The S-Word

by Chelsea Pitcher

  Drake holds out his arm for me. I ignore it and pass him by.

  It isn’t until I see Jesse posed against a nearby locker that I realize he was listening the whole time.

  nine

  LIZZIE’S HOUSE LOOMS over us, specter white and ominous. Gaping windows stare down at us like eyes. Drake’s body is pressed against me, too close, as I struggle to find my spare key. Maybe he’s scared to be here too.

  Or maybe he just wants something.

  My key turns in the lock. Part of me was hoping it wouldn’t. Part of me keeps thinking this whole goddamn thing is a nightmare, the house, the charity drive, Lizzie’s untimely death.

  I push open the doors and think, Untimely? That’s a laugh. When are we ever prepared for something like this? How can we ever rectify the absence of an entire fucking person? She was here, and she was there, and now she’s gone.

  And my heart knows it. My eyes know it, as they flutter to the places where Lizzie lived.

  There’s the faded blue couch where she’d curl up under blankets and watch TV. Lizzie was always cold; I used to press myself against her to lend her my heat. Through the entryway to the kitchen, I see the counter where forever ago we made cupcakes and topped them with My Little Ponies. We were too young to know what heat does to plastic. We actually cooked the ponies in the oven. When Lizzie cried at the loss of her babies, I told her we were making art.

  The frosting matched the melted plastic perfectly.

  “I can’t stay in this room,” I mumble, leading Drake up the stairs. His footfalls sound heavy on the angel-white carpet. The portraits of Jesus are judging me, like: Why are you here when you treated her so badly?

  But I can’t go back now.

  A stack of boxes sits outside Lizzie’s door. I grab one, forcing myself to cross the threshold into her room. I’ve only been here once since she died; I came back with Mr. Hart the day of her funeral. Absolutely nothing has changed since then. Crosses decorate the walls, proclaiming a faith Lizzie was born into. Stuffed animals cover her bed. Lizzie’s room is creepier than mine—another example of parental influence on decorating—except she doesn’t even get the jailbait boy-band posters. Mr. Hart’s religious sensibilities wouldn’t stand for it.

  I wonder what it was like growing up in this house, unable to talk about crushes or feelings. Lizzie’s mom died when she was a baby. She was an only child, though we used to joke about being sisters. And, as it turns out, she couldn’t even confide in me.

  “Where to begin?” I ask, avoiding Drake’s gaze. This is the first time we’ve been alone since prom night. I mean, if standing speechless in a hotel room counts as “being alone.”

  Drake sits on the edge of Lizzie’s pink-and-white-flowered comforter. “No idea. This room is, uh . . .”

  “She liked it,” I snap, which is a total lie. Lizzie was artistic and free spirited. A wild child. This room is a page out of Cultist Child Bride. “You’re welcome to leave.”

  “No.” He’s at my side in an instant. His eyes keep flicking to the window, like he’s checking for something. “It’s just weird being here.”

  “It’s a pretty picnic for me.”

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs, and it makes me cringe.

  “Do not call me that.” I turn away from his pretty eyes. “Do not.”

  “All right,” he says to my back.

  I start going through Lizzie’s books. The Golden Compass. A Wrinkle in Time. Classics blending fantasy with science. Lizzie was a skeptical Christian.

  “It just seems like there are so many better worlds out there,” she used to say. “I can’t believe this is the only one.”

  Somewhere, in another dimension, maybe Lizzie is alive and I’m the one who’s dead. Maybe it’s better that way.

  My eyes start to sting. I turn away from Drake. When the tears stain my cheeks I wipe them away like I have an itch. It takes him a minute to realize what I’m doing.

  “Hey.” Coming up behind me, he puts his arms around my waist. Tentative, like it might hurt me. He’s being gentle to make me forget his carelessness. I know this. I’ve seen this before. But it feels so nice to be held that I melt into him.

  “Hey,” he says again, wiping tears from my face. Taking good care of me, damn him. “It’s okay.”

  “I can’t do this,” I manage in stilted breaths. “I can’t do this with you here and I can’t do this.”

  “You mean us?”

  His arrogance infuriates me.

  “No, not us, Drake.” I squirm out of his embrace. “I cannot be here sorting through her things like she’s . . . like she’s . . .”

  Dead.

  She is dead, Angie. She’s never coming back to this room. And if you don’t gather together her things to help some orphan, her father’s going to have a complete meltdown.

  You have to do this.

  “Okay,” I say more to myself than to Drake. “Okay. I can do this.” I wipe my face with the sleeve of my black sweater. That’s right, that’s what I threw on this morning. With a pair of dark-rinse jeans. I’ve been wearing more and more black lately.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, detangling myself from his clinging hands. “It was a mistake to bring you here. We can talk later.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t really need to talk.” His gaze shifts to the window again. Ever vigilant. “I just wanted to spend time together. I miss you.”

  “Well, I don’t miss you.” I force myself to be cold, to feel nothing. “Please leave.”

  He stares at me like I’ve twisted a knife in his heart. It’s so damn ironic, I almost laugh. But after a minute of painful silence, he turns and leaves. He does that Charlie Brown head-hang thing all the way out of the room but I don’t care. It made me feel gross to see him touch Lizzie’s things.

  Now I’m alone. I start to sort through Lizzie’s closet, pulling out stuff that’s been hanging there for years. I can’t just paw through her belongings for my own benefit. That would make me feel gross too. But I can gather things for charity and keep my eyes open for clues.

  I’m not exactly sure what I’m expecting.

  Half of these dresses have a story behind them. The dress she wore to Sunday Service. White, frilly, and ridiculous. The Alice in Wonderland–type number she wore the first day of high school. No sign of the dress she wore to prom, but I remember it. Pale blue and flowing. She looked like she’d sprout wings and ascend to heaven in that dress.

  It looked different after Drake was through with it. He tore the thin strap right off. He was never passionate like that with me. Brisk maybe. But not rip-off-your-corset passionate.

  I lean against the closet door and close my eyes. It doesn’t help to blur the images in my mind. I’ve imagined this scene so many times I should be used to it by now.

  . . . Drake crawling over her on the bed . . .

  . . . Lizzie cradling his head . . .

  . . . His hand trailing down, between her . . .

  I find myself falling, my legs suddenly incapable of holding my weight. Grasping at her clothes to keep from hitting the ground too hard, my hands dig into heavy, beaded fabric. Lizzie’s golden cocktail dress.

  All the bad images disappear.

  I look up at the golden creation as if in worship. That dress meant the world to her. She saved for it for months, doing little jobs around the church for her dad. Cleaning the windows. Scrubbing on hands and knees like Cinderella. I teased her about that, a bit. I would have bought the dress for her if she’d let me. But Lizzie wouldn’t even take me to the shop where she found it. She was too proud to let me help.

  In the end, it was all for nothing. Lizzie fell for the dress without ever trying it on. On her lithe frame the dress was a smock. But she’d worked so hard to get it, I refused to take it off her hands.

  No matter how many times she offered it to me.

  So it hung, lifeless, in her closet. At least she didn’t wear it to prom. Sure, she’d have looked like an angel, w
ith that long, sun-spun hair. But Drake would have ruined it, like he ruined the other one. Lizzie would have been heartbroken.

  She was heartbroken anyway. We all broke her heart.

  I lay the dress on her bed. I can’t imagine giving it away. Really, I can’t imagine giving any of her belongings away, even the kid stuff. It just makes everything feel so final.

  But what choice do I have?

  When I’m finally finished packing her clothes, I hold the cocktail dress up to myself in the mirror. Lizzie was right about it complementing my dark hair. But I never wear glamorous things. My prom gown was as no-nonsense as she’d let me get away with. We bought ours together, of course.

  I hear a sound at my back. I turn, dress still in hand.

  Outside the window, two men are arguing. I recognize their voices before I make it to the glass. They sound like they’re about to kill each other.

  Maybe Drake wasn’t being paranoid.

  I press my face closer to the glass. Down below, I can just make out their outlines in the fading light. Drake pushes Mr. Hart. Mr. Hart pushes back. This is bad, but it can only get worse, and there isn’t much time to stop it.

  I race out of the room.

  I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear the car door slam. Drake peels out of the driveway and down the street. After that, it’s a matter of seconds before Mr. Hart starts unlocking the front door.

  I hurry back up the stairs. If I can make it to Lizzie’s room before he gets inside, maybe I can pretend I didn’t hear them yelling. I’m not eager to discuss Drake Alexander with Lizzie’s dad. I’m certainly not eager to discuss Drake and Lizzie’s sex life. My battered heart couldn’t handle it.

  I make it just in time. Now I’m panting, and I have to sit down on the bed to slow my beating heart. Lizzie’s golden dress is still clutched in my arms. I hear the footsteps on the staircase, but I’m not prepared for how loudly Mr. Hart bursts into the room.

  “Did you invite that boy?” he demands, slamming the door against the wall.

  I curl in on myself.

  “Did you?” he yells, advancing. I close my eyes. Nothing about this makes sense. He’s wearing this sad, old-man sweater. In the span of a week, his gray hair has gone completely white. He should be docile, maybe desolate.

  Instead, he’s enraged.

  “Answer me!”

  “He must’ve followed me,” I lie.

  “Are you telling the truth?” He steps closer to the bed. His slacks are wrinkled; I think Lizzie used to iron them. He’s falling apart right in front of me.

  “Of course,” I insist. “When have I ever lied?”

  That’s a good one, Angie. Teenagers don’t lie about anything.

  But his glare softens, just a bit. I think he’s still trying to figure out what kind of girl I am: the bad girl who invites boys into her bedroom, or the good girl who holds up crosses at the sight of them.

  Finally, he steps back. His gaze has shifted to the dress. “You found it,” he says. “I always thought it would look nice on you.”

  I hug the dress, as if it has the power to protect me. And maybe it does. He just keeps staring at it. “So did Lizzie. She says she bought it for herself, but . . .” I stop, second-guessing. “I don’t know. I just thought maybe she knew she couldn’t wear it.”

  He frowns, cheeks drooping toward his chin. “She’s so darned skinny.”

  Was.

  But I don’t say that. I say, “She could eat, like, three pizzas and not gain an ounce.”

  “She didn’t, though, did she?”

  “No.” I force a laugh. “Of course not.”

  “She was a good girl. She was my angel.” His voice is cracking.

  I lower my head. I’m hoping this passes for a nod.

  “Why don’t you call it a night?” he says, swallowing thickly until the moment passes. As if it ever will. “The dress is yours, if you want it.”

  “Sure, thanks.” I don’t have the heart to tell him it’ll just hang in my closet. “Give me a minute?”

  He nods, shuffling backward.

  I wait for him to reach the stairs before returning to my task. Clearly, I’m not going to find much for clues here. Lizzie’s life was so squeaky clean. That’s why her rendezvous with Drake was so hard to process. Still, just when I’ve tucked her last childhood storybook into the charity box, I get the strangest feeling. I think of Shelby destroying Titania’s dress when no one was watching. I think of Marvin trolling for porn on the school computers. I think of the secrets we all keep.

  Crawling on my hands and knees, I lift up the dust ruffle at the bottom of Lizzie’s bed. Nothing there. I can’t bring myself to go through her drawers—that seems too invasive, somehow. But if Lizzie had something to hide, she wouldn’t put it in her drawers anyway. She’d put it somewhere her father wouldn’t think to look. Somewhere innocent looking. As quiet as can be, I look behind the crosses on the wall. Nothing.

  Lizzie’s pristine row of teddy bears stare back at me from the bed. Honestly, I should’ve packed them already, but they always freaked me out. Now I walk toward them, mesmerized with possibility. One by one I pull the bears forward, looking behind their backs. Nothing. Nothing. No, wait.

  Something.

  The little book is turned on its side, tucked into a teddy bear tuxedo. I lift it from its furry hiding spot. Shame and excitement bubble up from my stomach, warming me. What could it be?

  Oh. From the Depth of Her Breast. Looks like a book of cheesy love poems. Lizzie’s secret would be that cutesy. I flip open the book. Hmmm, nope. A book of cheesy sex poems. Still not the clue I was looking for.

  I go to tuck the book into my pocket. If Lizzie didn’t want Daddy to see it, I’m not going to leave it behind. The book won’t fit, not entirely. It’s too bulky for this stupid jean pocket. I pull it out, trying to smash the pages together. That’s when I see it. This little white corner peeking out of the yellowed pages. A note.

  My heart races as I open it.

  The note consists of one line, next to a winking smiley face:

  The only thing worth reading in the library, for the only one worth anything in this town.

  Um. Wow. It’s not Drake’s handwriting. I know that for a fact. Anyway, poetry (even of the sexual persuasion) is so far beyond Drake’s gift-giving scope it’s not even funny. Once, we had to write an original poem for English class. It could’ve been about anything, in any form we wanted.

  Drake stole his from the Internet. It was called “Ode to a Broke Down Truck.” Mrs. Linn thought it was a great allegory for the human condition.

  He got an A.

  I refold the note and stick it in my purse. Now the book slides into my pocket, barely. I want to keep it close to me. Hanging the dress over my arm, I close up the box for charity and set it outside the room.

  I’M HALFWAY TO my car when I finally look at my phone. After all these years, a part of me still hopes Mom will check in. No such luck. Instead, I’ve got two texts waiting for me. One from Drake, saying “I’m sorry, baby,” and one from a number I don’t recognize, asking “Are you okay?”

  What the hell? Is Drake using another number to get to me?

  I hit the callback button as I walk to the curb.

  “Hello?” The voice is male but different from Drake’s. More energetic.

  “Who is this?” I ask, unlocking my car.

  “What, you mean you can’t tell?”

  I slide into my seat, closing the door. “Jesse?”

  “Good voice recognition.”

  “I don’t know anyone else who sounds like you.”

  He laughs. “Naw, you just don’t talk to anyone who sounds like me. We got other Mexicans at this school.”

  “You honestly think anyone else at Verity has your voice? It’s kind of . . .”

  “Unique,” he supplies. “Yeah, I’m just messing with you. I like to see how much teasing you’ll take.”

  “What a sweet guy.”

  “I’m
an enigma, baby.”

  “How did you get my number?” I ask, staring through the window. Outside, the world is darkening to black. It’s kind of soothing, the way it blots out everything.

  Well, almost everything.

  “Kennedy gave it to me.”

  That, I wasn’t expecting. “You know each other?”

  “Depends on who you ask.” He pauses, chuckling. “She’s got the hots for me. Thinks her tits can turn a guy straight.”

  “If anyone can do it . . .”

  “Sure, that’s how it works.”

  “If anything, it was a compliment to—” I stop. “You’re messing with me again.”

  “Maybe.” I can hear his smile. “You seem to respond to it.”

  What is this guy’s deal? “You want to tell me why you texted me?”

  “If I get to it.”

  “Jesse Martinez.”

  Another pause.

  “I was worried,” he says softly.

  “Worried I was traumatized by seeing the guys’ bathroom?”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “For once. You always surprise me.”

  He’s silent, suddenly.

  “Why were you worried?” I press.

  His voice is a whisper now. “I don’t know . . .”

  Ho-ly shit. Is Jesse Martinez getting shy with me?

  “Spill it,” I say. “You swiped my phone number!”

  “I was worried when I saw him talking to you.”

  “Who, Drake? He’s harmless.”

  “You sure? He did a number on Lizzie.”

  “We all did,” I say, getting that sinking feeling in my gut. That inescapable guilt. “And you’re right, he’s a jerk. But he’s not dangerous.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Positive. I’ve known him since we were kids.”

  “All right then.” He sounds anxious to get off the phone. Like he’s said too much and wants to take it back.