“Plenty of people think plenty of things when they see me, too,” I say. “And then they get on the phone and call my dad and slam him for not parenting me very well. That’s the way the world works, but are they right?”
She can’t or won’t answer the question. “I’m just . . . what if deep down Woods thinks I’m like my mom?”
Back to Woods. Back to dating. Still, I have an answer. “Then I’ll kick his ass. But he doesn’t.”
In our history, Woods has never compared Janie Lee to her mother in the way she fears. Quite the opposite. I tell her this and she throws her leg over mine, snuggling up so close I smell the baking soda from her toothpaste.
“Billie?” Janie Lee’s tone has the deep ring of a serious question. She feels along my arm. “That your elbow?”
“Yep.”
Sliding her hand slowly down, she grips my fingers tight and solid. I wish I could see her eyes. They’re gray, nearly clear, and sometimes they water when she’s not crying. “You know what I told you the night of the fire?”
My heart is an assault rifle.
“How come you haven’t said much about it?”
I taste blood.
“Did you hear me?” she asks.
Our faces are three inches apart. If I tip my forehead forward half an inch, I’ll touch her glasses. “Billie? Don’t fall asleep on me.”
“I heard you,” I admit.
“And?”
“I’m not sure how to feel.” Like I wish we were still watching Betty White.
“Oh.” She’s worried.
Woods and Janie Lee make perfect sense in a photograph. But in real life? She’s leaving at a sprint in “eleven months, eleven months,” and he will commute to college and then die the mayor of Otters Holt, having never traveled elsewhere for more than a week. She’s going to ruin the platonic ecosystem we have maintained in the Hexagon for years, for a relationship that will end in “eleven months, eleven months.” Part of me wants to let this thing run its course, leave it uninterrupted. Because it will end. And then Woods will stay and I will return here after college. That’s when we’ll inevitably begin our us, and I’ll call Janie Lee and say, “Woods and I . . . ,” and she’ll say, “I always knew you would.”
None of these logical thoughts change the shouting match happening inside my head. She said she’s in love. Is she? Am I? What does being in love mean? Surely, there is a spectrum of feelings between desire and love and being in love. Why is this not a class in high school?
Her voice interrupts. “I didn’t think you’d be surprised.”
“Did something happen between you two?” I dare to ask.
“We have this chemistry. It’s there when we sing. I’ve tried turning it off, but then the night of the fire I was like, Why? Why would I turn this off? There’s no one else like him. Except maybe you.” Her stomach muscles contract in a giggle. She continues, “And sometimes I think about that silly wedding we did in third or fourth grade. You remember?”
Oh, yes. “I was his best man.”
“What if that was a sign?”
“What if getting divorced the week after the wedding is the sign?” I ask.
She punches at me. The blow lands on my boob instead of my shoulder. “That was over tacos.”
“I’m sure it’s not the only divorce over tacos. Tacos are very important,” I say flatly.
In this chess game, Janie Lee has her hand on my queen. It’s nearly unbearable.
Several ticks of the clock later, she asks, “Should I tell him?”
I felt this question coming. Even though I could easily say no, no is the wrong answer for her to hear and me to give. No is selfish. I try to keep my selfishness on the inside, beating quietly like an organ that no one notices, a gallbladder, an appendix. “Probably,” I say. “Maybe wait until after the Harvest Festival.”
She makes a noise in the back of her throat as if this is unbearable. “So don’t ask him to Sadie Hawkins?”
“I don’t know.”
There’s another sigh. And then only white noise, of laundry tumbling round and round in the dryer, the dishwasher kicking to the next cycle, Dad humming a “How Great Thou Art” in his office. My eyes glaze over, fixing finally on the tiny green light of the fire alarm. It flashes every four seconds. I count ten flashes.
Janie Lee says, “I didn’t want to tell you. It slipped out the night of the fire.”
And I ask, “Why not?”
“I guess, well . . . I didn’t want you to be afraid it would change us. We’ve been what we’ve been for so long I felt like I was cheating on you or something. That probably sounds weird, but you know what I mean? We’re us.” Without letting go of me, Janie Lee sets her glasses on my nightstand and snuggles closer. “We won’t let anything ruin our us-ness, right? Because if it’s him or you, well, no contest, my friend.”
These words drip inside me. They touch my brain, my heart, my soul, my toes. I love her. Not for loving me. For loving us.
“Nothing,” I promise.
Her lips or teeth always squeak when she wears a wide smile—I hear her squeaking. Less than a minute later, she snores as though all the problems in the world are solved.
For the first time since elementary school, I want to climb the great oak tree and never come down. Instead, I trace my thumb over the knuckle of her thumb in time with her breathing, and lie there. How long can I keep my world the way I want it?
When I’m sure I won’t disturb her, I slide from the bed, into my boots, and down the hallway. Four of the five garage lights flicker to life. The one over Guinevere needs to be replaced; she’s living in shadows.
“You and me both,” I tell her, and set to work on the Daily Sit.
10
Davey’s Part
A phone conversation between David Winters and Thomas Cahill on the night after Billie went to Nashville with Davey.
THOMAS: Spill. I know you need something. I felt a disruption in the universe.
DAVID: This is harder than I thought.
THOMAS: Which part?
DAVID: All of it.
THOMAS: All of it your granddad? All of it your dad? All of it Billie McCaffrey of Molly the Corn Dolly Otters Holt?
DAVID: A dreadful combination.
THOMAS: Unsurprising. So Billie is Daisy Mae?
DAVID: Billie is . . . complicated.
THOMAS: I’d say.
DAVID: You would?
THOMAS: Yes, because unless I’m wrong, Billie is very convinced we’re together.
DAVID: Me and you?
THOMAS: You and me.
DAVID: Why?
THOMAS: David Winters, are you ashamed to be with me?
DAVID: Incredibly ashamed. Your body is stupid.
THOMAS: My body is a wonderland.
DAVID: I’m doubly ashamed now.
THOMAS: You wish you could get with me.
DAVID: I’ve been with you. Seventh grade. Your couch. World of Warcraft. Seventh grade. Environmental science class. Kayak number eight. Seventh—
THOMAS: Beside the point.
DAVID: The point exactly. We know what we look like when you’re courting me—
THOMAS: I never courted, you antiquated fool.
DAVID: . . .
THOMAS: Okay, I courted you a little. I was quite young and rather ambitious.
DAVID: Regardless, we are NOT together now. And Gerry was. All. Over. You. Who wouldn’t know you two were a couple?
THOMAS: Gerry was also all over Billie. Which, I must say, Billie did not mind.
DAVID: You’d never know if Billie minded. She’s got a bajillion layers.
THOMAS: Well, one of those layers believes you’re gay.
DAVID: Great. And another couple of them are maybe in love with two other people.
THOMAS: Two? She is also rather ambitious. Remind me to tell her not to kiss you in a kayak. Very unstable.
DAVID: You’re giving me PTSD.
THOMAS: I kissed Gerry a b
unch of times in front of her. Only as a sacrifice.
DAVID: I’m sure. What do you think makes her think we’re together?
THOMAS: Well, we vibe. And in your I-do-not-have-to-please-John-Winters exploratory phase, perhaps she sees eyeliner and tight jeans and thinks gay. I assume metro isn’t a look in Otters Holt.
DAVID: Not a popular one. Most of the dudes have a fishhook on their person at all times. But eyeliner should not mean I want to sleep with you.
THOMAS: Blame the vibe.
DAVID: That damn vibe.
THOMAS: Gerry and I talked about it.
DAVID: The vibe?
THOMAS: No. You and Billie. We like her for you. And Gerry says she’s grade-A in the kissing department.
DAVID: Well, thanks. Me too. But what should I do about the gay thing?
THOMAS: Well, you’re not a hundred percent straight.
DAVID: I’m straight-ish. At the moment.
THOMAS: True. True. Plus, there’s the problem of her liking two other people.
DAVID: I probably just need to let her think what she thinks.
THOMAS: If she thinks you’re with me, she’ll know you have excellent taste.
DAVID: Asshole.
THOMAS: You love me.
DAVID: I’d have to.
THOMAS: Seriously. Go with your gut on this thing. Tell her when it makes sense. Speaking of. What are you going to tell John Winters? She might be grade-A at kissing, but John will not find her fitting.
DAVID: He’s been pressuring me.
THOMAS: About girls?
DAVID: No. About living with him.
THOMAS: You could be back by lacrosse season.
DAVID: I could.
THOMAS: You thinking about it?
DAVID: . . .
THOMAS: I interpret that silence to mean you really like Billie, eh?
DAVID: Yeah, but that’s not it. I’m not sure what I’ll do yet.
11
There’s an after-church Hexagon meeting going on at Woods’s house. A much-needed Save the Harvest Festival follow-up. I’m late. Dad needed an extra thirty minutes of my time.
“Billie,” he said, waving me into his home office. I stood next to the coatrack, beside his robe, touching the velvet stole draped over the hanger. I’ve loved the feel of it since I spent Sunday mornings on his lap.
He whispered, “I’ve heard a rumor that your mother is on the Corn Dolly ballot this year.”
I wondered who was telling him positive things. “That’s great.”
“Billie, this might really help us.”
“I know.”
Then came the ask. “Can you tread carefully?”
The thing is: my nose was clean. Serving old people, being nice, wearing a shirt that wasn’t black to church this morning.
I promised him I would do my best.
He promised me that if Mom won a Corn Dolly no one would care about the fire.
We crossed our fingers that this rumor was correct. It was nice to be on his side again.
I push through the Carringtons’ back door without a knock. The kitchen smells like peppermint tea, which makes me think of Big T. Mrs. Carrington clucks. “There’s my favorite girl.” She’s standing at the counter, wearing yoga pants and a zippered fleece, attacking her grocery list. One of these days, if the festival doesn’t die, she’ll be awarded a Corn Dolly for being ungodly beautiful at fifty.
“Someone has to keep you on your toes,” I tease, and steal an orange from the bowl.
She chews her pencil eraser, strains her ears toward the hallway. “They’re in the game room. Try to make them behave.”
“It’ll take all five of them to make me behave, Mrs. C.”
“Please. Your insides are all mushy and good.”
“Take that back,” I call over my shoulder.
I pause outside the game room door, anticipating the scene. Woods stands at the front of the room. Einstein is on his easel. Some action movie is reeling on the big screen, but everyone is watching Woods. Fifty, Janie Lee, Mash, and Davey—in that order—are sardines on the couch. There’s a bowl of popcorn, two Mountain Dews, two waters, and Woods’s mug of tea spread across the coffee table. Fifty’s begging everyone to walk the beam; Woods is reminding them that “progress is imperative.”
When I push open the door, I am correct in ninety-five percent of my prediction.
Post church, Woods has stripped to T-shirt and mesh shorts. He is twitchy with excitement and casting a forty-foot shadow over the entire room. I am overcome by the desire to tackle him straight on, tell the rest of these bastards to leave, and see if he’ll watch the book television so I can nap on his shoulder. I wanted to be in a group, and now I want that group to be limited to two. Gerry said, I don’t kiss everyone. I kiss the people who have the little pieces of my soul. I am struck again with the knowledge that Woods has one of my pieces.
Instead, I say, “You assholes started without me.”
Woods throws a marker, which I catch and throw back. I launch the orange, too. It hits him in the chest and rolls under the couch. We’ll find it in a year and blame the stain on Mash.
“We waited as long as we could,” he says to me. To Davey, he says, “Elizabeth who?”
Davey drums his fingers on the side table. They nearly blur. And that’s just like him. He’s a helicopter. He could lift off, right here, and I wouldn’t be surprised. Catching my eye, he halts his fingers, looks at me, warns me about something without saying a word.
Unfazed, I give him the standard up-nod, and vault over the back of the couch. After having stepped on nearly everyone, I settle on the floor directly in front of Mash.
“If you throw up on me, I’ll never forgive you,” I say, and pull his leg hair. “What’s going on?”
Mash’s face is redder than the radishes in Grandy’s garden. He has a smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose that look like sprinkles on a cupcake. They make him look innocent. His blush makes him appear guilty. “Einstein is currently rescuing our love lives.”
“It’s going to take more than Einstein to do that,” I tell them. “We can blow up a sock and burn down a church, but limitations, people, limitations. I thought we were brainstorming KickFall and fund-raising.”
I’ve thrown off Woods’s ju-ju with my negativity and he has to refocus. “We are. But delay of game. You, Billie McCaffrey . . . are just in time to . . . help us . . . figure out the Sadie Hawkins part of Harvest Festival.” Every pause, he adds some unseen stroke to Einstein. Every stroke, my stomach knots.
“That sounds like a terrible way to spend a Sunday afternoon,” I say.
Last year, the dance flew under our radar. We watched the Corn Dolly competition—a token year, the Corn Dolly was given posthumously to Reagan Gentry, our Spanish teacher, who died of a brain aneurysm—and then square-danced our asses off in a large group. I didn’t think it was strange that we were the only people our ages not looking for a corner away from the watchful eyes of adults. I thought it was marvelous.
“But the girls ask the guys.”
Leave it to Fifty to state the obvious.
“That means four out of six people in this room have no say,” I tell Fifty, peering around Woods’s body to read Einstein. Only the top of the board is visible. “‘The Hexagon of Love,’” I read. “The whole thing is a little pretentious. Couldn’t we just go for the standard love triangle?”
No one is listening. This happens when Woods is in full swing.
“Elizabeth Rawlings is an interesting choice,” he says to Davey.
Elizabeth Rawlings is a junior with a good first name, a bent for Sylvia Plath, and the most perfectly straight teeth God ever made. We were on the softball team in middle school. She bounced around through various groups and wound up being one of those tights and cat T-shirt girls. She’s probably biding her time in Otters Holt, dreaming of a commune in California. Is this who Davey believes is his equal? I reject the idea.
Her friends ca
ll her Lizzie. This has always been a point of consideration for me. There are many ways to shorten our name—Liz, Lizzie, Libby, Lib, Beth, Betsy, Liza—none of which I tolerate. I can’t imagine being a Lib. I’d rather run naked off Rock Quarry Cliff or fall off Vilmer’s Beam.
Mash gives a half laugh at the board and at me. Maybe he’s surprised at his cousin’s choice. Maybe he’s just glad I’m here. I too am slightly surprised Davey hasn’t named Thomas, and I’m not the only one. Fifty mouths “Audi Thomas” to me. He stops smiling when I flip him off.
Despite Fifty’s comment, Davey could come out to this group if he wanted to. None of us would flip our shit. Especially not Janie Lee and me. We’ve heard it all. Two inseparable girls: must be gay. I saw them holding hands. One of them is dyke-ish. They cooed at each other when they were reading Romeo and Juliet.
There are a few students at school who are out. Not an easy path. Most people wait until college, and then move to bigger cities. The price of their sexual freedom is paid for with a loss of home, and often a loss of community respect. In 2005, a beloved woman in town, Corn Dolly winner 1984, married her girlfriend, whom everyone had thought was her roommate, in Canada. The committee didn’t ask for her Dolly back, but they “accidentally” printed the calendar without her name in 2006. This is the kind of thing you don’t forget. It’s the kind of thing that makes you want to control the Corn Dolly committee. The kind of thing that makes you want to override the system.
I’d like to believe my generation is different. We’d give a Corn Dolly to a gay woman. We’ve all read enough, watched enough, YouTubed enough to understand sexuality isn’t black and white. What do we care who someone finds attractive or falls in love with? But that doesn’t mean you don’t need a machete and some body armor if you want to walk the openly gay road in Otters Holt.
Dress Codes for Small Towns Page 8
