100 Days

by Nicole McInnes

  I squint toward the house. I hadn’t taken this possibility into consideration. It nearly kills me to think of the girls going in there. I tried to clean up as much as possible this morning like I do most mornings, but there’s a limit to how clean the house ever seems to get. It’s not like desperation can just be swept out the door. Plus, having near strangers in the house would probably give Mom a heart attack.

  “Agnes!” Moira calls out.

  I whip my head around in time to see Agnes tromping off toward the nearest cluster of pine trees with Moira in hot pursuit. “Talk to the hand,” Agnes says, holding a flat palm out like a traffic cop. “I’m peein’ in the trees, and don’t you dare try to follow me!” She says the last part with a southern sort of twang in her voice.

  Moira stops in her tracks. She turns and looks at me.

  “She’ll be okay,” I tell her. On a whim, I jerk my head toward where I’m standing, like Come here.

  Amazingly, she does.

  “So, I know this isn’t the time or the place,” I say when she’s right there next to me, both of us contemplating the new hole in the ground. “But I don’t think I ever said sorry about what a scumbag I was to you in sixth grade.”

  “You weren’t…” she starts to say, but then seems to think better of trying to be too polite just because it’s a solemn occasion.

  “Yeah. I was.”

  “Okay, maybe you were a little bit.”

  “I was a big one,” I tell her. “I hurt Agnes. And I hurt you. And I am so sorry. It shouldn’t have taken me this long to say it.”

  Moira doesn’t say anything for several seconds, just looks into my eyes like she’s trying to remind herself of something. “Apology accepted.”

  There’s movement near the trees—Agnes returning. “It’s beautiful here,” she calls out. Moira breathes a sigh of relief. As usual, Agnes has the little camera hanging around her neck. She reaches for it and takes a few pictures of me and Moira as she walks toward us. “I wish I could live in the country,” she says, sighing. “Hey, seriously? You guys should scatter some of my ashes here when I—”

  “Agnes!” Moira’s face is whiter than usual all of a sudden, and not just because of her makeup. Even her lips look pale.

  Jesus, I think.

  “I’m so sorry, Em.” Agnes is looking down at the ground. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  But Moira’s shaken. I can see it. “I just … there’s only so much I can take,” she says. “You know?” Fresh tears well up in her eyes.

  Nobody says anything for a few minutes after that. Moira walks off by herself a ways to regain her composure. I stand next to the backhoe, silent. Agnes looks down at the grave.

  Finally, Moira returns. Her expression is back to normal, and her voice is steady. “I think it’s time.”

  Nodding, I walk back over to the blanketed dog, pick him up, and carry him to the edge of the hole. Then I lower myself down there so I can arrange Bingo inside his final resting place. After climbing back out and brushing as much dirt as I can from my pants, I look at Moira. “Should we say a few words?”

  “Yeah.” She takes a deep breath. “Bingo is…” She lets the breath out. “Was. He was a good dog.” Her voice sounds a little unsteady.

  “He knocked stuff over with his tail,” Agnes adds quietly, which makes Moira laugh before she starts to cry again. She holds the back of her hand up to her nose as if to stop the tears, but they come anyway. She swipes a finger under her eyes where the mascara and eyeliner are starting to travel, blurring the lines of her face just enough to soften it ever so slightly.

  I start to look away out of respect, but then Agnes catches my eye and motions for me to join them. So I do. At first I just stand there on the periphery of the two girls, with Agnes on one side of Moira and me on the other. When a shoulder-heaving sob escapes Moira, though, Agnes hugs her best friend across the backs of her legs. It seems like the least I can do is make contact, too, so I put my arm around Moira’s shoulders. For a long while, the three of us just stand there like that on the edge of the freshly dug grave.

  49

  AGNES

  DAY 52: MAY 4

  I keep a close eye on Moira all the next day. There’s a feeling in the air like something’s about to crack, like ice on a lake when winter finally ends. I can’t explain it any better than that.

  50

  BOONE

  DAY 51: MAY 5

  Two weeks after my first run-in with our new neighbor, the Power Stroke is back. Its diesel engine idles in the driveway like a bad omen.

  One glance at Diablo’s empty paddock as I’m on my way out the front door to talk to Jackson Tate and I don’t even have to ask what the problem is. Tate’s timing is unbelievable; not only do I have a test in English first period, but now I’m probably going to be late again, thanks to him.

  “Had five hundred yards of gravel all leveled,” he yells through the open driver’s side window as I approach. “Damn horse cratered the entire driveway.”

  “Sorry,” I tell him. “Old man Wallace used to let him graze there.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what he used to do.” Tate’s face is all tensed up and red, like how I imagine a gigantic hemorrhoid would look sitting on top of his shoulders. “I’ll put a bullet in that animal’s head if he sets foot on my property again.”

  Technically, he’d be setting hoof on your property, I think, but I know better than to say it out loud. “Don’t you think that’s—” I start to say instead, but Tate (who I now can’t help but think of as Rhoid Face) cuts me off.

  “It’s my right as the property owner. You understand me, boy?”

  As long as I live, I think, I’ll never understand bastards like you. I take a step forward, and Rhoid Face leans back into the cab of the Power Stroke, away from the open window, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

  Before I realize what’s going on, an old rage rises up my spine so quickly that it threatens to blot out everything else in my brain. The rage rushes to my fists, too, like hot lava that might incinerate me alive if I don’t release it by smashing this son of a bitch’s jaw to smithereens. Fighting my instincts, I interlace my fingers to keep my hands under control and to keep myself from doing something I’ll later regret. I wouldn’t be much use to Mom in jail. “I just need to go grab a halter,” I mumble as I turn and walk toward the shed.

  Rhoid Face peels out of the driveway, sending dirt flying without so much as offering to let me ride in the bed. Asshole. Serves him right if Diablo causes more damage in the time it takes for me to walk over there.

  The damn horse has always been a Houdini. He used to let himself out in the middle of the night to go visit some other horses a mile down the road. It infuriated my dad, who was always the one to throw the halter into the bed of the truck and spin the tires in rage as he tore out of the driveway. He’d come back slower, with one arm out the window leading Diablo, the lead rope clenched tight in his fist. The whites of the horse’s eyes usually indicated he’d gotten more than just a mild talking-to on the way home, and he obviously equated the truck with being punished: it got to the point where he wouldn’t let my dad put the halter on him at all unless my dad arrived on foot. Now that Diablo hardly gets any exercise, his behavior’s becoming worse. I can’t risk the boneheaded animal getting shot, can’t even think about what that would do to Mom. Somehow, between school and my job and holding things down at home, I’m going to have to find time to start working him again.

  The thought of Rhoid Face having time to change his mind and load his gun in the minutes before I get there clears my head. I grab a halter from its nail on the shed wall and start down the driveway. I cover as much ground as I can while maintaining what I hope looks like a relaxed stride, just in case Mom is watching from her bedroom window. Only when I’m past the house do I break into a run.

  51

  MOIRA

  DAY 50: MAY 6

  On Friday night, Boone, Agnes, and I have p
lans to hang out. Agnes wants to go downtown, which her mom says is okay as long as I keep an eye out for her and make sure she keeps her coat on. Deb looks worried, though. She pulls me aside near the front door while Boone and Agnes go ahead.

  “The doctor told her not to get too chilled,” Deb whispers. “So she needs to watch her temperature. Her body fat percentage is lower than it’s ever been. I hate to have to put restrictions on the situation, but…”

  “We’ll take care of her,” I say.

  “Make sure she eats, too.”

  “I will.”

  The three of us head downtown, where the monthly Art Walk is already under way. Agnes seems so happy as we wander through all the different stores and galleries, happier than I’ve seen her in a long time.

  “I wish you guys could hold my hands and swing me back and forth between you,” she says.

  Boone looks down at her before I can say anything. “It would hurt your wrists, silly. I’ve already caused a broken arm. I sure don’t need any more injuries on my conscience.”

  I’m a little taken aback by how he just went there and brought up the old injury, but I also feel a flush of tenderness toward Boone at that moment. I know from long experience that it’s not easy to set boundaries with Agnes. Once you get to know her, you pretty much want to give her anything her heart desires.

  The evening air is warmer than it’s been all year. If there’s a chill in the breeze, it’s easily overlooked. On one edge of the town square, a shirtless contortionist is twisting himself into a pretzel on top of a Navajo blanket. He’s not much older than we are, but there are primal symbols tattooed all over his torso. At first, I think the way he’s twisting his body must be some kind of optical illusion, but then I realize there’s actually something wrong. He’s beyond double-jointed. It almost looks like he has no joints in his body at all. A cardboard sign on the ground in front of him says something about needing donations for his upcoming surgery. Agnes steps forward to put a few dollars in a bowl next to the sign, and he nods at her like she’s one of his tribe. She nods back.

  Nearby, a traveling bluegrass musician couple start a song in the middle of the square. They look like they’re in their early twenties. The woman plays a stand-up bass, and she stares at Boone with a dreamy half smile. He smiles back at her, and another kind of flush passes through me at the sight of it. I have a sudden impulse to place myself between the two of them. That would be a ludicrous thing to do, of course. Boone doesn’t belong to me. He’s allowed to smile at whoever he wants. The bass player’s partner is a bearded guy who’s playing the banjo and stomping on an antique foot drum. Both of them are dressed in clothes from another time—lace skirt and corset for her, a velvet-collared coat and fedora for him. They look like they raided their great-grandparents’ closets before heading out for the night. It’s such a cool look that it makes me feel self-conscious about my own getup—an old Bauhaus T-shirt that’s so faded and thin it looks like it might disintegrate any second, a long black skirt, and the usual drama makeup.

  Next, the three of us head over to a glassblower’s studio, where a massive kiln takes up most of one wall. Inside the kiln, a fire blazes so ferociously that I can’t look directly at it without my eyes starting to water.

  “This is the greatest thing ever,” Agnes says. The three of us stand there watching the glassblower turn a transparent, melty glob inside the fire with a pair of long metal tongs. “We should come down here every night during finals break. I’ve heard there’s always stuff going on.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Actually, I won’t be here during the break.”

  Agnes and Boone both frown at me, but it’s Boone who speaks up first. “Where are you going?”

  I feel caught in the act. I wasn’t planning on talking about this tonight. I haven’t yet figured out how to explain the thing that occurred to me the day after Bingo died. Basically, I realized life is short, and that this might be my shot. This might be the time in life when I’m supposed to rise above my wussy, uncompromising tendencies and have an adventure. I realized that I should just be brave already and take the opportunity to check out Berkeley.

  I started to see how it could work, despite the potential horrors of air travel. I saw myself walking around campus, maybe even passing for a college student. I saw myself laughing with my new college friends, hanging out in coffee shops and bookstores, talking about important stuff, maybe even becoming somebody interesting. Just yesterday morning I asked Mom and Dad to book my plane ticket. Needless to say, they were thrilled.

  “My brother has a place in Berkeley,” I tell Boone now. “I’m going to stay with them for the week, check out UC Berkeley, that kind of stuff.” I’m aware of Agnes’s eyes on me, aware that I’m talking too fast all of a sudden. “I didn’t want to at first, but my parents sort of convinced me. It should be okay, I guess. It’ll go by quick.”

  “I think it sounds awesome,” Agnes says.

  Boone just frowns again. Agnes must think he looks cute doing it, because she reaches for the camera hanging around her neck and snaps his picture in the orange glow of the glassblower’s fire.

  52

  BOONE

  DAY 49: MAY 7

  Setting out the hummingbird feeders and the birdseed in the impulse-buy zone near the registers, I remind myself to be cool. It’s not like Moira and I are dating or anything. Technically, we’re not even friends. So I helped bury her dog. So we hung out with Agnes downtown. I know better than to think those things mean more than they do. Besides, Moira is clearly on the kind of upward trajectory I’ll probably never be on. She’s going to check out a university that she might attend in the not-too-distant future, and what am I going to do while she’s gone? I’m going to investigate the new groaning sound that’s started up recently whenever I downshift the truck from third to second, that’s what. It sounds like somebody’s torturing a narwhal under there.

  My boss, TJ, walks by on his way to talk to a customer. “How’s it going?” he asks as I unbox another bird feeder.

  Living the nightmare, I think. “Going great,” I answer, giving a thumbs-up for emphasis.

  53

  AGNES

  DAY 48: MAY 8

  “You don’t have to do this, you know. I could probably just make something really nice myself.”

  “Nonsense,” my stepmother says. It’s Mother’s Day, and we’re standing outside a store called Chica Bonita where they sell dresses for first communions, confirmations, and quinceañeras. Kid-size mannequins wearing white gowns and veils crowd the display window. Mom said she didn’t mind if my dad and Jamey kept me for a little bit on Mother’s Day, which was nice of her. This was the only time Dad could watch Isaiah and the twins before Jamey took them to visit her parents in Oklahoma. My stepmother isn’t a big believer in nonfamily babysitters. She worries about outside influences. Still, I’m surprised she’d want to go dress shopping on a Sunday, even if she did tell me she was planning to attend the evening service instead of going to church this morning.

  “Tuesday night is going to be special for you and your father,” she says. She holds the door open for me and smiles cautiously at the middle-aged Latina woman who welcomes us inside the store. “We can go a little fancy. I won’t hear of your wearing something homemade or plain.”

  I’m not sure how to respond. Jamey is pretty much the queen of homemade plainness. She wears humility like a badge most days. No makeup, no bra, hair pulled back in the simplest of braids (which is just a complete waste, as far as I’m concerned. If I had long, thick, wavy hair like Jamey’s, I’d never tire of finding ways to show it off). Jamey looks just one shade less religious than the Amish people I’ve seen on TV and occasionally walking around downtown in family groups. But whatever. I can deal with it for an afternoon. I don’t want to burst Jamey’s bubble or anything, but the truth is I wonder how much of a “special night” this father-daughter chastity ball is really going to be. I’ve pretty much tried to avoid thinking about it at al
l.

  We spend about an hour in the store. By the time the dress is finally paid for, I’m exhausted and starving, so we hit a drive-thru. Afterward, Jamey pulls into a grocery store parking lot and tells me to sit tight in the booster and enjoy my food while she runs inside. A few minutes later, she comes out with a big bouquet of flowers. “For your mom,” she says as she gets back in the car and sets the flowers down on the front passenger seat.

  I’m not even sure what to say other than, “Wow, that’s really nice of you.” Which is true. Suddenly, I feel bad about all the times Moira and I have laughed about how over-the-top my stepmother can be sometimes. When we get to Mom’s house, I extricate myself from the booster seat and gather up my stuff. “Thank you so much for the dress,” I tell Jamey before opening the door of the minivan. “Have a good trip to Oklahoma. Happy Mother’s Day.”

  “I thought I might say hi to your mom,” she says. “If you think it would be all right.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Actually, I’m not at all sure it’s going to be all right, but what am I supposed to say?

  Jamey carries the dress and some other stuff so I can carry the flowers. Once we’re inside the house, I call out to let Mom know I’m home.

  “Be right there, sweetie,” she calls back from her room.

  “Um … Jamey’s with me.”

  Silence. I glance at Jamey and try to smile.

  She’s cringing a little. “It’s okay,” she whispers as she heads for the door. “Maybe another time.” She’s just about to step outside when Mom appears in her old sweats and weekend hair. She’s not wearing any makeup, and it’s clear she’s been having one of those hedonistic days we both love so much—days when you never change out of your pajamas and you eat whatever you want while simultaneously watching a movie, reading a trashy novel, and painting your toenails. When I hand her the flowers, she gasps and tells me it’s the prettiest bouquet she’s ever seen. “Thank you so much for bringing Agnes home,” she says to Jamey.