Before Claire could really figure out what she wanted, the doorbell rang. Her father touched her wounded knee gently before rushing to answer. Rich’s voice returned. He’d been to ’Bout Out already. They spoke for a while, their whispered voices like Ping-Pong balls flying back and forth.
Her father closed the front door and rushed past her, carrying the groceries straight to the kitchen. In the complete stillness of the house, she could hear a peeler whacking the skin off potatoes, smell onions searing in a pan. And she let out a quiet, breathy chuckle. Her father was making her favorite cream of potato soup. He was taking care of her.
At that moment, Claire knew—she wanted to bring that proud smile back to her father’s face. Brave, he’d called her. The word was like a drug; she wanted another hit. Say it again, Dad. Say “Brave.”
They ate, and he tucked her into bed. “Rest,” he whispered. “Just rest.”
When she woke hours later, she found him sleeping in the desk chair next to her bed, a blanket crumpled into his lap. He hadn’t even changed into nightclothes or taken off his glasses.
“Hey,” she said. “Dad.” Mostly because she wanted him to get out of that awful position, his chin resting against his collarbone at an uncomfortable angle.
He snapped his eyes open. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she insisted. And because he’d tried to fix her with food the night before, she stammered, “Why—why don’t we go get some breakfast? Get out of the house for a little while.”
Her dad nodded, giving her a small smile. They had to leave Peculiar, taking a freshly plowed on-ramp to the highway to find a restaurant that was open so early, where Claire sipped a glass of OJ and forced herself to down some over-easy eggs. She ate to prove to her father that she still had an appetite.
Brave, she thought. Don’t you see it in me, Dad? Don’t you think I’m still brave? Why don’t you say it if you see it?
The road home took them straight past the high school. The walk surrounding the grounds had been covered in stuffed animals and balloons and handwritten signs that promised, We’ll miss you, Serena.
The car slowed as Dr. Cain stared at Claire, searching her face. “Claire. Do you want me to call Dr. Agee?” he asked.
“What?” Claire asked.
“Dr. Agee. From Chicago. I’m here, too, Claire, you know that. You can talk to me anytime. But you talked to Dr. Agee last spring, when you got out of the hospital, so you two have a history. I thought maybe, with all this going on—”
Claire shook her head. “I feel bad for her. That’s all. I didn’t know her. It’s not like I’m—mourning, or something.”
“But what you saw—”
She frowned. “It was a shock, but—”
“It was gruesome, Claire. I know.”
“How?”
“Rich.”
“Rich?” she parroted.
“He brought you home. Remember? He was driving by the school, heading toward the search party at ’Bout Out. And he saw Owen’s car up on the sidewalk. And he followed the footprints in the snow.”
“Of course,” Claire answered, though the memories of the previous afternoon were anything but clear.
“When Rich brought the groceries back. He told me—about the cats.”
Claire cringed.
“I just thought maybe it brought up some other feelings—about what happened—”
“Two different things,” Claire said simply.
“But it had to have been—”
“Horrific,” Claire said. “It was horrific what happened to her. Yes. I won’t stop seeing her face. But it’s over. Just like the incident in Chicago is over. Dr. Agee even said that it’s over. Remember? How he said the memories will always be with me, but that’s okay? You don’t have to forget in order to heal, right?” She had taken great care to say the words incident in Chicago smoothly, without a hitch in her voice.
As her father stared, she whacked his knee with an open hand. “Come on, now,” she urged, changing the subject, “isn’t it about time you got our Wi-Fi up and running? You’ll need it for work, and I’ll need it for school.”
Dr. Cain paused—as though trying to convince himself to believe her—and steered toward the old Sims place.
When they pulled back into the drive, two figures were already standing on their porch.
“Who’s that?” Claire wondered, opening the car door.
The sound of the Gremlin had pulled the visitors away from the front of the house. It was Becca, Claire realized. And Owen. Both of them in dark winter coats and jeans, Owen with his hair slicked away from his face, Becca’s pink cheeks and lips shining out from underneath a bulky winter hat with fur trim. And they were walking across the front lawn, toward Claire and her father.
“Dr. Cain,” Becca greeted as they all stopped on the front walk, not two feet from the porch. She stretched her hand out. “We’re Claire’s classmates. We came to see how Claire was doing. After yesterday . . .”
Her father smiled, obviously grateful that Claire had visitors—two someones to talk to. Dr. Cain shook Becca’s hand and Owen’s, pumping their arms in an exaggerated way. “Nice to meet you. Actually, I have to bow out. I’m sure the three of you don’t need a dad around, anyway.” When they all entered, Dr. Cain disappeared upstairs; Claire, Becca, and Owen dropped their coats on a chair just inside the living room.
Becca plopped down on the living room floor, while Owen pulled back the fireplace screen and picked up a box of matches from behind the poker.
Claire stood dumbfounded by the comfortable way they’d made themselves at home.
“We used to come here all the time,” Becca revealed. “With Serena. It was her favorite place. She had a key.”
“To do what?” Claire asked, squatting down on the floor beside Becca.
“Nothing,” Owen muttered, picking up a newspaper from a stack on the hearthstone and curling it into a tight tube.
“Everything,” Becca whispered, her eyes glittering.
Claire eyed the hiking boots Becca had on with her dark jeans and a midnight-blue sweater that offered the perfect contrast to her blond hair and ruddy complexion. Becca was drop-dead beautiful—even grief-stricken, even without makeup. She didn’t need makeup, Claire thought with a slight twinge of jealousy. Bare, her lips were the shade of pink summer geraniums. It must have felt good, Claire thought, to leave the house uncovered.
“This house was just someplace we went when we didn’t have enough money for Ramona’s,” Owen said with a shrug.
“What’s Ramona’s?” Claire asked.
“Ramona’s Beer Joint,” Becca said softly. “A country bar off the highway. Never carded the four of us when we went out to dance to their rockabilly band and get out of this town for a while.”
“Us—Chas went, too?” Claire asked.
“Of course,” Becca answered. She frowned, shaking her head. “I don’t know why he keeps acting like it wasn’t a big deal, him and Serena. She loved him. Her first big love.”
Claire’s gaze darted up toward the fireplace just as Owen rolled his eyes, struck a match, and lit the edge of the newspaper.
Becca’s expression grew distant as she said, “Serena always liked coming here better than the bar. We’d just—stretch out on the living room floor, in front of the fire, passing some bottle we’d snagged with the help of an extra ten-dollar bill and some random stranger outside a liquor store. We’d talk while the fire crackled. Sometimes, we’d lie flat on the throw rug, our heads all together in a tiny circle, our feet stretched out in front of us so that we looked a little like a human starburst.”
“What’d you talk about?” Claire asked, because she couldn’t stand the tense atmosphere that filled the room when Becca stopped chattering.
“Our—dreams,” Becca said. “All of them were sort of variations on the same dream, really: to get out of Peculiar. Life starts on the other side of the city limits sign, after all
.”
Owen leaned forward, holding the edge of his newspaper to a log, clenching his jaw. Becca cocked her head to the side, watching Owen. When he replaced the fireplace screen and plopped down on the hearth, she reached out to touch his knee.
“I just want her back,” Becca murmured.
Owen’s face turned as gray as it had during lunch the day before. He shook his head, pulled out of her grasp, and stood. In two smooth strides, he was on the opposite side of the living room, reaching for his black wool coat.
“Don’t, Owen,” Becca pleaded. “Not now, not with all this going on. I can’t help feeling bad. Just give me a few more days. Until the funeral. Please.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Beck. For the eight hundredth time, it’s not what you think.”
“It is,” Becca argued. “I just need a few more days. Sit here with me. With us.”
But Owen slipped into his black wool coat and hurried out the door.
Becca’s face twisted with pure agony as she stared into the fire.
“What was that all about?” Claire finally asked softly.
“He’s different,” Becca confided. “You don’t know—you didn’t know him before. But he’s different.”
“How’s that?”
“He used to be—well, first,” she said, as tears collected in her eyes, “he used to be a slob.” She chuckled. “Everything about him was sloppy. He was cute, of course—I mean, he’s gorgeous, right? He’s always been that. But a slob, too. Now, suddenly, his hair’s combed and his shirts are tucked in, like he’s going to a job interview or something.
“He started acting different with me, too,” Becca added, her voice thickening, lowering. She straightened up, wiped her face. With her eyes still centered on the fire Owen had lit, she divulged, “When we started dating, he was after me all the time. Like you expect a guy to be, really. We’d make out for hours on the couch in my basement. But it wasn’t just that—he’d tickle me in the hallways at school. Or play with my hair at the movies. He just—always had to touch me. He doesn’t do that anymore.
“He started acting like somehow, he was sort of—better than me. And Chas, too,” Becca blurted. “It’s so funny, because, you know, Chas is the one with a chance at a football scholarship. Owen’s mostly on the varsity team because it’s such a small school that anybody can play for whatever team they try out for.” She snorted. “They call him the half-assed halfback.”
Claire stared at Becca as Becca continued talking, almost to herself now.
“I mean, I’ve got grades, you know, and extracurriculars with cheerleading. I can get a scholarship. Serena—she was always going to get some money, too, I figured, for being a reporter on the paper. Some nice respectable state school. But Owen . . .” She shook her head. “He’s pretty. And not much else. He’s got crappy grades and he’s a half-assed halfback, and I always figured he’d be the one who would stay, wind up married, living on his dad’s farm—maybe driving to Kansas City for some dumb car sales job, showing off his glistening white teeth as he flirted with the customers.
“But the last time we were all here—just a couple of weeks ago—there was something faraway in his voice,” Becca confessed. “Like he had somehow taken a step away from all of us. Like he was the one who was the closest to the city limits sign.”
The fire snapped, spit as Becca shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I think he’s cheating on me.”
“Why would he do that?” Claire asked. “You’re the prettiest girl at Peculiar High.”
“Please,” Becca chortled. “I bet it’s one of those cheerleaders from Kansas City. The ones we see during away games. It’s not like I can be with him the whole time—sometimes, he’s off with the team afterward, and—” She shook her head. “Well. I just bet it’s one of those cheerleaders. I bet he feels like he’s really pulled one over on me. That’s why he’s acting like he’s so much better than me.”
“That can’t be right. You must just be misunderstanding him,” Claire tried.
But Becca wasn’t listening. “When it came out that Chas had screwed around on Serena with that Ruthie girl, Owen started giving Chas high fives and sharing these inside jokes about me,” she said. “I could tell. The two of them were kind of . . . thick as thieves, for a while, after the rumor exploded. And I was just a nag. Now, with this thing with Serena, he’s not there. Not for me. Serena’s gone, and now he’s going to break up with me. Can you believe it? In the middle of this, Owen’s going to dump me.” She gritted her teeth and raked her fingers through her hair.
“She was a good friend to you,” Claire observed.
Becca flinched. “What? Why’d you say that?”
“I can just tell—the way you talk about her,” Claire replied.
Becca fell silent a moment. She hugged her legs to her chest as the fire snapped before them. “Girls are so much different from boys,” she said. “Ever notice that? Girls get to places inside each other that even a boyfriend can’t. Girls remember, they pay attention—not because it’s going to help them avoid a fight later on, but because they want to know everything about each other. Serena and I were so close—there were times that it was like we were trying on each other’s personalities, like skirts from each other’s closets. Over the past few weeks, looking back, I think that being with a boyfriend is like a one-way friendship. Because I did all the searching, all the learning, and instead of trying to get to know me, too, Owen just—he’s found someone else. I know it.”
Claire’s pulse swam in her ears, revving against Becca’s description of friendship. All she could think of was Rachelle, and their last celebration at the movies, and jabbing each other in the ribs. God, she missed that.
“I was a terrible friend to her,” Becca wailed, putting her head on her arms.
“That can’t be true,” Claire told her. “The way you looked for her—the way you—”
“It is true,” Becca insisted, raising her head. Her face was instantly puffy from her tears. “I loved her, but—she had a couple of scars,” Becca said, her mouth racing forward, like an out-of-control train. “Both of them were because of a hobo spider bite. She got it at summer camp a few years back. And it made her have this awful asthma attack. They wound up having to intubate her. You know—a trach?” she asked, touching the base of her throat. “It left a scar. She used to cover it up with a necklace.
“The other scar, though,” Becca went on, “the one on her leg? Where the bite actually was? By the time she got to the hospital, the skin around the bite on her leg was already dying. Turning black. Took almost a year for the wound to heal. That scar was so ugly. Looked almost like a bullet hole. She wore body makeup, in the summer, to try to cover it. But she never could, not completely.”
Her face twisted in pain. “I loved that scar,” she admitted, her shoulders heaving.
“You couldn’t have loved a scar,” Claire assured her. “That’s not something you ever love about a friend.”
“No,” Becca said. “I did. I loved it. Because it was one more thing,” she went on, swiping her runny nose with the back of her hand. “One more thing that made me better.”
Claire cocked her head and stared at Becca. “What do you mean?”
“Rich was right about me,” Becca consented. “What he said about how I treated Serena. I did like being better than her. Smarter. A cheerleader. Prettier, even—I actually used to think that. I used to like that I was prettier . . . I’m not really a very good person.” She dropped her head again, cascading into a new round of tears.
Claire tried to comfort Becca, awkwardly placing a hand on her back.
Becca wiped her eyes, pressed her cheek against Claire’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about laying all that on you. It’s just that I want to do it all over again,” she blubbered. “I want to be the friend I should have been. I know you’re not going to be here very long, but with you being in her house, it just seems like—it’s like it was meant to b
e. A second chance to do it right. Besides,” she added. “You were there, too. You know what I saw. We’re in that together. You understand.”
Claire didn’t disagree, but all she could think of was Rachelle. The way Becca had talked of her friendship with Serena made Claire feel gutted and sorry and achingly lonely all at the same time.
Once Becca’s tears wound down, she said sheepishly, “Anyway, I’d better go. Sorry I’m such a wreck,” she added as she put on her coat and shoved her hat down over her forehead.
“Totally understandable,” Claire said, smiling at her. “See you in school Monday.”
Becca nodded; the door had barely shut when Dr. Cain’s feet thundered down the stairs.
“Think we’re up and running,” he told her. When she stared blankly at him, he added, “The Wi-Fi? Why don’t you go see if your laptop connects, just to be sure?”
“Oh, right. Sure.” Claire raced up the stairs, her head still swarming with everything Becca had confessed, in her grief. Everything she had said about having a best friend.
When she flipped her laptop open on her bed, Claire immediately clicked into her email account, chose Rachelle’s address, and started typing. She described it in brutal detail, the entire scene in the woods behind the school—the smells, the sounds. The way Serena had looked. Just like me, she wrote. She must have looked just like me, that night, out in the parking lot.
When she finished, the cursor hovered over the “Send” button. She ached to click it—she craved the kind of closeness that Becca had just described. Claire missed Rachelle with a new intensity.
But so much had happened. So much still stood between Rachelle and Claire. With a deep breath and a quick blink to clear away the tears, she clicked “Save Draft.”
She scrolled through the list of emails in her “Draft” folder. She picked one closer toward the bottom of the list—one of the older ones—pulling it up on her screen.
“Rachelle,” it started,
do you really think I’m stupid? You must, because you are outside my window. Right NOW, Rachelle. You are outside my window, and here I am, still laid up in bed. Didn’t you happen to notice the way Dad pushed my bed up to the window, you dumb, selfish bitch? So I could get some sunlight? Because it’s been weeks—no, months, now, since the beating. Did you forget how bad it was? I’d be happy to remind you: three broken ribs, a shoulder fracture, a wrist fracture, a broken arm, broken thigh bone, splintered ankle, smashed feet, shattered fingers, two surgeries for internal injuries, hundreds of stitches, and nerve blocks to manage the pain of multiple lacerations. Yeah. That’s what I’ve been doing. Healing up from all of that. And you just came to visit—all smiles and happy. God, your stupid visits. You and your damned hospital voice. That’s what you use when you talk—not even TO me, but AT me: a hospital voice. And you don’t even rattle on about anything I care about.
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