by Susan Perabo
Lisa and Becca. Becca and Lisa. The gruesome twosome, Jules had called them. Or the twin bitches. Slut squared. Had she thought of that one herself? Maybe she had. But Lisa and Becca had deserved it—they’d made each other meaner, the two of them together some kind of weird, indefinable force, making everyone around them feel small, sometimes without a single word. Or, now that she thought about it, often without a single word. In fact, Meredith had to admit she could not recall a specific instance of Becca Nichols actually being mean to her directly, but rather an indistinct montage of superior looks and eye rolls and silent snubs.
Once, she’d been in the car with Jules and Kristy and they were complaining about Lisa and Becca. “Those bitches think they rule the world,” Jules had said, and Jules’s mother had commented, “Just so you know, they’re definitely peaking now.” Meredith had instantly recognized this as one of those things parents said to make unpopular children feel better. But surprisingly it had worked, and she and Jules and Kristy had spent a pleasant evening coming up with all the particular ways in which Lisa and her friends would be total losers as soon as next year, and then probably pregnant and divorced and poor—maybe even homeless, and certainly humiliated—right around the time they themselves were graduating from college and marrying gorgeous men.
“She’s probably my best friend,” Lisa said. “Becca. She’s definitely the person least likely to screw me over. Most of my other friends would stab me in the back in a second if they could.”
“Why are you friends with people who would stab you in the back?”
“Everyone’s friends with people who would stab them in the back,” Lisa said. “Hello? Otherwise you’d only have like one friend.”
“That’s really sad,” Meredith said.
“That’s the difference between people like you and people like me. You think everything’s sad. Because all you do is think about stuff all the time. If you only think about stuff like half the time you’re way less sad.”
“What do you do the other half of the time? When you’re not thinking?”
“Uh, I don’t know, maybe have a life?”
“It’s not like I don’t have a life,” Meredith said.
Lisa looked at her. There was the look. This was why everyone hated her. This was why middle school girls had stomachaches when they woke up in the morning. This was why girls were afraid to read the next text, or turn the corner into the cafeteria. This was why Jules could think, why they all could think, all the girls who were not her friends, why they could all secretly think:
Good riddance.
•
There was a police car parked in front of their house. Meredith slowed almost to a stop when she saw it from a block away. A police car could mean a lot of things, and none of them were good. At Lisa’s house that day, Mrs. Bellow had told them that she was always waiting for the phone to ring, but that whenever it rang she was afraid to answer it. Now Meredith understood why Mrs. Bellow didn’t want to answer the phone.
Detective Waller and Detective Thorn were standing on her front porch. It looked like they had just rung the bell. As she approached she could see that Detective Thorn was holding a slim manila folder. On television, slim manila folders held photos of corpses. Sometimes the photo was just a pale face, other times a whole body, in whatever position and condition it had been discovered.
“Hi,” she said.
“There you are,” Detective Waller said, turning. “We were just ringing the bell.”
“Nobody’s home,” she said.
“Where are your parents?” Detective Thorn asked.
“At work.”
“You come home alone?”
“Usually,” she said.
They exchanged looks, as if this might be important information. In truth, Evan was supposed to be home where she got here, and normally was. Since he’d started working out again, she’d beaten him home a couple times.
“We’ve got something we want you to look at,” Detective Thorn said. He slid a photo out of his folder. “You know we’ve got Lisa’s phone. We’ve identified everyone in her pictures, except one person. Nobody seems to know who he is.”
Meredith looked at the photo. It was a selfie: Lisa and a smiling man, maybe in his midtwenties. He had blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard.
“It was taken last month,” Detective Waller said. “Date stamp of September twenty-ninth.”
“Did you ask Becca?” Meredith said.
“We did,” Detective Thorn said. “And several others. Like I said, nobody recognized him. Is he familiar to you at all?”
“Did they tell you they take selfies all the time? Literally all the time. Lisa and her friends? I’d see them at the mall taking selfies with strangers.”
“So you don’t recognize him?”
“I didn’t see the man who took her,” she said. “I couldn’t see him. He was wearing a mask.”
“Okay,” Detective Waller said. “Okay. So you said.”
So you said. Maybe she hadn’t meant it to come out like that, but there it was on the porch between them. What did they think, that she had lied about the mask? That she had seen the man’s face? That she knew him?
“He was wearing a mask,” she said again. “I know he was. Didn’t the sandwich farmer say that, too?”
“Who?”
“The Deli Barn guy. Whatever his name is.”
What was his name? Had she ever known? She had forgotten about him, nearly. It was as if he’d been in the back room, unconscious, all this time. She thought of what Evan had said: “Bump on the head. Just enough to—”
“We have his statement,” Detective Thorn said.
“He’s been very useful,” added Detective Waller.
Why were they being so cagey? Across the street, Mrs. Reed walked out her front door, saw the police car, and went back inside.
“You haven’t gotten any unusual texts lately, have you?” Detective Waller asked.
“What do you mean?” Meredith asked.
“What time will your parents be home?” Detective Thorn asked.
“Soon,” she said, though this was not true. Evan would be here soon. But she felt if she said her parents would be here soon then the detectives were more likely to leave. Something had happened. They knew something. And now she was acting all weird—snotty, guilty even. She imagined the mental notes they were taking. Agitated. Defensive.
“We’ll check back with you in a couple days,” Detective Thorn said. “But I’d like for you to let us know if you see or hear anything unusual.”
She went into the house and locked the door. She slid off her backpack and stood with her back pressed against the door. They were still out there, on the porch. They weren’t talking but she could tell they were still there. What were they doing? What were they waiting for?
•
Evan didn’t get home until her parents had been home for over an hour. He rolled in, sweaty and swaggery, and stood at the kitchen counter eating his banana, even though the three of them were sitting at the kitchen table clearly eating dinner.
“We started without you,” her father said.
“We didn’t know where you were,” her mother said. “It’s almost seven o’clock.”
“I was with some of the guys,” Evan said.
“What guys?” her mother asked tightly, like the answer might be mobsters or heroin addicts.
“The guys,” Evan said. “My friends. Do I stink too bad? Do you want me to shower or can I sit and eat? Mer, do I stink?”
“No,” she said, without bothering to take a whiff. More people at the table meant less attention on her. That was simple arithmetic.
Evan filled a plate at the stove and sat down at the table.
“How is everyone?” he asked.
“Your mother wants to know if you’re going to play baseball this spring,” her father asked.
Her mother made a scoffing sound, with a little furious yelp at the end. “Really?” she sai
d. “That’s how you’re going to ask that question?”
“It’s true, isn’t it?” her father said. “That’s the question. Is that or is that not the question?”
“What your father meant to say,” she said, “is that he and I would like to know if you’re thinking about playing baseball.”
“I’m not thinking about playing baseball,” Evan said. “I am playing baseball.”
“Evan,” her mother said. “The doctor . . . ”
“The doctor, yes. I know what the doctor said. But the doctor isn’t in my head. The doctor doesn’t see what I see. Every injury is different. He said that, right? I’m not making that up. Every injury is unique. He said that, didn’t he, Dad?”
“He did,” her father said. When her mother scowled he turned to her and shrugged. “He did. He said it. The man said that.”
“Right,” Evan said. “So here’s the thing. I didn’t think I’d be able to see the ball well enough to play. But my brain knows where the ball is. The ball moves in a straight line. The ball is always the same size and shape. My brain gets it because the ball hasn’t changed. My brain doesn’t get a balloon. You could throw a balloon to me twenty times and I’d be lucky to catch it twice. But a pitch follows a line. And my brain knows the line because it’s seen the same line a million times. I can catch. And I can hit. And I can run. That’s all I need to be able to do. I’m not saying I’m gonna be in the Hall of Fame. I’m saying maybe I can play with my team for one more season.”
“You can hardly pour a glass of milk,” her mother said.
“You haven’t been paying attention,” he said. “I can pour a glass of milk. And I can hit a fastball. I hit one today at the cages. I hit a hundred of ’em, actually.”
“Really?” her father asked. “How fast?”
“The eighty cage. I was a little rusty because I’m out of shape. But, Dad, other than that, it’s just the same. I know the line of the ball. My brain knows where the ball is, even if my eye doesn’t.”
“That’s incredible,” her father said. “I can’t even—”
“I know, right? It is incredible. But it’s true.” He looked at her mother. He was right on the edge of a smile, a real smile. Meredith could see it coming. “Mom, I swear, it’s true.”
Her mother set down her fork. “What about pop-ups?” she asked.
“Jesus, Claire . . . ”
“What?” she said. “Don’t Jesus me. It’s a reasonable question.”
“Some things are harder than others,” Evan said. The expression that was almost a smile faded. “Some things are going to take longer to get right. No question. But . . . yeah, okay, of course. Some things are harder than others.”
“I’m very proud of you for getting back out there,” her father said. He put his hand on Evan’s forearm. “Whatever happens. I’m very proud of you.”
“Honey, Evan, I’m proud of you, too,” her mother blurted out. “I’m not saying I’m not proud. I’m only saying—”
“She’s only saying what about pop-ups,” Meredith said. “What about pop-ups? What about pop-ups? What about pop-ups?”
They all stared at her in silence. Part of her wanted to keep saying it. She felt like she could say it forever, say it until they had to take her to a hospital, say it until they had to give her the Thorazine again, say it until Lisa came home.
“Really, Evan, honey,” she said, turning it from crazy-town to nasty-town, doing her best, cruelest imitation of her mother’s voice. “What about pop-ups?”
Why did she want to hurt her mother, side with the boys? Her mother was right, after all: What about pop-ups? Her brother and her father were idiots, buoyed by a common dream. Any five-year-old on any pathetic T-ball team knew that baseballs didn’t always travel in straight lines, didn’t always rip mound to plate, or hand to glove, or bat to eye. What about pop-ups, those towering ones straight above the plate, a hundred feet in the air, the ones she’d seen Evan park under, his mask thrown aside, waving his arms, calling off the pitcher and the third baseman as the ball spun and wavered in the breeze, sometimes changing direction at the last second so that he had to lunge, throw that flat mitt out to snag it inches from the ground. Yes, what about those?
Her mother was absolutely right. Her mother who thought she could just sit in the Bellows’ living room drinking the Bellows’ coffee out of the Bellows’ mug acting like she knew every goddamn thing in the entire world. Her mother who always had an answer for everything, a reason why whatever it was you wanted to do wouldn’t work unless you did it her way. Her mother, always judging everyone, always knowing what was best for everyone. Why had her mother asked her about the stupid casserole? Driving home from the Bellows’, why hadn’t her mother asked her why the hell she was there to begin with?
•
The next day she walked into the PE locker room with Amanda and Becca, and instead of veering off to her usual spot in the corner found herself swept along into their aisle of lockers, the popular aisle, the one in the center of everything. Before she knew what was happening she was pulling her clothes out of her gym bag and opening a locker beside Becca’s. She glanced over to her normal area, the corner where she and Kristy had for almost three years now served as each other’s human dressing shield. Kristy was sitting on the bench with her back to them. Meredith turned to her new friends and found herself face-to-face with Amanda, who was naked except for her underpants.
“Want me to braid your hair real quick?” Amanda asked.
“That’s okay,” Meredith said. She sat down on the bench and stared straight ahead and slowly took off her shoes and socks. If she was slow enough, maybe they would go on into the gym without her. On her left, Amanda was wrestling herself into her sports bra. On her right, Becca, topless, bent over to slip on her shoes. Did they not know there was an order to things? Shoes off, socks off, leggings slid down and in one seamless move shorts slid up, shirt off, bra off with oncoming gym shirt as partial blocker, sports bra over breasts, sports bra strap adjustment, gym shirt on, socks and shoes on.
She peeled off her leggings without standing.
“Oh my god I love that birthmark,” Amanda said, plopping down on the bench beside her and putting her index finger on Meredith’s thigh. “Oh my god, that’s so cute.”
It wasn’t much, really, just a little sideways squiggle on her upper left thigh, although Meredith liked to believe it looked a little bit like a tiny dark bird in flight. No one had ever looked at this part of her body long enough to notice it.
“Let me see,” Becca said, squeezing in between Meredith and the row of lockers and crouching down. She traced the bird with her finger.
“I have one, too,” she said. “Birthmark. It’s not as cool.” She bent back and shifted her left breast and Meredith could see a small horseshoe.
“Ooh, some man’s going to love that,” Amanda said.
“What’s this?” Becca asked. She touched Meredith’s bare right knee. “Is that another one?”
“I don’t think so,” Meredith said. “I think that’s just a freckle.”
“It’s not a freckle.” Becca rubbed it with her thumb, then inexplicably blew on Meredith’s knee, as if the spot were an ash that might be swept away by a breath. The chill of Becca’s breath on her knee gave Meredith goose bumps up and down her arms, the same goose bumps she’d gotten when Steven Overbeck had drawn the watch on her wrist, and she hoped that no one could see them.
“You should probably have that looked at,” Becca said.
Amanda bent over to inspect it more closely. “That is kinda weird,” she said. “That’s how my aunt’s skin cancer started. With one spot.”
Meredith could not help herself—she glanced over at Kristy, who was already dressed (they could change in twenty seconds flat) and sitting on the bench tying her sneakers, watching the show. Amanda’s hand was on her left thigh and Becca’s thumb on her right knee. Alien examination, all the fun drained away.
The bell rang and Am
anda and Becca threw on their clothes and ran out with their shoes still untied. Kristy continued to sit on the bench looking at Meredith.
“What?” Meredith said.
“Are you okay?” Kristy asked softly. Meredith had known Kristy practically her whole life, and she had never wanted to smack her more than she did in this moment. She couldn’t stand the look on her face.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . are you okay?”
“Do I look not okay? Do I look like there’s something wrong with me?”
“I just—”
“Jesus, Kristy, it’s not like they raped me.”
She didn’t even know why she said it. The word hung between them for a moment and then Kristy got up and walked past her and into the gym. Meredith sat on the bench, still in her underwear, her heart pounding. She could feel their hands and their breath on her. From the gym came the throbbing of basketballs, five, then ten, then twenty, then thirty. She wanted to take a shower. She wanted to put on a winter coat. She wanted to wrap up in a blanket and sit on a couch. Or in a bathtub.
14
For years, watching Little League baseball had always bored Claire in precisely the same way that watching children run around a playground bored her. It wasn’t awful. It wasn’t a hardship to sit there on the bleachers and watch. If the day was pretty and she was sitting beside someone whose company she enjoyed, it could be a perfectly pleasant way to pass a spring or summer afternoon. But the game itself, the action on the field (if it could even be called action) could not hold her attention. When Evan came to bat, of course she watched and clapped her hands and cheered when he hit the ball hard or far, and also when he didn’t. But when the other boys were up to bat, or when Evan’s team was in the field and she couldn’t even see his face behind the chunky catcher’s mask, she did her best to appear engaged but she couldn’t have ever said, without looking at the scoreboard, who was winning, or by how much, or what inning it even was—only that it always seemed like it was the top of the third forever.
By the time the boys were ten or eleven, this lack of interest set her apart from almost every other parent in the stands, including her own husband, who perched for three hours on his row of bleacher as if he might at any moment have to spring over the backstop and join the game. She could not understand it when parents yelled at the umpire—almost always the same skinny, acne-faced teen who looked like he’d agreed to be an umpire with a gun held to his temple—nor when the parents made terse comments under their breaths about who should be batting cleanup or why the coach continued putting that boy at first base even though he always took his foot off the bag. “They’re ten,” she always wanted to say. “Who cares?”