Grit

by Gillian French

  I’m too dazed to do much more than put one foot in front of the other, touching my fingertips to my nose, wondering if it’s broken, how you can tell. All I can think about is getting to Mags’s car so I can lie down in the backseat where nobody can see me, but I’ve got to cross the field to get to the road. A big hazy shape closes in to my right; must be Mrs. Wardwell coming back. She drops whatever she’s holding and says, “Holy crap.”

  I try to hide my face, skirting the boulders, going faster and faster until I run smack into Mason. It’s like he’s been waiting for me. I try to go around him. I’ve got blood trickling down the back of my throat now, making me cough. He leans down, says, “God,” under his breath, holding my shoulder as he checks me out.

  Then Mason, all six-four, two hundred and thirty pounds of him, goes after Shea. Shea’s standing around with some guys, shooting bull like any other day, when the heel of Mason’s palm hits him square in the chest, knocking him back. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Mason’s voice booms across the barrens.

  Most everybody scatters, only a couple heroes stepping between Mason and Shea, trying to keep them apart.

  I haven’t moved, watching this whole thing like it’s happening on TV. Then Jesse runs up. The moment he sees my face is awful, almost worse than hitting the trailer hitch in the first place. His expression goes slack, like somebody in shock. I can see him putting two and two together. Everything that makes him Jesse—my Jesse—falls away, and he loses it.

  He’s on Shea, grabbing for his throat, smashing his fist into Shea’s face twice before the other guys can tackle him to the ground. He rolls free and throws his head into Shea’s stomach, bringing him down, where they roll, punching each other’s ribs, really ripping each other apart, not like some fight in the school hallway that’s mostly for show.

  Mags has me, then, and Nell presses in on my left. I let Mags hold my head to her chest, worrying my hair with her fingertips, her heart pounding beneath my ear. She yells something at Shea, but I can’t understand it.

  For a few minutes, not even Bob and Duke can pull the boys apart, and it looks like we’re going to have to let them fight it out. Finally, Duke gets his arm around Shea’s neck in a sleeper hold, and it’s either Shea lets Duke drag him back or passes out. Jesse gets slowly to his feet, wiping his face with his forearm, one eye already swelling shut.

  There’s nothing but the sounds of breathing, bugs humming in the bushes, and Nell’s tear-choked voice as she says to me, “Oh no, oh, your poor face,” and dabs at my lips and shirtfront with her unrolled bandanna.

  Bob’s deeply flushed, his eyes snapping. He stoops and grabs Shea’s ball cap, throwing it at his chest. “You do this to her?”

  Shea’s dusty, bleeding at the mouth, and the collar of his T-shirt is ripped. He looks at me with this remote expression, like he doesn’t even know me. Underneath that, though, there’s a hard smugness that blows my mind, a real satisfaction. All I can do is stare back as he says, “She wasn’t supposed to land that hard.”

  Jesse makes a choked sound and takes a run at him, almost getting ahold of him before the guys pull him back. Bob walks up to Shea. “Get your ass off my property.”

  Shea pulls out of Duke’s hold, spits blood into the dirt, and walks away without looking back. Duke squints after him, rubbing the back of his neck.

  Bob turns to me. “You want me to call the law, dear?”

  “No,” I say quickly. With my luck, they’d send Edgecombe, and I can’t deal with him right now.

  Mags draws back. “Darcy. You have to press charges.”

  “No.” She opens her mouth again and I say, “Drop it,” in a tone that actually seems to get through to her.

  Bob wants me to go to the hospital, but when I say no, he settles for Mrs. Wardwell calling Mom at work. The conversation’s pretty short. “She’ll meet you at the house,” Mrs. Wardwell says, then watches us go. I think of Jesse, but I don’t look at him.

  We pass Shea on 15. He’s taken his shirt off and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans, like he wants to feel the sun on his back.

  NINETEEN

  THE GIRLS HELP me wash up. Warm pink water trickles into the sink. Terry cloth slides over my face. The soft white smell of Ivory takes me back to baths with Mags when we were little, Mom sitting on the edge of the tub, trying to dig the potatoes out of our ears.

  When I’m clean, I see that my nose is swollen clear up to a lopsided egg on my forehead that’s already turning purple, and my eyes have an owlish look that probably means they’ll be black in the morning. Sexy as hell. Nell takes a breath, looking at me, her face pale and stricken in the mirror.

  The door opens and we hear Mom set her purse on the counter, the chink of her keys dropping into the little Pyrex bowl with a pattern of red hens on it. She comes to the doorway and looks at me, then at my tank top, lying on the floor with a rusty stripe of dried blood down the front. Mags picks it up and shuts it away in the washing machine, like she can block the memory.

  Mom breathes out slowly, then steps back. “Better get some ice on your face, bring down the swelling.” Her calmness helps me feel more normal, too. I follow her out to the kitchen table, where she hands me a bag of frozen peas and puts the kettle on.

  Mags comes in, gripping the back of a chair. “She might have a concussion.”

  “Come on, I’m fine.”

  “You are not fine. She’s not fine, and we should be on the phone to the cops right now, getting Shea Gaines’s ass hauled in.” She stares at Mom’s back. “Aren’t you even going to ask what happened?”

  “When your sister’s had a second to catch her breath, yeah. And I’ll be asking her, not you, so back off.” Mom drops the whistling kettle onto a cold burner and reaches for two mugs. “One busybody in this family is enough, thank you very much.” Mags bangs the legs of the chair down and heads for the porch. “Margaret, don’t you slam that door.”

  The door slams. Nell watches me from the hallway, wavering, like she’s afraid of what will happen next if she takes her eyes off me. “Go on home, Nellie,” Mom says, pouring hot water over bags of Red Rose.

  After a second, Nell goes, shutting the door carefully. Mom adds sugar and brings us both aspirin. She pops hers. “Headache?” I say.

  She nods. “You, too, I’m guessing.”

  I snort, which hurts. The cold of the peas and the steam from my mug coat my face in clammy dew. I sip tea, waiting.

  “How’d you get hurt?”

  “I told a guy off. He didn’t like it.”

  “Derek Gaines’s kid?”

  “Maybe. I dunno his dad’s name.” I think she’s going to call Shea’s dad, maybe right after we’re done here.

  “Is it over?” The way she asks it surprises me. It’s woman-to-woman, not mother-to-kid. “I need to know if you’re gonna be safe now.”

  I sit there in the kitchen where I’ve eaten meals, done homework, scrubbed countertops, and learned to bake, hoping I’ve got the guts to cross this next bridge. Finally, I shake my head. I just don’t know.

  “You feel dizzy or sick to your stomach since it happened?” I say no. “Want to go to the doctor?” No chance. She sits back in her chair, clearing her throat. Her gaze flits to the pack of smokes to her right, then away, like she’s putting off having one. “Next week, you’re gonna be a senior. When you turn eighteen, there won’t be much I can do about your choices. Libby thinks something needs to be done about you. Your sister told me she’s worried, too.” I look up sharply. “Don’t get mad at her. You’re lucky to have Mags. She was born a mama bear and she’s always gonna be there for you, whether you want her or not. I guess what I want to know is what you think we should do about you.”

  I know it’s a big deal, her talking to me like this, like a grown-up. It scares me, too, though, being handed the wheel when I’m not sure if I’m ready to take it. I owe her more than a shrug, but as usual, when I really need words, they won’t come.

  Mom waits, t
hen presses her fingertip against a few crumbs, brushing them into a paper napkin. “You’re like me when I was your age, you know that. Sometimes I can’t believe how much.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. You and me would’ve been tight. Ramming the roads Friday nights, seeing how many shots we could take before somebody stopped us. Your grandparents and Libby liked to blame all that on your dad, but it was me. Grampie and Gramma tried to make me act right. They pushed, so I pushed back harder. Guess I always figured it’d be the same with you, so I didn’t push at all.”

  “Probably smart.”

  She half smiles. “But it seems like the way we’re going now isn’t working, either.” She looks at my bruised face. “I barely survived being young. When I think of some of the stuff I did, stuff I tried . . . it’s scary to think of you in my place. And sometimes it’s hard to know when things stop being fun and turn into a habit.” She hesitates. “You come talk to me about it, if you ever need to.”

  I don’t tell her not to worry, or that I’ll change, here and now. Neither of us would believe it. As she stands and dashes the last of her tea into the sink, I say, “Was Libby as sweet and innocent growing up as she says?”

  “Not really.”

  “Huh. Figures, the way she keeps Nell on a leash.” I shrug. “Maybe if Nell’s dad had stayed, Libby would’ve had a husband to nag, so Nell could take a whiz without asking per—”

  “Nell’s her whole life.” Mom’s look is sharp, and I drop my smirk. “And nothing would’ve been better if her dad had stuck around. He let Libby chase after him for a commitment for almost two years, and then dropped her as soon as something better came along.” Mom stops, her shoulders bunched. I don’t say, But I thought they were engaged, because I’m pretty sure she just let a family secret slip. “Don’t you ever throw any of that in her face.”

  “Okay.” I take a breath and set my peas on the table, feeling my nose. It’s numb.

  A sneaker scrapes outside and I turn to see Nell step up to the screen door.

  “Sorry,” she says to us. Mom waves a hand. “It’s just that . . . we got rehearsal.” She looks at me. “What’re you gonna do?”

  A blue velour curtain hangs on the stage, and some volunteers staple bunting to the facade and grandstand as Nell and I walk up the steps. I was too sore to put on makeup before we left, so I wore my pink Red Sox cap, pulling it low. The stares are almost enough to turn me around; Bella grabs Alexis and they smother shocked giggles. Nell’s grip on my arm is the only thing that keeps me from going after them like I was smashing pumpkins on Halloween. Still holding tight, Nell walks me up to Mrs. Hartwell and says, “My cousin got hurt at work today, but she still wants to rehearse. Is that okay?”

  Mrs. Hartwell blinks quickly. “Well—of course. Goodness, you poor thing. What in the world kind of work were you doing?”

  “Blueberry raking,” I say, and leave it at that.

  Mrs. Hartwell puts us through our paces, having a great time stepping and clapping along and getting her whole body into it. The Festival’s coming together around us, and it makes me feel like I’ve swallowed a handful of tadpoles. Three days until the coronation. Three days. I’m going to have to get up here in front of everyone, and pretend I belong, all the while looking like I used my face to stop a Mack truck. The aspirin’s faded and my head throbs dully with every step I take, every thump of the sound system.

  Once we’re all seated on the risers with our legs crossed, Mrs. Hartwell says, “At this point, you’ll be called by name to the microphone center stage, where you’ll be introduced to the audience by the emcee. The judges will ask you the question they’ve prepared for you. Now, there’s no reason to agonize over the interview. You’re all experts on yourselves, right? If you receive high marks for your answer, you’ll move on to the final round, where you’ll be interviewed again. The judges will confer, and then announce Miss Congeniality, second runner-up, and the Queen.” A guy drives a tractor around the stage, raking the dirt track smooth for Saturday. In the distance, a white tent rises like a huge mushroom cap.

  One girl raises her hand. “How many of us will make it to the final round?”

  “Anywhere from three to seven. But there was one time that ten girls qualified, and we were all here until the wee hours.” Mrs. Hartwell’s gaze lingers on each of our faces like we’re something special. “I won’t be seeing you all again before Saturday, but you have my number and email, and I want you to contact me about anything at all. Even if you just need somebody to talk you off a ledge.” She laughs, even though that doesn’t sound too far-fetched to me. “Now, I’m going to start calling your names one by one, and we’ll practice interview entrances and exits.”

  When it’s time to go, I wait for Nell as her riser empties out, hugging myself, wishing I’d brought a sweatshirt now that it’s getting cooler at night.

  Mrs. Hartwell’s voice makes me look over. “It’s really not so bad.” She gathers her purse, bottled water, and clipboard, then touches her cheek. “Your face. The bruises won’t be gone by Saturday, but good makeup can take care of that. Green cover-up. Apply it with a sponge under liquid foundation. Works wonders for reducing discoloration.”

  I put my hands in my pockets, then think of Mason, and pull them out. “I was thinking . . . maybe I should skip.” She stops what she’s doing. “I mean, I’ll look like a prize jackass with my face like this.”

  She stands, big purse under her arm. Her powder-blue shadow makes her eyes intense. “Do you want me to talk you out of it, or talk you into it?” I hesitate. “I get the feeling you’ve needed a lot of talking-into since this process started.” She nods at Nell coming down the steps. “Like maybe you’re here for somebody else?” She’s got me; I don’t try to cover. “Well, I’ll tell you what I know. You’re no quitter. If you were, you never would’ve come here tonight, looking like you do. I know how tongues wag. That took guts.” She smiles, tugging her cardigan together. “Think you can finish what you started?”

  It’s a thought, looking at this like a challenge, not a chore. Almost like making it onto the board in the barrens. After a second, I nod. “Okay. I won’t bail.” I take a few steps back, then say, “What was it like, when you won?”

  It takes her a second to get my meaning. Then she laughs. “Oh, hon, I was never Festival Queen. I was never even a Princess.” You could knock me over with a tiara. “I wasn’t . . . well, let’s just say I wasn’t the type of girl who gets chosen for things like this. I was quite a bit heavier in high school, and so shy.” She laughs again. “Scared of my own shadow. I couldn’t have gotten up in front of all those people, even if I’d had the chance.”

  “Then why do you do this?” I can think of about a hundred things I’d rather do with my August than spend it herding a bunch of teenage girls around.

  “Because I enjoy it. My sister Gwen was Queen back in 1989. She passed away about fifteen years ago. I guess I like to stay involved because it reminds me of her, and how we were that summer.” She gives a soft laugh. “Young.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She can tell I mean it, that I get how it feels when you talk about somebody you loved who died. “Thank you. But it’s nice to say her name out loud once in a while. Way too much time goes by without me saying it, I think.” She touches my shoulder. “Go on home and get some beauty sleep.”

  TWENTY

  WE’RE ON THE roof, the three of us, wearing jeans for the first time in months and sharing the last Coke from the fridge. The phone rings downstairs. None of us move.

  Mags pokes me with her toe. “You know it’s for you.”

  I grunt. After bringing Nell and me home, Libby handed me my phone messages, her face stony as Mount Katahdin. Jesse called three times while I was gone. And there was one hang-up, too, which must be my fault, apparently.

  “Why don’t you want to talk to him?” Nell sits up on her elbow, her hair sliding over her shoulder.

  “I just don’t.”r />
  “But he defended your honor.” Mags and I snort. “Well, he did.” Nell sits forward, hugging her knees, wearing that look she gets whenever she drifts into one of her big-screen fantasies. “He came to your rescue, like a knight or Gregory Peck or somebody.”

  I gulp the rest of the Coke without thinking. Mags sets the can on the windowsill, annoyed. “He got into it with Shea because it’s been a long time coming, that’s what I think.” It sure as hell wasn’t because he loves me; he made that pretty clear. I picture Jesse playing with his phone, waiting for me to call; why, I don’t know. I wonder what his bedroom looks like at his uncle’s place. I’m guessing medium-messy, a couple centerfolds on the wall. And books. I get the feeling he reads.

  Mags takes her glasses off and rubs her face. “Darcy doesn’t need a knight, but if she did, I think she could do better than Jesse Bouchard.”

  That reminds me of what she told me in the dressing room of Lehman’s. I turn to her. “He must’ve at least asked you, right?”

  Mags stares at me. “Who?”

  “Will. He asked you to have sex and you said no, right?”

  She bursts into exasperated laughter. “What’s your issue? We talked about it sometimes. It just never happened. Not every guy pushes, you know. You do know that, right?”

  “Duh,” I say, flustered, not knowing it at all. Except for Jesse. And when he didn’t push, I got mad at him. “So you’ve really never done it?”

  “Well, considering the last boyfriend I had before Will was in sixth grade, no, I’ve never done it.” She looks at me blandly. “How many times have you?”

  They’re both watching me, but I feel Nell’s gaze the strongest. I know she’s going to hold up whatever I say as some kind of lens to see herself through. I can’t lie. Not to her, not about this. “Four. I mean, with four guys, not four times.” There’s a silence. “It’s not that bad.”