Grit

by Gillian French

  I feel awesome, all light and bouncy. I could eat about fifty corn dogs, wash them down with two gallons of Moxie, and ride the Zipper until they shut off the midway lights. I’m off that godforsaken stage, and Nell was chosen for the next round.

  Bella and Alexis made it, too, and along with a couple other girls, but I’m not worried. Nobody can beat Nell tonight. There’s something special about her in that lily-white dress, something glam and so-not-Sasanoa. She’s taking that crown home and we’re going to nail it to the roof to show who’s got class.

  Some of the girls leave right away, which, judging by Mrs. Hartwell’s expression, is a sore-loser thing to do, but the rest of us go stand by the fence along the grandstand to watch. I can’t see Mom or Mags, but they’re probably up toward the top of the bleachers so Libby can take pictures.

  When the lights come back up, Nell and the four other girls who are left sit in a row on the bottom riser closest to the judges. Somebody’s brought out a fancy throne with red velvet cushions, which is where is the Queen sits for photo ops.

  The judges start calling them up for questions one by one like before, but these questions are hard: How does social media affect young women’s body images? How can schools encourage girls to foster a lifelong interest in science and math?

  When Nell’s standing back in the spotlight, they ask her, “Who is your role model, and why?”

  She wasn’t ready for it. Neither was I. I have no idea what she’s going to say. After what feels like a long, long time: “Rita Hayworth.” She pauses, leans down to the mic. “She’s an actress. From the forties.”

  One of the judges leans forward. “And why?”

  Nell thinks. “Because she always knew what to do with her hair.” She shows us exactly what she means, doing the head toss we saw Rita Hayworth do in Gilda at the drive-in this June. The crowd erupts, hooting and whistling so loud that the judges have to wait a couple minutes so their “thank you” can be heard. I laugh my butt off. So maybe she didn’t sound brainy like Alexis or Bella. She still brought the house down.

  When the Q and A is finally done, the emcee tells us that the judges will now confer, and starts thanking all the sponsors. I shift from foot to foot and finally kick my sandals off, squeezing my hands together as I wait.

  It takes nearly twenty minutes, but eventually the results are taken over to the emcee. “Without further ado, the title of Miss Congeniality goes to”—big pause—“Eleanor Michaud!”

  I scream. Nell screams. The dance music cranks up, and she runs out to the meet one of the judges, the old guy in the suit, who gives her a bouquet of white, pink, and yellow roses. He slides a satin sash trimmed with glitter over her head that says Miss Congeniality on it, and awkwardly sets a little tiara on her head, so as not to mess up her hair. So she didn’t win Queen—it’s a bummer, but she’s still shining up there.

  Cameras are flashing everywhere. Nell’s crying. Behind my hands, two tears roll down my cheeks before I can wipe them away.

  When the applause dies down, Nell’s sent to stand beside the throne while second runner-up is announced. Alexis. I’ll give her credit for looking honestly shocked as she rushes out to get her sash and tiara.

  Drumroll time. If it’s Bella, I’ll eat my pantyhose.

  “And this year’s Bay Festival Queen is . . . Rachel Pelletier!”

  It’s the tall, gorgeous blonde who answered the science and math question; I think maybe she goes to Bucksport. Everybody’s on their feet as Mrs. Hartwell comes out with the rest of the judges, bringing the crown and a huge bouquet of roses and a little velvet cape they drape over Rachel’s shoulders as she takes her seat on the throne.

  I work my way back over to the stage, waiting for Nell to come out as people leave the pavilion for the next event on the festival schedule, probably the country music band lined up for nine o’clock. Bella comes out first, looking like she swallowed a quart of vinegar. Her buttoned-down mom’s waiting for her, and Bella blows right by her, the two of them sniping at each other all the way—“I told you not to wear that dress, it was totally inappropriate for a pageant like this,”; “God, Mother, enough!” Fun times in the Peront house tonight. Then again, it’s probably never real fun.

  As I wait, I keep an eye out for Shea, but I don’t see him. He probably never even set foot in the pavilion tonight. He didn’t have to. He knew I’d do the work for him, worrying that he might show, wondering what he might do. I guess nobody can psych you out better than yourself. “Darce!” I look up to see Mags raise a hand in the crowd. Feels like I haven’t seen her in about a year.

  They’re still taking pictures onstage. Nell’s crying as she smiles, hugging her roses. I really don’t think she could’ve been happier if she’d taken Queen.

  My gaze moves across the dirt track, back over the crowd, maybe hoping for Jesse, I don’t know. Instead, she snags my attention, over by the grandstand post.

  I watch her standing there, wearing a moss-green North Face T-shirt, cargo shorts, and Birkenstocks. Elise Grindle.

  She’s smiling and talking to the guy she’s with, the guy who no doubt fed her some line about turning out to support Nell tonight. How Nell was always one of the special ones. I almost don’t recognize him in his street clothes: a sport shirt, jeans, boat shoes. He holds the leash of a yellow Lab that’s sitting with her tongue hanging out, food watching.

  They step away from the grandstand, Elise slipping her hand into his back pocket. I stare at his back as they join the leaving crowd, moving so easily. They have a dog. Might as well be a kid. Another building block of a phony life.

  I step out into the midway, barefoot, arms hanging at my sides, making people stream around me. He sat right there with his eyes all over Nell tonight, cool as could be. Now he’s going back with Elise to their apartment on Irish Lane, where he’ll keep playing house with her, and it makes me feel so damned ugly I could cry. Because it’s not over. It never was. And some part of me always knew it.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  NIGHT.

  I open my eyes, and know that the car is out there. No headlights on the wall this time. I don’t need them.

  I don’t think that I ever really slept. Last night was one long after-party: riding home with everybody crammed into Mom’s Subaru, all of them talking at once, the smell of roses and hair spray, Nell spent and glowing, Libby an absolute mess, like she never dared to believe her baby would place. Mom let us drink some cheap champagne, and Mags clapped me on the back, said I’m the best loser she’s ever seen, and that she practically blew an artery laughing when they asked me about small-town living. It was a good night. Should’ve been the best. But I watched it all from some high, cold place where the air was thin and all I could do was count the minutes until right now, 2:03 a.m., when I have to decide what to do.

  I get out of bed and put my jeans on underneath my sleep shirt. My mermaid dress lies in a pool on the floor, silver sandals beside it, my corsage wilting on the vanity. I pull on my hoodie and go downstairs, walking along the edges, Nancy Drew–style.

  Outside, it’s misting. The grass is dewy under my flip-flops, and I slip and catch myself as I follow the roadside ditch into the woods beside our house.

  It’s darker than I expected. No moon tonight. I pull my hood up and hunker down between some trees, waiting for whatever’s going to happen.

  The car’s idling. Still no headlights, but as my eyes adjust, I can see it there, maybe fifteen feet away, by the faintest dashboard glow.

  I wait long enough for my legs to get stiff and my nose to start running before I see the tiny light drifting along like Tinker Bell in the blackness. It’s on the opposite shoulder, coming our way. A penlight.

  The light drifts across the road. When it’s almost to the car, he switches on the headlights. She’s painted in halogen, my Nell, wearing her navy-blue raincoat with the pattern of little white whales on it, her face a dark hollow inside the hood. She’s reaching for the passenger door. In a second, she’l
l be inside, pushing her hood back, turning to smile at him as he takes her away, away from us.

  I throw myself forward, not knowing where I’m putting my feet until I’m on pavement. I say her name, just say it, but in that night silence, it might as well have been a scream.

  Nell spins around, wincing in the light. We stay that way, pinned.

  Then, very slowly, the car glides backward. From the corner of my eye, I watch him pull a gradual U-turn and accelerate away, leaving her. Leaving us facing each other in the blue glow of her penlight beam.

  She runs, but I’m faster. I get a fistful of her raincoat and we go down together on the wet grass of our front yard.

  “You promised.” I slap her hood back. She gives a high, thin scream. “You said you’d never see him again and you did!”

  Nell shields her face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she sobs.

  “Don’t tell me you’re sorry! You lied! You lied! You know how hard I tried to keep you safe? You know how many times I had to lie so nobody would find out? Then you sneak around behind my back and do it anyway! Goddamn you!” This roar comes out of me, and I bring my fists down on the ground beside her head, making her scream and roll to the side.

  She manages to get up on one foot, her jacket hanging on by one arm. Lights come on in the house and trailer. I shove her back down, and she cries out miserably, her shoulder grinding into the mud under me. “I love him.”

  “No, you don’t! You don’t even know what you’re talking about! He’s a goddamn pervert, you don’t love him!”

  I shake her until somebody catches me under the arms and pulls me back. “Stop! What the hell are you doing?”

  I kick and swing as Nell staggers away, hugging herself, watching me with huge, stunned eyes. When she sees that Mom’s really got me, she bends double and shouts back, “You don’t know, Darcy! You don’t love anybody, so how can you know?”

  Libby runs across the yard, jerking her old terry-cloth robe around her. “Nellie? Baby, what—?”

  Libby reaches for her, but Nell pulls away and Libby nearly falls, gasping as her baby turns and runs from us, across the yard and down Old County Road into darkness.

  Late morning. I’m at the kitchen table, but nobody’s getting me cups of tea and aspirin today. I sit alone, head in my hand, picking at the place mat.

  Nell’s gone. Mom and Libby got into the car and went after her last night, leaving me with Mags, whose middle-of-the-night fuzziness wasn’t helped by the champagne she’d slugged down before bed. “What is it?” she kept saying, holding the door frame like it was keeping her up, as I huddled on the couch, not answering. “Why can’t you tell me what it is?”

  Mom came back alone. They couldn’t find Nell. Libby was still out looking. I expected a million questions, but all Mom said to me was, “Go to bed.” In those three words, I knew I’d undone everything we’d built at the kitchen table the other day, the way she treated me like a grown-up, an equal. I went, and lay there with my eyes open until dawn. I’m so scared I feel numb. I know Nell couldn’t have gone to him, not with Elise around, so she could be anywhere. Hurt. Alone.

  Now a cop car pulls into our driveway, and the porch floorboards creak as Libby, Mom, and Mags all go down to meet him. It’s Edgecombe, of course. Dispatch must tap him for any call from 36 Old County Road, or else he’s got a nose for trouble like a bluetick hound.

  He unfolds his big self from the driver’s seat and stands looking up at our house for a second, reminding me of the way Kenyon stood there the other day. What are they seeing in our half-dressed place that makes them think twice about coming in? Hunt isn’t painting today; Mom must’ve called him this morning, because he came at first light, then drove off again, searching. Now he’s out in the driveway, leaning against his pickup and doing what he does: keeping quiet.

  I lay my head on the table and wait for the sound of the screen door opening, the scrape of the chair pulling out next to me. Edgecombe doesn’t speak. I lift my gaze and see him watching me, lips pressed in a line, fingers twined together on the table. A drop falls from the faucet like a shot.

  Libby comes through the screen door, marching straight at me. Her face is dead white, her hair flying loose from the sloppy braid she slept in last night. “You talk to him. You hear me? You tell him where she is!” Edgecombe stands and takes her shoulders, moving her back. “She was hurting my baby last night,” she yells, straining against him until Mom comes in and holds her. Libby sobs. “Oh, Jesus, what if she got in a car with somebody—what if somebody picked her up—”

  Mom looks at me for the first time all morning. I shrink away from the flint in her eyes. “Start talking.”

  “I don’t know where she is.” God, déjà vu, but a different girl, a different day.

  “Cut the crap!”

  “It’s true!” I could do it, light Nell up right here in front of everybody. Tell them about Irish Lane in Hampden, where I drove that night last August to pick Nell up after she poured her heart out to him. Tell them to go ask him what happened, ask him how come I had good reason to hit and cuss her out last night, just let the whole messy thing spill everywhere.

  Edgecombe’s gruff. “You all need to calm down so we can sort this out. Libby, I’m going to tell you the same thing I told you over the phone. Nell’s eighteen. House rules aside, she can come and go as she pleases. We can’t get involved in that.” He lowers himself back into the chair, watching her gasp and wipe her nose on her hand. “She hasn’t been gone long enough for me to make out a missing person’s report. But”—he puts up a hand before anybody can jump on him—“I’ll do what I can to help you find her.” His gaze settles on me. “Darcy, you two were outside fighting around two thirty this morning. What was it about? And don’t say nothing. That isn’t going to fly this time.”

  I sit, gripping the edge of the table, looking back at them. The screen door opens, and Mags comes in. “I heard some of it.” She stands, arms folded. “Darcy was calling Nell a liar. I could hear it all the way up in my room. By the time I got out on the porch, Darcy had Nell down on the ground, telling her she didn’t love somebody, some ‘he,’ that she didn’t know what she was talking about.”

  “Oh God.” Libby starts shaking her head like a horse with the wind in its ears. “I knew it. I knew it and I let it go and now look.” She points at me. “You little whore. How could you? You took my baby and dragged her into something dirty and—and cheap with you, and now look, look—”

  This time when she goes for me, it takes both Edgecombe and Mom to haul her back and out the door onto the porch, where she stays, crying into her hands. I hunch in my chair, breathing low, staring at the tabletop.

  When Edgecombe comes back, I say, “Check the quarry. Drive-in. Twice Is Nice. She likes the library, but it’s closed today.” And I’ll swallow my tongue before I say more. Libby made up my mind. Nobody’s going to do Nell the way she just did me.

  Edgecombe gets Hunt to go to the drive-in while he checks the other places in town. I go upstairs to my room, ready to wait it out until Nell comes home. She’ll be back any minute. She has to be.

  I’m doing a shoddy job of making my bed when I sense somebody behind me, and turn to find Mags standing in the doorway. She isn’t wearing any expression, just looks tired and burnt out like the rest of us. I sit, figuring we’ll talk now. She’ll say how crazy Libby is, and I’ll say, God, I know, but what she says instead is, “What is wrong with you?”

  I’m too surprised to answer. She doesn’t wait for me to anyway.

  “I’ve been beating my head against this all morning. Trying to figure out what would make you hurt Nell. I got nothing. You’d cut off your own arm first. You guys have always been like that.” She makes a sound in her throat. “When we were little, I used to get jealous sometimes. I thought you two made better sisters than you and me. Like maybe Nell and I were switched at birth or something.” Normally I’d make a joke here, but I can’t, not to this cold-faced Mags I hardly re
cognize. “You’ve been weird all summer. Pulling more dumb-ass stunts than usual, acting like you want to see how far you can push everybody. All I can think is you want somebody to stop you, to put the brakes on, because you can’t do it yourself.”

  I don’t know what to say. Outside, the Subaru’s engine coughs to life. Mom, going out looking again.

  “You’re like him, you know.” Mags shakes her head. “Dad. You worry everybody to death, then show up laughing with five or six beers in you and big stories about where you’ve been. He wore everybody out, too. Then he went and got himself killed and left us with nothing but a pair of old boots and some drinking stories.”

  “Don’t say that. He was a good guy.”

  “But he didn’t take care of the people who loved him. You don’t remember what it was like, or maybe you don’t want to.” Her voice is hoarse, talking over me before I can argue. “He was reckless with his own life, get it? He pissed it away up there on that girder for fifty bucks, didn’t think twice about his wife or two little girls waiting at home. Mom’s still so crazy over him that she’ll never see it that way, but you need to open your eyes. I’m sick of this.”

  It could almost be me saying how I feel about Nell. But I’m not like her—I don’t need anybody babysitting me, hovering over me—and helpless anger binds my tongue.

  Mags breathes out, fixing her gaze on me. “Are you ready to tell me what’s going on with you and Nell?”

  I hold my breath so long that tiny starbursts appear around her, my big sister, standing there so self-righteous she ought to be wearing a halo like a church-window saint. “I can’t,” I say, trying to force in every bit of feeling I have so she finally gets it.

  She stands still for a long second before turning back to the hall. “Then I’m ashamed to know you.”

  She couldn’t have taken my breath away faster if she’d sucker punched me. I listen to her go downstairs. Then I whirl and rip the quilt off my bed, heaving it against the wall, clearing the junk off my vanity top in one swipe, kicking the stool over.