Playing Nice

by Rebekah Crane

  "Why do we go to church? We don't even pray before dinner."

  The words fall out of my mouth and splatter onto the floor before I can think better of it. Both my parents look at me, eyes bulging out of their heads, like I've transformed into a three-headed atheist monster who believes in abortion and gay marriage.

  I take a breath and hold it. My mom's verbena lotion is all over my skin. She hasn't changed it in seventeen years. I even know her morning routine, how she starts by applying it to her face, then moves to her legs and arms and stomach. In the end, she's covered in a layer so thick nothing from the outside world can reach her.

  Mom pulls the newspaper up to cover her face and smacks it open. "Wear the blue dress I got you a few weeks ago. The one with the black belt. It's a good color on you."

  The headline on the front page reads: ONE PERSON DEAD. ONE STILL MISSING. I can practically feel Lil's lifeless body in my arms and my knees gets wobbly, like I might not be able to stand for much longer. I force my legs to move and walk back to my room, no longer hungry. Still no email from Lil.

  Taking the blue dress out of my closet and placing it on my bed, I get in the shower. Black and white words flash in my head: ONE PERSON DEAD… ONE STILL MISSING.

  ***

  My stomach hurts all through church. We sit in our usual pew five rows from the front, not so close that the Reverend will stare at us the whole time, but close enough that everyone knows the Harts are in attendance. I fumble with the hymnal, dropping it twice.

  "What's wrong with you today?" my mom whispers.

  I'm worried I'm an accessory to murder and an orange adult onesie is going to be my new signature outfit.

  "I'm just tired," I say.

  The rock of worry is slowly working its way into a solid wall of panic. Every hour that Lil doesn't respond to me, it grows.

  My mom gives the yarn she bought yesterday to mean old Mrs. Schneider and asks her to make me a sweater. My neck itches just looking at the blue wool.

  At home, I strip off my dress and go directly to my computer. Nothing. I want to scream. For a second, I contemplate going over to Lil's to check on her and wring her neck for getting me into this situation in the first place, but then I decide that if she's dead it won't do me any good to return to the scene of the crime. Plus, her mom looked at me last night like I might give her bird flu or something.

  Instead, I type into Google: R P McMurphy.

  A book—One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest by somebody named Ken Kesey—is the first thing that pops up. I skim the Wikipedia entry, distracting my mind so I stop visualizing Lil, dead in the trailer where I left her. I even download the book onto my Kindle and read the first fifty pages. Finally, I can't stand it any longer.

  To: RPMcMurphy@o-mail.com

  From: marty.hart@o-mail.com

  Randle Patrick McMurphy,

  From this point forward, I'm going to assume u r dead and I don't care.

  From,

  The Chief

  PS- I figured out what ur email means.

  I wait. It's five in the afternoon. A police car should be pulling into my driveway any second. A Minster cop with a mustache will walk up to my door and politely ask for Marty Hart. My mom will cry. My dad will shake his head. The front page of the Columbus Dispatch will read: MINSTER'S NICEST PERSON NOT SO NICE.

  The computer dings.

  To: marty.hart@o-mail.com

  From: RPMcMurphy@o-mail.com

  Don't say things u don't mean.

  I breathe for the first time today. Thank God she's not dead.

  ***

  "Did you go to a movie with Alex Saturday night?" Sarah comes up behind me as I wait for the bus on Monday morning. I turn and find her, straight-lipped, hair pulled into a ballerina bun on the top of her head. Just like the first time I met her. Shit.

  "Did my mom tell you that?"

  "Duh," she raises her eyebrows. "Your mom told my mom."

  "He asked me last minute. It's no big deal." I spin my hair around my finger, trying to act calm.

  "I thought you were against boys who wear jerseys."

  I shrug my shoulders. "I made an exception." The answer comes out more like a question, the last word rising upward in hopes of Sarah buying it.

  "Whatever," she says. Sarah takes a compact out of her backpack and checks her hair, running a hand along the top of her head to make sure no curls are loose. It's cold and humid, the weather finally turning into typical Ohio in November. Rain, sleet, cold, wind, repeat. "We have more important things to discuss."

  "What?" I say.

  "Like what we're going to wear to the Hot Shot dance. Should we go casual, dressy, hunting glam?"

  "What's hunting glam?"

  "I don't know. Maybe sparkly camouflage? Whatever we decide, we need to go shopping pronto," Sarah says as we climb onto the bus.

  We sit in our regular seats and she keeps talking, going through every item of clothing she owns and explaining why it's inappropriate. My boobs look flat in that shirt. Those pants give me muffin top. That dress looks like something a drunk hobbit would pick off the sale rack at Kohl's.

  At my locker, I pull out books like a pre-programmed robot. A collage Sarah made me in art class earlier this year hangs on my locker door. The words musical, pretty, great hair, and dork, all glued together with different colored letters from magazines. Two girls' heads, one with brown hair and one with red, are pasted next to each other in the center of the paper with the letters BFF in bold underneath. Under the collage is the poster from Guys and Dolls. Why does it all look so fake today? Like a different person has been living in this two-foot by one-foot space for the past few months and I'm stuck looking for something that isn't there.

  I jot down on a loose piece of paper:

  Lost in a sea of pretty,

  As deep as the shallow end,

  Of a pool frozen with a layer of glass,

  One step and I fall through.

  "Pollyanna?"

  I almost drop my math book as I stuff the paper into a folder.

  "Lil?" My voice squeaks. She cocks her head at me and I worry she saw what I wrote. Dark brown sloppy hair is pulled into a messy ponytail on top of her head and her big red sunglasses shade her eyes. Her white skin is almost translucent and one word pops into my head: vampire. "You look terrible."

  "Thanks, ass wipe."

  "I'm sorry. What I meant was, how are you?" I try to smile, but the scared feeling from Saturday night comes rushing back to me and I want to punch someone.

  "Fucking fantastic. Now that we've established that." She turns to walk away.

  "Wait." I grab her arm. Her skin is clammy. "Why do you live in that trailer?" I ask. They aren't the words I want to say. I want to ask her if she remembers anything, if she knows she could have been raped, if her head hurts and she wants me to get her some water, if she was telling the truth when she said she doesn't hate me.

  "Because my grandpa's an alcoholic bastard with a one-track memory and he won't let my mom inside his house." Her eyebrows rise above the top rim of her glasses.

  "Why?"

  "Why do you care, Pollyanna?" Lil says it like it's a challenge, like she's daring me to feel for her.

  "I was scared Saturday night. Like, really scared," I say. Those are the words I wanted to start off with but couldn't find.

  "Well, I survived … though this two-day hangover makes me wish I hadn't."

  "You look just like her, you know. Your mom. She's pretty." Lil doesn't say anything, just spins her skull ring around her middle finger. "Matt asked me to dance with him Saturday night," I say, a bubbly, uncontrollable giddiness rolling through me. It makes me want to throw up or burst into a million pieces.

  "At least one of us had a good time." I can tell Lil wants to say something else because her lips purse and her nose pulls up into the snort face people always make when they're holding something back. Instead of speaking, Lil takes off her sunglasses and puts them on her head. Black eyeliner is
smudged around her red-rimmed eyes. She takes a breath. "Everyone in town hates my mom, but they're wrong about her."

  "Why do they hate her?"

  "Just tell me you believe me," Lil says. She grabs my hands, her eyes fixed so strongly on mine that there isn't a chance of wavering.

  "I believe you." I whisper.

  Putting her sunglasses back on, she says, "Thanks for saving my life," in a muffled voice. The words are so quiet I'm not sure if Lil actually spoke them.

  ***

  That afternoon, I almost faint when Matt Three-Last-Names walks up to me in the hallway on my way to a WelCo meeting. My heart drops to my knees, my body remembering every moment of ecstasy, every fingertip on my back, the way my hand pressed against his heart.

  "What are you doing here?" I say. Shit. Shit. Shit. What are you doing here?! That's a terrible opener!

  "It's school. Aren't we supposed to be here?" Matt says in a husky, sexy, oh-my-God-I-want-to-grope-you way.

  "Right," I whisper. I'm losing it. He's wearing a tight white undershirt with sleeves and jeans. I scan his whole body before deciding his simple outfit is the most delicious thing I've ever seen. It makes my limbs turn all gooey, messy like Jell-0.

  "Did you have a good time Saturday night?" Matt asks.

  "It was interesting." I twirl my hair around my finger and force myself to blink. If I look into his green eyes for too long, I'm worried my entire brain will turn to mush and I'll scream: touch me, please! Kiss me, please! Have sex with me, PLEASE!

  "Interesting is a good way to describe Lake Loraine." Matt smiles and tilts his head. I can't stop looking at his mouth. His lips are so round. The top makes a perfect heart-shape and he licks them ever so slightly after sentences. "I want to give you something," he says.

  "Okay." I might faint. Breathe, Marty.

  "Here." He takes off one of his black jelly bracelets and slides it onto my wrist. When his fingers touch my skin, everything in my body explodes into one massive shiver. He reaches his hand up and cups my cheek in his palm. OH. MY. GOD. I say it over and over, trying to block out the voice in my head that's telling me good girls don't think about sex, just kissing and holding hands. I might die right here on the gum-encrusted school floor from holding my breath and I don't care.

  "Well, it was good to see you, My Hart," Matt says.

  I stare at his butt as he walks away, his jeans hugging his hips with just the right amount of tightness so it looks like a shelf. A shelf I want to rest my hand on. I sink back on the wall and stare at my wrist, not sure if my legs can move.

  I'm late for WelCo.

  ***

  Sitting in the Special Ed room, my mind topples over the many hurdles that have come up in the past few days. I can barely wrap my head around everything. I don't even hear Ms. Everley until her voice starts to get louder.

  "Marty, are you paying attention?"

  I blink and look at her. The v-neck of her red dress dips so low I can see the divot between her boobs. "Did you get the decorations for the Hot Shot dance?"

  "Um..." I shake my head clear. "I did."

  "Great. What theme did you settle on?"

  My mouth sputters for a second while I try to form the words. Bon Jovi plays on repeat in the back of my head, a montage of bad 80's hair. "Shot Through the Heart". My mom was the one who suggested I sign up for WelCo in the first place. Another activity to add to the list. But I hate shaking sweaty palms. And walking next to smelly freshman. But it's all a part of the plan and it makes me a better person to suffer through the sweat.

  "Shot Through the Heart," I say. "That's the theme."

  Ms. Everley smiles. See, it's a great idea, my mom's voice whispers in my ear.

  "That's very nice."

  I swallow, fighting the strangulation I feel around my neck. Why is it becoming so hard to breathe in my own skin? Why is it I want to scream and tear the Hobby Lobby bag stuffed under my bed to pieces, like I did my original design?

  "Thanks," I choke out.

  "Moving on to the new girl. I think it's our responsibility to make her feel extra welcome. Does anyone have any ideas?" Ms. Everley asks.

  Giggles pepper the room and whispers start to fly like a thousand wings flapping in the breeze. Soon the classroom is abuzz with so much chatter Ms. Everley can't control it.

  Kathryn Harris leans toward me. "I heard the new girl got kicked out of her old school," she whispers.

  Kenton Studier leans into Kathryn. "I heard her mom is a stripper in Lima."

  I picture Lil's mom. A stripper? She wasn't even wearing a booby shirt on Saturday night, and something tells me thongs are strictly forbidden in Lil's household unless they're black and say Up Your Crack. If I was going on appearance alone, Ms. Everley would be the highlight act of the Crazy Horse out on Highway 81—and she's an English teacher.

  "I heard she got pregnant and was forced to leave town," Pippa Rogers says, leaning back in her chair and almost falling over.

  "Who got pregnant, Lil or her mom?" I ask.

  "I don't know," Pippa scoffs, and sit up.

  I slouch back in my seat. Everyone hates my mom, but they're wrong.

  No one comes up with a way to make Lil feel welcome. Instead, every single person in the classroom gets up and walks out before the meeting is formally adjourned. I stay in my seat, staring at one of the posters I made when I ran for president. For some reason, it's still hanging on the wall.

  Vote for Hart. A girl with a heart for Minster High.

  "Is everything okay, Marty?" Ms. Everley asks, collecting papers from the desk and shoving them into her black bag.

  "I'm fine," I say.

  The world's worst word.

  CHAPTER 8

  As the week passes, words start to fall out of me at weird times, like my internal cup is overflowing and I'm trying to catch everything before it spills on the ground for people to see.

  One day after gym class, I feel so overwhelmed to get them down that I scribble everything on the bottom of my tennis shoe. By the time I get home, all that's left are the words sifted, cacophony, and bad ass. I write them down and stuff them in my box anyway. It's getting packed, the crinkled papers stacking up, and I think I might need another one for all my words.

  How is it possible that for seventeen years I thought I knew me? Now an alien has crept to the surface and I can't decide if it's going to eat me alive or help me breathe better. Part of me knows what I'm writing is wrong, that if my parents saw everything I thought they'd be so disappointed. But the other part of me, the part deep down that bubbles and wants to erupt and coat myself over until I'm born into new skin, knows I might explode if I don't.

  Some days I even have a hard time looking at my parents, seeing them in all their X and Y glory and knowing that maybe I want something different. I'm scared that if my mom knew all of me, she might not like me. She said once that a person can love someone they don't like.

  I didn't particularly like your grandmother, Marty, but I will always love her.

  It was weird when she said it because it was at Grandma's funeral and all these people kept telling me I was just like her. I cried that night, thinking my mom might not particularly like me. Is it better to be liked or loved? And what's the difference? Do you tear up the house of a person you like or does every corner remind you of the good times and the thought of ruining those memories makes your heart hurt?

  But on other days, I'll see my mom cooking a healthy dinner and I'll know that saying this tastes fantastic, even though it really tastes like feet, will make her feel good. And then my inner voice that wants to scream disappears. On those days, I remind myself that being an X joined with a Y is a good life.

  Most afternoons, I find myself hiding in a patch of forest behind our house. My dad calls it "No-Nana Land" because my grandma refused to sell the trees before she died. Someday that wood is going to be worth more than the soil it's rooted in, mark my words, she would say. No one ever goes back there, but even now that my dad o
wns the land, he won't cut down the trees. When I was younger, I used to spend every day here, pretending I was a princess locked in a castle or Laura Ingalls Wilder exploring the frontier. I would get lost in my imagination; it all felt so real, like I'd become someone else for hours at a time.

  I never thought about the girl who walked out of the forest and back into her pink bedroom. What she believes in. Who she wants to be. I thought my parents would tell me because they know best. And maybe they do, but even when I think that, the boulder keeps pressing on my chest.

  Lil doesn't say much to me, just sits in class listening to Ms. Everley and picking at her nails. One day, she rubs her pen over the same spot on her desk until a long groove forms. Then she gets up and leaves when the bell rings.

  I stare at the black mark, my brain screaming that she's just vandalized a desk and walked away, and how could she do that? But then I think, it's just a desk. Someone carved the word FUCK into the right-hand corner of mine. At least all Lil did was leave a line.

  I know I should lean over and talk to Lil, but I don't. For some reason, her not saying anything doesn't bother me. I have a feeling Lil has said a lot of words in her life and maybe not saying something means more to her than actually talking.

  Why does a leaf change?

  Its color shifting from constant green,

  Into so many colors,

  Like it no longer knows what it wants to be,

  Maybe the entire time it was green,

  It felt like red,

  It had to wait for the seasons to change.

  I write that one afternoon after I see Matt in the hallway at school. I replay our moment together, running my fingers over the black jelly bracelet he gave me, until I'm tangled in thoughts of him. My stomach gets tight, like I might be sick, the most wonderful sick I've ever been. Sick with love or like, I can't decide. If you don't always like the people you love, I think I want to like Matt. My parents love each other and they don't kiss very much and all I want to do is kiss Matt.