy. It was Toby. Toby, in my room, sitting on the wooden vanity chair in the corner. Lounging, more like, because even though his hair was wet and wavy, he looked as attractive as ever, and completely at ease.

  “Hey there, Rebecca,” he said, breathing my name, my grown-up name, and I was nearly frozen with terror. He knew.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. I wrapped my arms around my body, fully aware, now, of my wet, white tank top. Toby had never, in all of the years of my friendship with Jules, been in my bedroom.

  “Hope you don’t mind that I’m here. The window was open. I was surprised to find that you weren’t here, though.” He laughed, a low chuckle. I looked down. “Actually, no, I wasn’t surprised at all. I knew you weren’t here, because guess what happened to me tonight?” When I didn’t respond, he continued. “I caught one hell of a show over at Nell’s.”

  I wish I could have kept the color from my cheeks, but I felt it, slow heat rising up from my chest. I was probably pink all over, scared and embarrassed and other emotions I couldn’t put a name to, not with Toby’s eyes looking me up and down suggestively.

  “What do you want?” I whispered.

  “Little Rebecca. I used to think you were so innocent. Doesn’t everyone think that? I wonder what they would do if they found out it wasn’t true. I wonder what your daddy would think if he knew you’d been out all night fucking a… What’s that word he likes to use?” He trailed off.