by Kate Moretti
“Wait, you don’t actually believe him, do you? No one does. No one.” She whispered the last part, urgently, her breath a hot spearmint, and her hands made a slice in the air.
“I don’t know that it’s any of your concern.” Alecia gripped the cart, blinking. Gabe hummed loudly from the cart and Jennifer shot him a glance.
She stuck a hand on her hip, leaned off to the left, and looked around the store. “Listen, I can’t tell you what to believe. You know why I believe your husband had a thing with that girl?”
Alecia shook her head, her throat like a tumbleweed.
“Because two years ago, after that Christmas party? The one at the Tempests’? He drove me home, remember?” Jennifer leaned forward her lips brushing Alecia’s hair, near her ear. “And your hubby, Saint Nate? He kissed me.”
CHAPTER 15
Lucia, forever ago
The mall had used to have fifty-five stores, but only thirty were still open. The Gap, the Orange Julius, the last record store in the history of all malls, ever. The tops of the benches were dust-covered and the air smelled musty, damp like still water.
“I want to get my nose pierced,” Taylor said, a Blow Pop spinning and clattering between her teeth. Her dark bangs fringed over her forehead, wispy and childlike.
“Piercing your nose is what good girls do to pretend they’re edgy.” Lucia thought this was mostly true, and that if you really wanted to be edgy you’d get a tattoo and maybe hepatitis from the needle.
They were sixteen.
The mall was dying. Its deathly black breath wheezed from somewhere deep inside where the fountain used to run. It sat, mostly drained save for a few inches of water and a bottom coated with pennies, unused in front of Bon-Ton. Somebody had thrown bleach into it just to keep it from growing shit and now the water held a thin kind of skin, almost translucent. As if Lucia ran her finger around it, it would come up in her palm like a moss.
Lucia looked into the black depths of an old Hallmark store, the racks black and dirty, still containing cards. Happy birthday! She rattled the cage and Taylor swatted her arm. An old couple in the food court looked over and the woman shook her head in their direction, her mouth twisted like a lemon.
Taylor bought a lip gloss, glittery and bubble-gum flavored, from Claire’s boutique. The cap was crusted on and they had to run it under hot water from the bathroom to open it.
“We have to get out of Mt. Oanoke one day, Lulu.” Taylor watched out for Lucia in a way no one else did: when they met in second grade, when Taylor gave Lucia her midday snack every day, because Lucia never had one, or split her book-fair money.
Where was Lucia going to go? No, she was firmly planted in Mt. Oanoke, like a root. Her father certainly wasn’t paying for college. Lenny was a druggie. But Lucia had Taylor, always, and sometimes, Taylor’s mom. Her mouth shimmered and she made a kissy pout in Lucia’s direction. “How’s it look?”
“Like someone’ll wanna kiss it.” Lucia kicked an errant rubber ball down the beige hallway that led from the bathroom back to the mall. Taylor shrieked, her voice echoing. Taylor had a ring on every finger and seventeen bangle bracelets on her wrist. When she ran her hand over the tiled wall, they clattered and clanged. “You’ll get out. I won’t. That’s a fact.”
“Oh, I’m a lifer.” Taylor smacked her lips again. “If I wasn’t before, I am now. Burt made sure of that when he left my mom. College is . . .” She flicked her wrist, quick, like she was waving. “Nope. I’m here now. You and me forever, can you handle it, Lulu?”
“What are you talking about? You’re rich as shit.”
“Was, dahling. Was. Have you looked at Ms. Jenny lately? Her highlights are do-it-yourself and her Ann Taylor is at least three seasons old. Maybe five.”
Lucia stared at Taylor, who never talked about her dad. Never talked about the scandal. Never talked about all that missing money, where he’d run to, or who he’d run with. Lucia could hardly breathe, she felt so close to the sleeping beast, too close. Before she could think, Taylor said, “Think they miss us in seventh period?”
Lucia shook her head. Maybe Taylor, they’d miss. Never her. “If you get caught, you’ll be benched for at least one meet. Right?”
“Right. So we won’t get caught.” Taylor didn’t care about track. Taylor’s mom, Jennifer, cared about track. Said it would keep Taylor thin.
It seemed so trite to skip school just to go to the mall. So pathetic. An act of rebellion just because they could, not for any real reason. If they kept doing laps, someone would notice, eventually. Besides, Lucia didn’t have any money and she had to be at the Goodwill soon. Her shift started at four. Her stomach turned, slick, and she shivered.
“Look.” Taylor wandered away, to the Piercing Pagoda kiosk. She took one bright pink nail and spun a display of earrings. The hair-bunned lady inside rolled her eyes. Taylor plucked something from the ring rack and waved it in front of Bun Lady’s eyes rudely. “Yoo-hoo, I wanna buy this?”
She was slow to get to her feet, grumbling, her Woman’s World magazine sliding down her tan polyestered thighs and crumpling on the floor.
“What are you buying?” Lucia asked, her attention diverted toward a couple making out on a bench. The girl straddled the man; he looked at least ten years older and her feet wrapped behind him, her legs between the seat and back slats. Her feet dangled inches from the slimy water, a black flat ballet slipper hanging on precariously to her toes.
“Look, I got you a present.” Taylor produced it with a flourish and dropped to one knee. She held Lucia’s fingertips, gazed up at her like an expectant groom.
“Get the fuck up, now. People are looking.” Lucia whispered, laughing. Taylor slid the ring on Lucia’s pinkie finger. A half-broken heart, a single clasp.
BE FRI
“Say you’ll be my friend forever.” Taylor inched toward her, on her knees, her mouth in a sticky pout. She showed Lucia the other half, stuck on her own pinkie: ST ENDS
“Yes, now get the fuck up.”
Bun Lady grunted as she picked up her magazine and Taylor popped to her feet. “We’re friend-engaged now. Can’t ever take it back.” She tapped her lollipop against her two front teeth and Lucia pretended to gag.
“Shut up.” Taylor leaned close. She smelled like cotton candy and cherry Blow Pop. Lucia’s hair tangled in all the stickiness.
Lucia didn’t say anything, she just let Taylor hug her, her arms long and warm, her breasts up against her bicep. Eventually, Lucia hugged her back.
“We need each other and you know it.” Taylor whispered. “b-e-s-t f-r-i-e-n-d-s.” She waved her pinkie, the fake gold of the broken heart flashing in front of Lucia’s face until Lucia swatted at it.
Taylor flicked off her flip-flops and climbed into the fountain, arms outstretched. She looked up at the skylight and twirled in a circle. She laughed and kicked up the murky water, splashing at her calves. The couple on the bench stopped kissing and stared at her. Bun Lady yelled Hey! from halfway down the mall. She laughed, the light glinting off her glossy mouth, shiny teeth.
“Luuuuuu-luuuuuu.” Taylor spun and spun and spun, her black hair flying out to the sides like a dress. “Luuuuuu-luuuuuuuu.” She spun faster, faster, losing her footing and finding it again, stumbling and righting herself, laughing, until even the Gap clerk came out to see what the commotion was about. That thick, chemical water licked at the bottoms of her shorts; her suntanned thighs glistened.
Everyone watched. And no one tried to stop her.
CHAPTER 16
Nate, Friday, April 3, 2015
Spring hadn’t quite found them yet.
It was one of those cold muddling days, a month after the season started, when it still got dark at five thirty and the nights at home afterward dragged on interminably. He had one night off a week if he was lucky, one night that he should have gone home early, eaten dinner with his family. But every night was the same play; it could drive a guy batshit crazy. Alecia catered to Gabe, Gabe stayed
locked up in his little world, Nate watched television. Alecia chased Gabe around the house with plastic chickens, or goats, or cows, or something else nonsensical, and tried to get Gabe to repeat his therapy successes for Nate. The bitch of it was, Nate didn’t really care. He didn’t see leaps-and-bounds progress he thought he was paying for, but he didn’t think that torture was a solution, either. Gabe ended up crying, Alecia would cry, and really all Nate wanted was one nice night at home with his son. Maybe catch a spring training game.
Nobody could blame him for mixing it up a little bit, staying late, grading some tests, reading crap on the Internet. There was no shortage of crap. He needed the escape, the downtime. The quiet, away from the field, away from the chaos of his house. Was that really so bad?
“Mr. Winters?” A soft voice, a knock at the door. Kelsey Minnow stood in the doorway, twirling a lock of hair around her index finger and looking past him at the whiteboard.
“Hi, Kelsey, come on in.” She was mad at him. She held a precalculus test in her fingers like a poison, the giant red D flashing back and forth. His rule was, anything less than a C had to have the problems reworked and you could turn the test back in for extra points. He did it in all his math classes, but the precalc kids bucked it the most. Most kids repeated the test, but in the upper levels, some didn’t out of laziness or disinterest or even spite. Kelsey was none of those; she wanted the extra points.
“I finished up the test, I wanted to turn it in.” She pushed the paper onto his desk. He picked it up, scanned it, and nodded.
“I’ll grade it and get it back to you. Thanks, Kelsey. I’m sure it’s fine now, but if not we’ll talk about it.” He smiled. She rolled her eyes at him and turned to leave.
“You’re welcome!” Nate called after her, trying to incite a laugh. She didn’t bite.
Lucia Hamm stood off to the side, her arms crossed over her chest, letting Kelsey flounce away. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought Kelsey muttered “witch” under her breath. Lucia shot her a look but Kelsey ran down the hall, shouting at someone to wait.
It was late, almost six o’clock. He didn’t remember staying at school until five thirty when he was in high school, and yet every night he seemed to have students hanging around until all hours.
“Lucia. Do you have a test for me?” He asked, not really expecting an answer. She didn’t move. He pushed his chair back, folded his ankle over his knee. “Everyone is looking for you, you know. They went to the paper mill, saw your stuff. Where have you been? You weren’t in school today.”
“You checked?” Her head bobbed up and down, her hair tangled in her face. Her skin was waxy, pale. He waved her in.
“Come in, please. What’s going on?”
“I have nowhere to go. Lenny is . . . I just can’t go home.” She shook her head. “Taylor thinks I’m a liar. That I’m a witch, casting a spell on Porter.”
“Porter?” Nate asked, surprised. Porter Max, Andrew’s best friend. “What does Porter have to do with anything?”
“You didn’t hear anything? About me?”
“Just that they were looking for you. Ms. Peterson, Taylor, the police.” Lucia’s head snapped up and her eyes narrowed. Nate stood, put his hand on her arm, tried to guide her to his desk. She stayed, standing in the middle of the room. He dragged up a chair. “Sit? Please?” Nate sat back down. Level playing field, see? He patted the chair again.
She shook her head. “How do I report that I’m being bullied?” She stuck out her jaw.
“Um, I guess you can tell me. We can go talk to Mr. Bachman together tomorrow. Or the guidance counselor. Whatever you want.” He couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. She was being bullied? He knew her brother was an asshole. She didn’t have friends, except for Taylor. But the idea of Lucia being bullied didn’t jive. Avoided? Yes. Even feared.
Her tongue lapped at her lips, her eyes darting around the room. Nate wondered if she was on something.
She came up to him, close and sudden, smelling like campfire and cotton candy. Nate tried to stand but she put up a hand to keep him where he was.
“I want to show you something. A thing I do.” She reached down and took his hand and brought it up to her neck. She leaned back, partially sitting on his desk, and turned her head far to the right, her voice hitching a little mewl, her chest bobbing.
“Lucia—” Nate started.
She shh’d him and pulled her hair off to the side, guiding his hand behind her head. He felt the stubble then, the scab-pocked skin, the uneven tread behind her neck. His breath caught.
“Lucia, what is this, who did this to you?” When he stood and lifted up her mane of hair, her neck was red, bruised purple over brown. Large clumps of hair were missing from the bottom to the middle of her scalp, in various stages of regrowth. His skin bloomed hot. “Really, who did this to you? Was this Lenny? Your brother?”
It looked like it had been violently ripped out. It would have been bloody when it happened.
She turned, her hair dropping from his hands, her fingertips splaying on his chest, her chin dipped until he thought she would put her head on his shoulder, and he wondered if she was crying. He gripped her arms, begging her until he felt like a fucking idiot. “Is there anything else they’re doing? Are there other bruises? Lucia, this isn’t bullying, this is abuse. Really, tell me, who did this to you?”
She looked up at him, her lip caught between her teeth, her eyes wide, intense.
“Why do you care?” She whispered, her breath hot on his neck, and his body went still. His heart thumped. Twice, then seemed to stop.
“I care, Lucia. I do. I just . . . want to know. Is this your brother?” He all but whispered it.
She gripped his short-sleeved shirt then, her hands cool and small, fingers slipping between the buttons to touch his skin, seeking the soft downy hair of his stomach. Her mouth pressed up against his and her tongue lapped against his closed lips. He opened his mouth to speak, too stunned for the words to come, and her tongue slipped once quickly inside, finding his teeth, darting hot and quick, and he felt his insides pool to liquid, his knees weaken, his throat close. His hands tightened around her arms and the whole room swirled in a whirlpool that centered around her and that hair, like a feather up and down his forearm, and that tongue. Her breasts pushed up against him, braless through the thin cotton of her shirt, the small knot of a nipple against his bare arm and his breath came in wet gasps.
He gripped her arms hard and pushed her away. “Lucia.” He turned his head, looked out the window to the horizon, anything to find his bearings. Shocked, then ashamed, at how little control he seemed to have over his fucking body, his mind. “Oh my God.” He pushed his mouth against his own shoulder and backed up, to find air. He filled his lungs, once, twice until the room righted itself.
He put the back of his hand over his mouth, his heart slowing from a gallop to a steady rhythm. “That never happened. Do you understand? And it never will again.”
She cocked her head, her mouth open in surprise.
“You want to know who did that to me? My hair?” She leaned forward, her mouth close to his ear, her breath tickling. “I do this to myself.”
CHAPTER 17
Bridget, Friday, May 1, 2015
The faculty lounge was worse than the halls. The students buzzed with the hushed excitement of drama, their faces flushed, skin pinked. The teachers were sullen, drawn in and whispering. They avoided Bridget’s eyes, gave her thin smiles, and while they talked to her—subjects like the weather, crazy seventh period, the new administrative assistant—no one asked her about Nate. This, more than anything, gave them away. They talked to each other, but not to Bridget. They asked each other, “Do you think he really slept with that girl?” She heard them whispering and then they’d clam up when they saw Bridget. They coughed and changed the subject when Bridget went to heat her cup of soup up in the microwave.
Bridget thought long and hard about slamming the break-room door shut, s
tanding in front of it, and asking everyone, point-blank: Do you really think Nate’s guilty? She thought about pointing to Dale Trevor, who taught algebra in Nate’s department, who had a daughter with Down’s syndrome in a special school. She wanted to remind him that last year, Dale and Nate chaperoned prom, and Dale brought his seventeen-year-old daughter, his sweet, happy, wonderful daughter in a cotton candy gown because their school didn’t hold a prom. Nate brought her a corsage. Nate danced with her, and Dale didn’t flinch; in fact, he took a picture. He didn’t seem to think Nate was some kind of danger to society. He posted it on Facebook for crying out loud.
Bridget wanted to remind Paula Hortense of the time her car had a flat tire, and Nate stopped on the Owega turnpike because he recognized her car and her vanity plate—LGoM#31, (Let’s Go Mets #31)—and helped her change her tire in the rain, then followed her to the tire center, over twenty miles away. On a Saturday.
None of it mattered. Nate was now a creep, a scum, slept with a student, sick, practically a pedophile. Bridget kept her mouth shut, thinking of that kiss, and how sometimes the truth is actually right smack dab in the middle between speculation and perception. He was her friend. Alecia was her friend. There was a truth somewhere, and Bridget had no intention of eschewing it simply because it was easier.
The microwave dinged and suddenly Dale was behind her, emanating the smell of oily fast food. His wife must have favored the deep fryer because he always smelled like wet french fries.
He coughed and Bridget stood off to the side while he heated up a frozen dinner. She watched him press the numbers with his pale, shaky fingers. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore, the cup of soup burning hot in her palm.
“Dale,” Bridget hissed.
His shoulders hunched like he’d been expecting it.
“Talk to me. You can’t think Nate did this . . . thing. Can you?”
