by Amy Brashear
“Carlson was my friend.” Liam looks at me with sad eyes. “It’s hard to lose a friend.”
“Did my mom tell you what happened in Holcomb?” I ask.
He nods.
“It’s hard to lose a friend,” I echo.
Then all of a sudden, Mom is introducing me to Senator Kennedy, and I shake his hand. I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye for more than a second. His grip is firm and hearty, and I’m surprised by how dry his skin is. It feels like warm sandpaper. Maybe that’s what happens after you shake a hundred thousand hands.
“I can’t believe how big your children are,” he says to Mom.
I muster the courage to meet his gaze. “Is it true that you, Liam, and my uncle blew up a toilet with a firecracker?” I ask him.
He glances sheepishly at Governor Docking and whispers, “Yes.”
Everyone bursts out laughing. My mom’s face is flushed. She once said that I’m a lot like my uncle Carlson. Since I’ve never met him, I couldn’t tell if she meant it as a compliment or not. But judging from the way the senator and Liam are acting, I think I know now.
“Give my best to Jackie,” Mom says, hugging the senator one last time.
“I will,” Jack says.
“Promise me you’ll make your way to Manhattan soon,” Liam says, hugging Mom.
“Sooner if this one runs for president,” Mom replies.
Jack flashes a bright smile. “I haven’t made any decisions.”
“Oh, you know you’re going to run—”
“Becca,” the senator interrupts. He punctuates her name with a glance born of old times I can only imagine. But then he shrugs, the intimate warmth fading. “Besides, there wouldn’t be any point if half the country thinks I take orders from the pope.”
“Or that you’ll build a tunnel to the Vatican,” Liam adds.
Jack nods. “Exactly, and that is the problem,” he says stiffly. “I have to convince people what you already know. I serve my country. Not as a Catholic. I serve as a Democrat who happens to be Catholic.”
Mom’s adoring eyes are fixed on her old friend. “You have to run,” she whispers. “You do have a lot of support out here. Look at that crowd tonight . . . They want you to run.”
Jack relaxes for a moment. “To be honest, I’m shocked by that. I can’t imagine being a Catholic out here. You’d almost be an outsider. People eye you differently and they suspect you do horrible things.”
“Pig-headed people,” Liam points out.
I want someone to agree with him. But the grown-ups have moved on with their hugs and good-byes, bantering away. Anyway, I’ve stopped listening. At the word suspect, a terrible thought occurs to me, one that hadn’t even entered my mind until this very moment. But now I wonder, do people think Bobby’s a suspect in the Clutter murder only because he is Catholic?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tonight’s the Sadie Hawkins dance. Skinning an entire cow by myself sounds like more fun than going, but my mom thinks that if I don’t go, I’ll end up regretting it. It’s actually been a big fight between my parents. My dad doesn’t want me to go since I’m grounded, but Mom thinks it’ll be good for me to be around people who knew Nancy, too. I overheard my parents discuss me in a tone I really didn’t care to hear again, one that made me sound like a criminal.
“She could have been in more trouble if the sheriff wasn’t so understanding. She could have gotten herself killed,” Dad said.
“Yes, I know, dear, but it’s just a dance. She won’t get into any trouble at a dance. She’ll still be grounded after it,” Mom said. “Who knows how she’ll suffer here alone?”
After some tense negotiation, they emerged with smiles, not knowing I’d eavesdropped.
So I’m allowed to go. Funny that I don’t really want to go. And I tried telling my parents that. Even using the “I don’t have a thing to wear” excuse. But that’s a lie. Aunt Trudy sent me one dress. A designer label—a Chanel—a thing that you can’t get at Penney’s. It’s a black silk lace chemise dress, sleeveless. It has a swoop neckline and goes just down to my knee. The dress that Nancy was going to let me borrow, the one that was found draped over a chair next to her bed, is now buried six feet under.
Mom lets me pick one of her handbags, while Dad prepares to take my picture with his new camera. It’s a Kodak something-or-other. He’s very proud of it. He mounts it on a tripod and fiddles with it, trying to look like he knows what he’s doing.
“You do look fantastic,” he says reluctantly. Before he can start snapping way, Asher bursts through the front door. It’s cold outside, nearly winter, but he’s wearing gym shorts and a basketball jersey under his coat. He’s drenched in sweat.
“I made the team,” he announces, collapsing on the couch beside me.
I grimace. He stinks. As in: literally. He reeks.
Mom pinches her nose. “You smell like a boys’ locker room,” she says in a nasal voice.
“Now, how do you know what a boys’ locker room smells like, dear? Do tell,” Dad says with a smile, looking up from his camera adjustments. At least my father’s mood has improved.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to,” Mom says, laughing.
I turn to Asher, careful not to wrinkle my dress. “Good job,” I tell him.
“Thanks,” he says. He stares at the camera and scratches his sweaty scalp. He doesn’t look excited about being on the Longhorn basketball team, not like he should be. Not that I can blame him. But something else is clearly bothering him, something beyond missing his friend.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
Asher grabs the basketball beside him and brings it to his chest and sits his chin on the logo. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says.
“Something is. Tell me.”
“It’s nothing,” he says.
I wait for him to continue. Dad sees that he forgot to load film, so he and Mom scurry upstairs to fetch it.
“Kenyon . . . he should have been there with me,” Asher says.
“He was.”
“Not really.”
“Really.”
Asher sniffs. “You know what I mean.”
“I do. So tell me what’s really bothering you.”
Only then does he shift on the couch to look at me. “Some of my new teammates are going over to the captain’s house,” he murmurs under his breath so that Mom and Dad can’t hear as they bound back downstairs. “Should I go?”
“Kenyon would want you to be happy you made the team. You two worked hard.”
“Exactly. We worked hard. Celebrating feels wrong—”
“Carly, your dress,” Mom yells, shattering the moment. She throws her hands every which way, motioning for me to get up. Dad is back at the tripod, trying to shove a roll of film into the camera. I exchange a glance with Asher, who shrugs.
I smile. I hope the smile says what I’m thinking: Kenyon wouldn’t want you to feel like this.
Asher smiles back for the briefest instant, but that might only be because our parents are making complete jackasses of themselves.
After snapping what seems like a zillion photographs, Dad gives me a ride to school. Before I get out of the car, I’m reminded of the rules:
Rule number one: come home right after the dance because you’re grounded.
Rule number two: no going out cruising on the Garden City square because you’re grounded.
Rule number three: do not do anything that results in having the sheriff come to the house.
“Do I make myself clear?” Dad asks as I open the front passenger door. A blast of frigid air greets me. Shivering, I place a heel on the pavement, eager to escape. Has it gotten colder?
“Yes, sir,” I say.
Funny that my dad is starting to sound like Nancy’s dad when it comes to rules. Or m
aybe not so funny.
“And Mary Claire will drive you home—”
“I know, I know,” I interrupt. “Mom already talked to her parents. I’m allowed to have fun until eight-thirty, and then I’m grounded again. Like Cinderella.”
There are apparently only two boys left in the school without dance partners at the Sadie Hawkins dance. Ronald and Patrick. They have chosen to lurk nearby. Then they close in. Now they stand on either side of me—Ronald on my right; Patrick on my left—next to the refreshment table, each slurping his punch. I hope and pray that neither of them asks me to dance. They do give hints, lots of hints. “Carly, you look pretty” and “Carly, that’s such a nice dress,” but neither of them comes right out and says Carly, please ask me to dance. Thankfully it’s traditionally up to the girls to ask the boys, and I won’t dare ask.
Seth is on the other side of the gym. I watch him. Maybe he sees me, but he doesn’t look at me once; he’s standing with Audrey Phillips. I can’t help but feel annoyed. She doesn’t even go to our school! But she jumped at the chance to take Seth to the dance when she found out we had a fight. I guess that means we really have broken up.
My angry eyes scour the brightly lit gym floor, then the shadowy places at the top of and alongside the bleachers. I spot Karen Westwood dancing unenthusiastically with some tall boy I’ve seen at the 4-H. I spot Mary Claire trying to hide—probably from Alex Baker, whom she’d invited only because I’d originally invited Seth. There’s no sign of Bobby, though.
Should I have asked Bobby to the dance?
I shudder at the thought. Of course not. That’s sick. He’s in mourning. He lost his girl.
“Hey, Carly?”
Alex Baker is suddenly standing right beside me.
“I know the girls are supposed to do the asking, but I thought I’d ask anyway,” he begins.
His acne stands out in stark relief under the harsh overhead lighting. I can see a smudge on the black plastic frame of his glasses. He pulls his red suspenders out with his thumbs for no reason I can possibly see . . . If he wants to appear relaxed, he appears more like a grandpa.
“Do you want to dance?” Alex finishes.
I’m not sure how to answer that question. Marie Claire asked him, and he’s Seth’s friend, so why is he asking me? What’s his endgame?
I shake my head.
“Oh, okay,” he says awkwardly. His hands fall to his sides.
I whirl toward Mary Claire. Thank God she spots us. She motions me over with her punch glass. I nod. Luckily the song is coming to an end, and Seth breaks free of Audrey at the same moment. He waves at Alex to go outside for a smoke. This is my chance. I’ll beg Mary Claire to drive me home immediately; I’ll tell her I don’t feel well. I race across the gym floor so fast I nearly trip, and when Mary Claire hands me some punch, I spill it all over my new black silk lace dress.
In the girl’s lavatory, standing in front of the basin, I stare in the mirror at the big wet stain splattered across the dark fabric. I grab a paper towel and run it underneath the water, adding a small drop of soap. But when I try scrubbing the stain until it’s soapy, I’m left with a huge wet discoloration. It feels cold against my skin.
“It’s not going to come out.”
Mary Claire is standing right behind me. Did she follow me in? I didn’t even notice. I have to laugh: people seem to be materializing tonight at all the worst times.
“I know,” I groan.
“It’s a pretty dress. Is it from Aunt Trudy?”
I nod.
Mary Claire’s eyes brighten. “I knew it! She has the finest taste. But black? Come on, Carly, you don’t have to be in mourning.”
“I don’t?”
She lowers her gaze.
I turn to face her. Neither of us says a word.
“They should have canceled the dance,” I remark in the silence, mostly to fill it.
“Honestly, Carly,” she murmurs, looking sideways at me. “Think about who’s here and who isn’t. You could have stayed home if you were upset.”
I open my mouth, then close it. She’s talking about Bobby, of course.
“Nancy wasn’t a good friend, really,” Mary Claire continues. Her throat catches. The words are a shaky whisper, but her stare is unflinching. “You tutored her. She pretended to be your friend for the good grades that you got her.”
My jaw drops. “How do you know I tutored her?”
“I may look oblivious, but I’m not stupid,” she says, blinking.
“No one was supposed to know.”
“Carly,” she says hoarsely. “You and Nancy had nothing in common. You’re taking her death way . . . you’re taking it way too hard for someone who barely knew her.”
I swallow. My eyes start to sting. “That’s mean.”
“The truth hurts sometimes.”
“Don’t you care that she’s dead?” I turn back toward the sink and dab my eyelids with a tissue.
Mary Claire’s face goes pale in the mirror. “How dare you ask me that?”
I spin to face her, but she’s already halfway out of the lavatory.
The door swings shut behind her. My shoulders slump. What am I doing? I ask myself. Why am I hurting my friend? My teary eyes wander back to the mirror.
Leaning forward over the basin, I stare at the pimple that’s popping out on my chin. Standing up straight, I smooth the wrinkles out of my dress. The stain mocks me. I try to smile, but all I can do is sneer. It isn’t going to get any better than this.
I need to apologize to Mary Claire, though. That will help. I collect myself and stride to the door.
When I swing it open, I find Karen Westwood standing right there, as if she were waiting for me.
Against my better judgment, I let Karen drive me home. Mary Claire must have left the dance, because I couldn’t find her anywhere. Serves me right.
Karen’s driving is a cross between Aunt Trudy’s and Lee Petty’s, the 1959 Daytona 500 winner.
“I heard about your sneaking into Nancy’s house,” she says, slamming on the brakes at a stop sign. “I bet that was really spooky.”
“Spooky?” I repeat.
“You know . . . because they died . . .”
“Yeah, I get it.”
Karen Westwood and I aren’t exactly friends. Nancy Clutter and I knew each other at least, even if we were only friendly in secret. But the only thing Karen and I have in common at all is 4-H.
On the other hand, I feel like I know Karen as well as anybody else in Holcomb.
She’s of a type. She likes to stir up trouble, to spread gossip and rumors, especially if they’re not true. When my family first moved here, I was the hot commodity. Everyone wanted to know the new girl from New York City—the girl who didn’t have a drawl, who overdressed, who didn’t like the smell of cow manure. But that air of glamorous mystery, that potential, quickly dissipated. I was the weird new girl who didn’t have a drawl, who overdressed, and who didn’t like the smell of cow manure. I was the outsider.
“You know people think that you had a part in it,” Karen announces.
I shake my head, too tired to put up a fight. “No, they don’t.”
She steps on the gas with a screech. “Yes, they do. Why would I lie about that?”
“Just try not to kill us,” I croak. “Okay?”
“Don’t be so melodramatic.”
I make sure my seat belt is fastened. She’s not wearing hers.
“Why do people think I had a part in it?” I ask.
“Because you’re an outsider.”
“I’ve lived here for three years,” I counter, even though she’s just confirmed every thought I’ve ever had about my status.
“That’s really not a lot of time to get to know someone,” she says. She turns to wink at me. Her smile is bright in the darkness
of the car.
“Come on, Karen. Keep your eyes on the road—”
“Come on, Carly . . . if that’s your real name.”
I clutch the door in panic, but I still manage to laugh. “Not everyone believes that he’s innocent,” Karen adds.
“Who’s he?” I ask.
“You know.”
“Well, if we’re talking about the same person, he is. Innocent, I mean.”
Karen chuckles as she picks up speed again. “So you say.”
“So the evidence says.”
“Evidence? What evidence?” She glances at me, taking a curve with the gas pedal on the floor.
“Nothing. Just please look where you’re going.”
“People don’t die for no reason.”
It takes me a petrified moment to realize that she’s turned onto my street. I’m home. I made it. Alive. I let out a gasp of relief. “You’re right,” I say as the car lurches to a halt. With trembling hands, I unbuckle my seat belt and glare at her. “Some people only die if someone kills them.” Karen just smiles at me wickedly, clearly not getting the subtext.
“Get out of my car,” she says.
My eyes narrow. I can’t believe the gall of this girl. Grabbing the door handle, I shake my head. “Can I ask you a question?”
“I guess.”
“Do you think it’s strange that Mr. Stoecklein didn’t hear anything that night?”
“Who?”
“The farmhand on the River Valley Farm.”
She shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
The horrible truth hits me. Karen Westwood is glad Nancy Clutter is dead. Not that I think Karen had anything to do with it. She’s awful, but not evil. Still, the murders have done two things for her: they’ve conveniently gotten rid of her competition in the popularity department, and they’ve supplied her with the biggest windfall of wild rumors she could have ever dreamed of.
“You’re a peach; you know that, Karen?”
“A peach.” She laughs. “I’ve been called a lot of things—but never a peach.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE