Grit

by Gillian French

  “Well, in your case, it was the full monty. I was scared, too.” Mags dodges the straw wrapper I throw at her.

  Nell cups her elbows. “He touched our clothes.”

  Mags sighs. “You’re imagining things.”

  When our order is called, Mags and I go to the pickup window, where one of those sleepy-eyed Gaudreau girls asks if we want ketchup and salt. Mr. Gaudreau is supervising, and he comes over, his potbelly straining against his powder-blue polo shirt. He leans on the sill and grins at me. “Well, hello there, Miss Thing.” The light catches one of his metal fillings. “You know, I was hoping you’d come back around. No hard feelings about us not having an opening for you this season?”

  “Nope.” Behind him, I watch a Gaudreau girl making a cone like she’s got arthritis in both wrists.

  “Sometimes it’s tough being the one who does the hirin’ and firin’ around this place.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “My Fern’s going to be staying in Boston next summer. Maybe I can get you behind the counter then.” He winks and slides the tray over. “Sweets for the sweet.”

  I dump vinegar on my fries. “Bye.”

  As we walk away, Mags says, “Maybe it was him.”

  “Who was watching us swim?”

  She laughs. “Who nominated you as Princess.”

  “Oh.” I glance back, but he’s already gone from the window. “I dunno. If it was, I don’t think he could keep his mouth shut about it for this long.”

  Back at our table, we dig in. Lots of familiar faces from school at Gaudreau’s tonight, and one of them belongs to Mason Howe. He’s eating burgers with his mom. Mason’s knees press against the underside of the picnic table, and he has to hunch under the umbrella as he crams his food down. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him without Shea or Jesse outside of class. His fair hair shags into his eyes, and the back of his neck is halfway between deep sunburn and mahogany tan.

  One of the Missing posters clings to the telephone pole nearest our table. The evening breeze flutters a loose corner, and slowly we stop chitchatting and look at it, listening to the classic country drifting from Gaudreau’s speakers.

  “Were Shea and that guy fighting today because of Rhiannon?” Nell looks at us. She has a little dab of hot fudge in the corner of her mouth.

  Mags wipes it quickly with her thumb, saying, “Shea’s a hothead and a bully. Rhiannon was just an excuse to mix it up.”

  Nell’s quiet for a second. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” She looks at our careful expressions. “Well, it seems like she would’ve come home by now, if she wasn’t.”

  My stomach does a slow roll. My fries already seem soggy, thick with grease. I push the cardboard dish away. “Nobody knows for sure.”

  I remember looking out the window of Mom’s car last fall on our way to Ellsworth and seeing Mr. Wardwell driving his tractor across his west field with an oil burner dragging behind, blowing flames across the berry bushes, tossing up thick black smoke. The fields have to be burned or mowed flat every other year to grow a good crop, but it felt like more than that. Felt like Sasanoa burning a wound clean, scorching the place where Rhiannon Foss was last seen so we could forget about her and move on. And sometimes you can forget—for weeks—but then you see one of the posters and it all comes back, the wondering and the not-knowing, and you have to turn to somebody and dig it up again.

  We may not have been friends anymore, but Rhiannon was my age, sixteen last summer, and one way or another, she never came home again.

  FIVE

  LIBBY GIVES US a ride to the town hall on the way to her Sunday shift at Rite Aid. She wears that blue smock with pride, let me tell you.

  Unlike Mom, her hair has gone mousy over the years, and she doesn’t even touch it up with Clairol.

  She smooths wisps back into her french braid as she lectures Nell. “Now, you listen real close to everything they tell you. And don’t forget your packet. We’re gonna need that.”

  “I know, Mom.” I used to think it was cute when Nell got sick of Libby’s nagging, but then I realized how hard it’s going to be for her to cut her mom loose after we graduate. Libby’s always been right there, treating her like a baby and pushing her in this direction or that, and I know that Nell’s going to keep living at home while she’s in beauty school next fall.

  What Libby doesn’t know is that getting out of Sasanoa would be the best thing for Nell. Never mind that she’s almost nineteen, going into her senior year like me because she had to repeat first grade. The bad stuff has already gotten to Nell, the stuff that Libby thinks only happens out there—anywhere that isn’t in spitting distance of her doorstep. Nell and I, we’ve got secrets even Mags doesn’t know. The sooner Nell learns to stand on her own, the better, because I won’t be hanging around Sasanoa forever, playing guardian angel. Don’t ask me what I’ll be doing, but I won’t be doing it here.

  Libby lets us out at the hall. “I’ll be parked right over here when you get out, Nellie.” Libby and I don’t say good-bye to each other; I’m not exactly sure when we stopped talking. Maybe it was when I figured out that she was talking trash about me behind my back, repeating town gossip to Mom and painting me as the black sheep. Or maybe it was when I started picking up on all her little put-downs and snipes that Mom doesn’t even seem to notice. Libby doesn’t try it with Mags. Just me.

  There’s a paper sign taped to the door saying that the Bay Festival Princess Welcome Meeting is in the main hall, so we go in. It’s shadowy inside and smells like floor wax, old carpeting, and dusty radiators. Takes me back to all the holiday concerts we put on here in elementary school, roasting alive in ruffled dresses and sweater tights.

  The main hall is full. I count fifteen girls, most of them from Sasanoa, most of them sitting with their moms. Even though I went out of my way to dress lazy—holey jeans, halter top, wedge flip-flops—I knot up inside when their eyes find me. Alexis Johnson’s mouth falls open, and she whispers to Bella Peront, who, shocker, also got nominated. Bella: living proof that beauty doesn’t come from within. She was voted Homecoming Queen last fall, which isn’t even supposed to happen. A senior always wins, since it’s their last year and everything. When Bella and I make eye contact, all the anger I felt January of sophomore year comes rushing back, making me strong, and I stare at her until she wrinkles her nose and turns away with a swish of her flat-ironed hair.

  In study hall sophomore year, I overheard Bella making fun of Nell for taking special classes with Mrs. Hanscom and Mr. Ellis in the resource room, so I lit into her with a three-subject notebook. Nell does the same work as everybody else, but she needs more time and help understanding the directions. That notebook was the closest thing handy, but the spiral binding scratched Bella’s cheek and earned me a three-day vacation from Sasanoa Area High School. Mom didn’t even want to hear why I did it. She made me clean the house from attic to laundry room and shovel paths to the shed and back steps so Hunt wouldn’t have to do it. Then it snowed again and he came over on Sunday and did it anyway, which figures.

  As far as Nell’s concerned, the only important people in the room are us and the lady running things. “Hi,” Nell says, giving her a thousand-watt smile, and pulls me into a seat next to her.

  “Okay. We can probably get started now,” the lady says, shuffling her armload of photocopied packets. Guess they were waiting on us. She’s short and round and fortyish, with a fluffy sprayed hairdo straight from the Great Lengths salon on Main Street. She wears full makeup, and pinned to her short-sleeved cardigan is a button from last year’s festival with the slogan A Real Maine Agricultural Fair! 50 Years and Counting. “For anybody who doesn’t know, I’m Melissa Hartwell, treasurer of the Bay Festival Committee. Now, the competition for Queen is very dear to me, and I’m so glad to meet all of you ladies and be here to answer any questions you might have.” Bella’s already got her hand up. “Yes?”

  Bella folds her arms. “I heard that if the committee doesn’t like your dress
, you have to buy a new one.”

  I say in Nell’s ear, “How is that a question?” She grins and puts a finger to her lips.

  “We-e-ll, it’s more like they might ask you to tone down your look a little.” Mrs. Hartwell’s voice perks up. “This is a family event, after all. You don’t want to be flashing cleavage at your grandmothers. And you’ll each need to find a local business to sponsor you for the pageant. They’ll be the ones supplying the funds to buy your dress and flowers. There’s more information on that in the packet. Now, we want to include a photo and a short bio of each of you in the Festival brochure, so people know who’s in the running. Email me those by Wednesday, please, and we’ll get them off to the printer’s.”

  A bio? Darcy Celeste Prentiss. Lives in the ass-end of nowhere. Rakes berries. Flunks algebra. The end.

  Mrs. Hartwell goes on to tell us that rehearsals for the Queen’s coronation, which happens on the first night of the festival, will start Wednesday evening. At least it sounds like we just have to walk onstage, stand there, and answer a few questions from the panel of judges; nobody expects me to flip batons or make up a dance routine or anything.

  “So, I brought this along today as a little treat.” She picks up a white box that looks like the kind pastries come in. “Most people never get this close, but I think it really says something that you’ve been nominated as Princesses. Your town chose you. Remember that.” She opens the lid and folds back tissue paper to bring out a crown.

  It’s actually sort of beautiful. Made of some kind of thin metal, it’s all twisted and swirled, set with glass stones ranging from sky-blue to jade-green. Nell grabs my hand and squeezes tight.

  The drive-in screen finally flickers to life, and I whoop, honking the horn along with a dozen other yahoos. Mags pushes my hand away. “Easy, killer.”

  The Sasanoa Drive-In is like most Maine outdoor theaters, a clearing in the woods with mounds for cars to drive up onto. They tore out the speaker posts a long time ago, and now you listen to the movie by tuning to 89.3 FM on your radio, starting your engine every now and then to keep the car battery from dying. Some of the migrants are here with their kids, watching them run around and throw Frisbees and holler. Whole families roll into Sasanoa in July for the harvest, driving RVs and rusted-out vans from as far away as California or Florida; I’ve seen a kid no more than four years old working right next to his dad with a child-size rake, until the sun got to be too much for him.

  I reach back through the seats. “Moxie.”

  Nell digs around. She’s got blankets, pillows, popcorn, and enough soda to guarantee that we’ll spend half the night making bathroom trips. Everybody except her is here to see the second movie, some new action flick, so people are out of their cars, leaning in friends’ windows or walking to the snack shack during the first show, some classic called East of Eden.

  The word Overture appears on the screen across a shot of waves crashing on rocks, and people boo. I prop my feet on the dashboard, ready for boredom—but you know what? The movie’s actually good. It’s about a boy named Cal (Mags says the blond guy playing him is James Dean), whose mom took off and left him and whose dad is super strict and thinks Cal is no good. His brother Aron is the favorite, and he has a girlfriend named Abra, who Cal wants really bad. At one point, I reach back for popcorn and see Nell hugging her pillow, eyes wide, drinking in every detail on the screen.

  Things heat up between Cal and Abra, and by the time they’re sitting at the top of the Ferris wheel together, we’re all holding our breath. Cal leans in for the kiss.

  “Hey,” a lazy voice says right in my ear, and I jump.

  A flashlight clicks on and off under a thin face. Kat Levesque leans into the car. “S’up, girly. I been looking for you.”

  “Shhh,” Nell says. Mags doesn’t say anything, because she hates Kat and likes to pretend that she doesn’t exist.

  I angle toward the window. “What’s going on?”

  “Not much. Got some Captain’s, some joysticks, back of my truck. Wanna come?”

  “Shhh!”

  “All right. Jesus.” I push the door open, and Nell reaches for me.

  “No, don’t. Stay with us.”

  “Yeah.” Mags means it. “Stay here.”

  I wave them off. “Be right back.” Maybe. Anything can happen with Kat.

  “Early start tomorrow,” Mags calls as I follow Kat into the dark, and I raise a hand even though she can’t see me.

  Kat’s little white pickup is parked way back by the trees, where you can do anything and not get busted. The smell of weed is a sticky-sweet cloud as we climb into the truck bed. In the backlight from the screen, I can see only shadows and cigarette cherries floating in air. I jostle somebody and laugh. “Who’s that?”

  “Guess.” He tickles me and I shriek, falling into his lap. Kat’s twin brother Kenyon is the only person who tickles me every time I see him, and I recognize his Old Spice body spray, so I snuggle in and take the plastic cup Kat hands me. It’s not Captain Morgan’s and Coke. It’s Blue Raspberry Pucker, and I almost gag.

  “Want me to pour it out?” There’s a smile in Kat’s voice. I knock it back and toss the cup in her direction. She cackles. “That’s my girl.”

  “How do you drink that crap?”

  “As fast as possible.” Kat burps.

  “Sexy,” Kenyon says.

  She’s back on her feet. “I want nachos. Darcy, come on.”

  As I stand up, the car next to us starts its engine, and the headlights fall on a girl sitting on the wheel well across from me, a drink in her hand. For a second, I swear it’s Rhiannon Foss. In the time it takes for a cold shock to run through my body, I see it’s just that sophomore, Sophia-something, who has shoulder-length red hair like Rhiannon did. Other than that, she doesn’t look anything like her. A year ago, it would’ve been Rhiannon sitting there; she and Kat hung out sometimes, and this is the kind of place I’d run into her. Then we’d ignore each other.

  I slide off the open tailgate and follow Kat, but somebody claps their hand over my mouth, grabs me around the waist, and slings me in a circle so hard that I scream for real this time, almost losing one of my flip-flops.

  Everybody’s laughing. Kat’s flashlight beam lands on us. Shea’s holding me, and I see other boys sitting in the grass with their backs against the truck, sharing a joint.

  I drive my elbow into Shea’s ribs. “Stop it!” He lets me twist for a second just to prove I can’t hurt him, then lets go. I turn, take two steps, and shove him as hard as I can. “Real funny, asshole.”

  His eyes are lionlike and intense in the half-light. “What? Too rough for you, Darce?”

  The way the other guys laugh, I can guess what he’s told them. I turn my back and walk away, wiping furiously at my mouth, not stopping until I reach the snack shack take-out window, where I realize I’m shaking all over. Kat comes up behind me, and I turn on her. “Why didn’t you tell me he was over there?”

  Kat blinks, her big brown eyes heavy-lidded and smudged with kohl liner, her dyed-black hair chopped in super-short bangs. She’s stoned pretty much all the time, but there’s no way she forgot what happened on the Fourth between me and Shea. She was there that night; she saw how drunk I was. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

  “Well, it is! He hates my guts now.” Something clicks. “Did he send you over to get me?”

  “No. Swear to God.” She catches my arm when I turn away. “I didn’t know he was gonna do that, honest. Look, you can have my nachos, okay? I don’t even want them, I was just bored. Stay.”

  I stand with my arms crossed while she orders, and then we sit together in the grass, looking up at the screen. I’ve missed a lot of East of Eden; Aron’s leaving town on a train, and things seem pretty grim. Nell will tell me the whole plot tomorrow anyway, scene by scene, whether I want to listen or not. My heartbeat’s back to normal, and I dig a huge glob of melty cheese out of the dish. “I wouldn’t have freaked out so bad if I
hadn’t been thinking about Rhiannon’s spooky missing ass. Shea scared the crap out of me.”

  “He’s a tool.” Kat nudges me with something. I reach down and it’s her flask, the one with the Misfits logo on it. I laugh and take a sip. Captain’s. “Wanna get out of here? Some people partying at the quarry tonight. Could be fun. No d-bags allowed. Promise.”

  I don’t even think about it. “Cool.”

  There’s a high-pitched whizzing sound, and sparks explode off to our left where the migrant families are parked. Firecrackers. There’s yelling and confusion, and shadows pelt past us, whooping and beating it out of there before the usher shows.

  When the firecrackers are spent, there’s smoke in the air and the sound of more than one little kid crying. A lady gets out of one of the vans and rocks from side to side, bouncing on the balls of her feet. It takes me a second to realize she’s soothing a tiny baby, whose cry is so small it sounds like the creak of a gate in need of oil.

  SIX

  “DARCY PRENTISS.” MOM’S talking from someplace far away. I roll over. Sleep’s better. She jerks the bedsheet back. “Get up.”

  Through the fog of whatever I drank last night, I see her standing over me, looking about thirty feet tall. A rectangle of morning sunlight stretches across my ceiling, tossing rainbows through the crack in the windowpane. I sit up—the piano that lands on my head makes me wish I hadn’t—and see that my alarm clock reads 7:15. Oh, crap.

  “The girls left.” Mom’s dressed for work, a seersucker blouse and jeans she’ll wear under her clean-suit cover-up and hairnet. She doesn’t have many wrinkles for a mom, but when she frowns like that, the lines between her eyebrows turn into a deep V and she reminds me of Gramma Nan when one of the pigs gets out and trucks off to visit the neighbors. Mom turns and leaves, kicking my dirty clothes from yesterday out of her way. “Go shower. You smell like booze.”