His eyes are still on me. But now they’ve got that glistening, deer-in-headlights look to them.
“No. Oh, come on. No way.”
He doesn’t say anything.
That’s all right. I can talk to myself all night. “No fucking way. I spent hours at that house when I was little. I went to church with her. I stayed after.”
“I can’t talk about this,” he says.
“Just tell me I’m wrong.”
“I can’t talk about this.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t keep secrets around you!” His eyes are so wide. “I look at you and you just know and it makes me insane because it doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know what you mean,” I say, and I do. I feel the same way.
But he doesn’t respond. He’s gripping his hair like his brain might fall out. Like all those secrets kept inside will spill out onto my floor. And part of me wants them to.
Part of me wants him to get out of here so I can shift into denial.
“Please talk to me,” I say softly.
“Why?” His eyes are closed.
“I need you.”
It’s not fair to say. If he doesn’t want to talk, he shouldn’t have to. But I mean it about needing him. Hearing it out loud makes it impossible to deny.
“Kennedy will kill me if she hears about this.” He opens his eyes. His lashes are wet, but he’s not actually crying. “These aren’t my secrets to tell.”
I shrug. “You haven’t told me anything.”
He tilts his head to the side. “Come on.”
“You haven’t.” I scoot closer, toward the edge of the bed. “I wish you would, actually. I wish you would, for once, just be straight-up with me.”
He hunches over, elbows on his knees, looking up through his hands. “You can’t push me on this.”
Then why are you still talking about it? I want to ask.
“She was my best friend,” I say instead.
“You keep saying that, but you’re forgetting something.”
“What?”
“She’s gone, Angie.” He scoots the chair over to the bed. “You’re not helping her by doing this.”
“I never said I was.” I turn away.
“Listen to me.” He touches my arm and I hate how good it feels. I know he’s just touching me out of pity. “You’re digging up shit that isn’t going to help you.”
“Fine.” I comb my hair with my fingers. “I’m sorry I pushed you, then. Let’s just watch a movie.”
“Okay.” He nods, exhaling slowly. I can tell he’s relieved.
When I pop the DVD into the player, Jesse joins me on the bed, but the mood’s gone to shit. Neither of us is laughing at the jokes on the screen. I keep reading into the lines, like one of them will give me an excuse to bring up Kennedy again, and I’m pretty sure Jesse knows it. His entire body looks tense.
The minute the movie’s over, he jumps up like his ass is on fire. “I’ve got to get back,” he says. “I swear my mom still peeks in my room to see if I’m breathing.”
“I don’t think my mom’s ever done that.”
“Maybe you were too young to remember.” He slides on his jacket. It’s a tight-fitted trench with a belt. Perfect for stakeouts. I kind of want to borrow it. “Anyway, it’s probably different when you’ve known her your whole life.”
He catches my eye and I realize, once again, how little I know about him. Maybe I would if I weren’t so busy asking about other people. Maybe that’s why he’s looking at me like that.
Or maybe he’s just trying to say good-bye.
“I’ll walk you down.” I crawl to the edge of the bed.
“No worries,” he says, crossing the room in two steps. He’s gone before I have the chance to stand.
sixteen
SATURDAY MORNING I go to see my dad. Maybe I’ve reached my limit on investigating. Or maybe I just need to feel like I’m not alone. I haven’t heard from Jesse since he bolted from my room last night, and I’m determined not to contact him first. I’m not trying to play some game. I just need to know he wants to talk to me.
Dad’s screen door is hanging on, like, one hinge. I wonder what he’s doing with the money Mom gives him. I know it’s not a lot. It’s not like superstar alimony. But it should be enough to keep things from completely falling apart.
He greets me at the door. He’s walking like his leg is fine, but his grimace shows me he’s faking. I want to tell him to hobble all he wants.
Of course, that would just insult him.
We walk across the threadbare carpet, past the orange 1970s couch and peeling walls, into the kitchen. Every room is the same color it was when he moved in: white, bleeding into yellow. He insists on making me lunch, which is silly because I’ve already snacked on leftover chow mein, but I agree and then I hover, cutting cheese slices, melting butter, anything he’ll let me. I don’t want to ask him about work and he doesn’t want to ask about Lizzie. We do this dance, trying to think of things to say.
“Kind of cold for June,” he says, tapping the frosted window.
Weather, Dad, really? Way to dig deep.
It takes me a minute to realize how quickly time is passing. Lizzie’s funeral was one week ago today. So he’s still talking about her, in a way.
Give him a break.
When he flips our sandwiches in the pan, he burns his finger. He sticks it in his mouth, trying to hide it from me.
“Damn it, Dad, you always do that.”
He chuckles a little. “Watch your mouth.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I want to nudge him in the side like I did when I was a kid. Now it would probably hurt him. He’s wearing his usual faded T-shirt and sweats, and he’s got that too-lazy-to-shave beard coming in. Or maybe it’s more like too depressed.
“You want soup?” I ask.
He busies himself with the pan, moving it an inch left, an inch back. Trying to get the sandwiches to cook evenly. “Nah,” he says.
I realize that means he doesn’t have any. Bread, butter, and cheese are probably the extent of what he’s got left.
“How’s your mother?” he asks after another quiet minute.
“She’s fine.” That’s all I’m going to say about her. The whole Angie-in-the-middle game got old years ago. Still, the words slip out of my mouth just like old times: “She’s on Atkins this week.”
He chortles into his hand. Maybe there’s a nice irony to her dieting; like, he’s not the only one who’s barely eating. “That woman’s going to disappear.”
“No shit.”
“Jesus, Angie. You sounded just like her.”
I grin, though it’s the last thing I want to hear. “It’s contagious.”
“Hmmm” is all he says. He pulls two plates down from the cupboard. They’ve got painted blue roses and tiny cracks in them. His and Mom’s wedding dishes.
I wait for the inevitable. He leaves me hanging maybe two minutes.
“Why don’t you move back in?” he suggests, setting the plates on the counter.
“Maybe,” I say, just as casually.
You can’t afford to keep yourself fed is what I want to say. I’d have to get a job and then you’d feel even more guilty.
“I’ll stay for the weekend,” I offer, and I can tell he hears everything I haven’t said.
“Oh,” he says to the cupboards. “Okay.”
“I’ll pick up dinner at the store.”
“Now, listen—”
“I have to go there anyway to get lady items.” This is a lie but I know he won’t argue with it. Guys are all about blood and gore except when it’s realistic.
“Sure thing,” he agrees.
I slide the sandwiches onto the plates. “Straight across or diagonal?”
“Do you really have to ask?”
I cut them diagonally. We munch at the counter like two kids eager for recess.
I’M STANDING IN front of the frozen meat section, considering going vege
tarian, when I crack. My hand pulls up Jesse’s number without the help of my eyes. It just recognizes the motions. Who am I to fight it?
He answers almost immediately. Like maybe he was waiting for me.
You wish.
“Are you mad?” I ask, feeling vulnerable under the fluorescent lights.
“Are you going to apologize if I am?”
“Yes.” I pick up a flank steak. Dad would kill me if I bought this. He’d kill me and then he’d eat until his pants burst. I throw it in the basket.
“What if I’m not mad?” Jesse presses.
“Then it hardly seems necessary.” I know he can hear me smile. It warms me from the inside when he laughs. “Look, I’m sorry I put you on the spot, okay? I just really, really wanted to get the facts.”
“That seems to be a pattern with you,” he says. “You want the truth so bad you bulldoze over people to get it.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s serious. When I do, I just stand there, forcing people to maneuver around me. Rooted to the spot.
He must realize how much his words hurt because he changes course before I can speak. “I talked to Kennedy.”
“You did?” My voice squeaks. This crotchety old lady glares at me like cell phones are the downfall of civilization. I cover the mouthpiece and tell her, “My daughter just won her first beauty pageant!”
Her eyes go wide like she’s very afraid. I walk down the closest aisle.
“What happened?” I ask when Jesse doesn’t reply. “Did you tell her what you told me?”
“I told her I didn’t tell you.”
“Did you tell her I figured it out?”
“Some, yeah,” he says.
I pause. I’m trying to choose between instant rice and takes-too-long rice. I’m leaning toward the latter. It tastes better. “Was she mad?”
“She got pissed. Then she got sad. Then she got pissed again. She agreed to meet with you.”
I freeze, hand on the box. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. But she says you can’t ask her about what happened.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” I toss the rice into my basket too loudly. Apparently, I need to get my anger under wraps.
“Yeah, it does,” he says. “She doesn’t want to talk about the personal shit. Would you?”
“I guess I’d have to be in her position,” I say. The old lady is eyeing me from the other side of the aisle, like maybe she wants to give me a lecture on teenage abstinence. I hightail it to the veggies. “She really agreed to talk to me?”
“If you don’t push her about certain things.”
I don’t reply. How can I? He’s right about the bulldozer thing. Chances are, I’ll push her without even trying.
“Angie?”
“I’ll do my best.”
He waits a beat. “Does this mean you believe her?”
“I don’t know.” I keep looking around, like people can tell what we’re talking about. “I can’t yet. I don’t think she’s lying. I just feel like . . .”
“Maybe there’s another possibility?”
“Yeah.”
“Like she dreamt it?”
“No.”
“Alien abduction?”
“Jesse, stop it. This is really big. You’re talking about . . .” I lower my voice, pretending to choose between zucchinis. “How can I accept this? Why wouldn’t Lizzie have told me?”
He’s a long time in answering. By the time he does, I’ve picked my veggies and am moving to the checkout line.
“Maybe it’s not something you broadcast.”
I’VE GOT SEVERAL hours to kill before dinnertime at Dad’s. I drop the groceries off while he’s taking his afternoon couch nap. The TV’s playing old recordings of ESPN: Dad’s way of coping with too-high cable bills. Now I’ve got about twenty seconds to get out of here before the mega-guilt kicks in. I follow the line of shoes leading to the door. This ratty old pair points me right to his crutches.
Then it’s too late.
I start cleaning in the kitchen. I use the broom, then the mop, then do a massive refrigerator overhaul of expired condiments. I don’t understand how one person can use so many dishes. Seriously, is this a month’s supply in the sink?
While I’m scrubbing down the counters, I think about everything I’ve learned over the past few days. I still can’t wrap my head around the Lizzie’s dad thing; can’t believe it could’ve happened; can’t believe she would’ve kept it from me. And then there’s the little fact that we grew up together. Sure, I didn’t meet Lizzie until I was five, but still . . .
Maybe I was too old for him.
Okay, that’s seriously disgusting. My arms start to ache from the scrubbing but I can’t stop now. My brain needs this distraction. I keep searching for clues to prove the abuse did or didn’t happen. But those things happen behind closed doors, and sometimes you never suspect. He was so frail the day of her funeral, I couldn’t have imagined he’d do something so heinous.
Of course, losing Lizzie might have derailed his desire to hurt children.
Or maybe it just worsened whatever was broken inside of him.
One thing’s for certain: if he did hurt Lizzie and Kennedy, I have to make sure he never hurts anybody again.
I’m heading toward the bathroom when I send Jesse a text asking if Kennedy can meet up in the next couple days. The last thing I want to do is tackle the toilet, but it beats thinking about child-molesting preachers.
Jesse answers almost immediately: “You don’t waste time.”
“We’re not getting any younger,” I reply, and pull back the shower curtain. The three-month layer of grime on the tub screams Fill me with gasoline and light a match, but since I’m no good with explosives I attack it with a rag.
Jesse doesn’t text back for a while. I imagine that means he’s getting ahold of Kennedy. Still, I wish he’d indulge me with a play-by-play. Anything to keep my mind from doing its own thing. It keeps dancing into darker places, shocking me every time I let it spin. I wish I could focus on Shelby’s Drama Queen antics or even Marvin’s artistic renderings. I’m pretty convinced he’s the one who made the Lizzie Hart playing card. But maybe it’s just easier to think there isn’t another guilty party out there, someone I haven’t even considered.
I really don’t think I can handle any more surprises.
Dad comes into the bathroom at half past five and tells me to get out. He fake-wrestles the dirty rag from my hand. “A man can clean his own john.”
“If he can, then he should.” I wash my hands, like, fourteen times and then I start dinner.
Dad says a prayer before devouring the steak. It’s a ritual he started when his leg failed to improve. Naturally, this just makes me think of Lizzie’s father. What kind of God would allow a man to do such things?
Dad smiles at me across the table. If he only knew what I was thinking. I let him ramble on about some football game that, like, changed the history of sports. I smile and laugh when it’s necessary. To be honest, it’s nice to see him excited about something, even if that thing has no direct relevance to his life. If things are going to continue this way for him, it’s probably good that he has some distraction. When people focus too long on the emptiness in their lives, bad things happen.
I focus on the buttery taste of the rice, the burn of my soda, the way the zucchini just melts in my mouth. I think about what I would say if I were into praying. I’d probably just ask God to check up on Lizzie.
Maybe Dad does that for me.
He shoos me away when I try to do the dishes. Still, I manage to carry most of them to the sink before he’s able to get rid of me. Then I’m a lie about homework away from shutting myself up in my room; it’s so quiet in here it makes drying the dishes sound tempting.
The sound of my phone ringing is like a chorus of the gods.
Yeah. I’ve got religion on the brain.
God help me.
“Are you religious?” I say into the phone.
Jesse laughs. “Kind of,” he says after a minute. “Why, are you scared?”
“In what way are you religious?” For some reason, I feel like his answer will tell me a lot about him. As if people’s beliefs have anything to do with how they behave.
“My mom’s a hard-core Catholic,” he says. “But I’m kind of, um . . . spiritual, you know? I think the rituals are more about comforting people than actual divinity. Why? Does that offend you?”
“No.”
“Didn’t imagine so. You okay?”
“I’m great. I’m at my dad’s house,” I say, as if he’s supposed to know what that means. I’ve gone from the parent who doesn’t want me to the one who can’t support me. I’m sitting in a bedroom with one thin blanket and a bunch of half-full boxes I couldn’t bear to take to Mom’s.
“Where’s that?” Jesse asks.
“East Second, between Ellis and Harvey. You know, the real fancy part of town.” Yeah, right. We’re practically in the lap of the industrial district.
He whistles. “My own mansion’s not far from there.”
“But do you have the only brown house on the block?”
“That, I can’t claim,” he says.
“And does your bedroom face the power plant?”
“No, it does not. She said yes, by the way.”
“She?”
“Kennedy.”
“Oh. Oh, great,” I say, even though it’s pretty much the opposite.
It’s great that my investigation has extended to include childhood trauma. It’s super great that I get to hear my best friend’s deepest secret from someone who hated her.
Why did Kennedy hate Lizzie? Did she blame her for what happened?
Already I’ve dropped the “allegedly” from my thought process. Already I’m starting to believe. Without allowing myself to consciously work through it, some part of me has realized that Kennedy’s story makes sense. Lizzie was always very protective of her body. Lizzie never touched anybody, before Drake.
Lizzie never wanted to.
Jesse says, “She’ll meet you at your bar on Monday.”
“Before school?”
“After. She’s taken a sudden interest in academics.”
The S-Word Page 13
