“I hope it does,” Mary agreed, uncomfortable with what she knew, and the dishonesty of her omission. She wasn’t ready to face those truths.
Chantel looked back, pointed. “There’s your mom, waving to us. Is this Ernesto guy her boyfriend?”
“Yeah,” Mary said.
“You like him?”
They watched from a distance as Ernesto rolled a practice ball down the lane. He looked compact and surprisingly powerful for a short, stocky, elfishly bearded dude with pizza sauce (already!) on his shirt. The pins thundered into one another. A raucous strike. Ernesto gave up a hoot and performed a comic dance of joy with a big-time fist pump, causing Mary’s mother to laugh out loud.
“He’s okay,” Mary said. But her thoughts were elsewhere. How did she get in the middle of something between Chantel and Alexis? They continued to pressure Mary to get involved in the next phase of their attack against Chantel. And Mary kept putting them off.
Why did she have to pick a side?
Mostly she wondered: Was knowing—just knowing—a crime?
31
[catch]
Somehow Mary got assigned the crummy job of raking the front lawn. Not all the leaves had fallen yet, so it struck her as a waste of time, like making a bed that you were only going to sleep in again later that same day. What was the point? She wore black jeans and an unbuttoned flannel over a long-sleeved tee. The raking was harder than it looked when other people did it. Mary felt an ache in the muscles in her arms and upper back. Good exercise, she decided, and an opportunity to think.
Chantel weighed heavily on her mind. It turned out that Tamara did see them at the alley after all, so word got back to Alexis and Chrissie. They weren’t thrilled with that news, though Mary did her best to downplay it. They still sat together at the lunch table. All seemed forgotten—until yesterday, when they came to Mary with a task.
A task? Maybe a test? They asked for Mary’s involvement in “a little thing” they were planning for Chantel. While Mary raked leaves down to the curb, considering her options, she saw Eric walking a golden retriever down the street. It was curious, because Eric didn’t live close by. Mary shifted her feet, placing her back to the boy, and kept piling up leaves.
And after a while, he said, “Hey.”
What a surprise.
The dog strained against the leash, so Mary came forward to pet its head and shoulders. Eric told her that this one wasn’t his. He walked dogs as a way to earn money. “You live here?”
“No, I just randomly rake leaves at strangers’ houses,” she deadpanned.
The dog, Ginger, looked thirsty. Mary ran inside to get her water. Maybe she just wanted Eric to linger a little longer. They sat down on the curb together, Ginger noisily lapping. “I haven’t seen you hanging out with Griffin and Cody and those guys,” Eric noted.
Mary tore at a maple leaf. “I’m trying to stay away from them. Too much weirdness.”
Eric seemed to understand. He nodded in that thoughtful way of his, as if life were a Rubik’s Cube to be puzzled over and solved. That if he could only think hard enough, and long enough, it would all fall into place. Ginger whined and Eric stood, reluctantly, getting ready to go.
“Do you want company?” Mary asked.
They walked through the suburban streets to the dog park, a fenced-in enclosure where Ginger could run free. Mary found an old tennis ball and hurled it. Ginger raced after it, thrilled beyond all reasonable measure. This was the most exciting thing in the world. A ragged old tennis ball. And every time one of them threw the ball, it was the most exciting thing in the world all over again.
Goldens weren’t exactly rocket scientists.
“Good arm,” Eric noted.
“That’s right,” Mary said, glad he noticed.
Her cell began to blow up with messages.
“Is something the matter?” he guessed.
Mary frowned, showed Eric the Photoshopped image intended to portray Chantel Williams. She confessed that Chrissie and Alexis wanted her to come over. “They want to get her back for liking the wrong boy.”
“What are they going to do?”
He threw the ball. Ginger didn’t move. She rested her chin on the cool earth, exhausted. Eric repeated his question.
Mary tucked back an errant strand of hair. How to explain it? “They are talking about making some anonymous web page. They want me to help. I’m good with computers.”
“You’ve done stuff like that before?”
Mary nodded, feeling a tightness in her chest. “A little bit.”
It was time to go, but Mary wasn’t ready to leave Eric’s side. That would have meant going back to her house, that big pile of leaves, and the choices and consequences she’d been reluctant to face. Besides, she liked being with him.
“So are you going over there?” he persisted. And the way Eric looked at her—and waited for her answer—told Mary that her reply was important to him. Eric wanted her to say the right thing.
“No, I’m sick of it,” Mary heard herself say, surprised at the bitterness that burned beneath her words. “Girls are the worst. We can be so freaking mean.”
Eric asked if she wanted to go for pizza. And she totally did. They dropped off Ginger and went into town. It wasn’t a date, whatever that was. Few people Mary’s age knew what an actual date involved, though she guessed it was probably some combination of eating and chewing and awkward silences and kissing and teeth mashing together. Dates seemed like something from olden times. Getting a slice, on the other hand, wasn’t strictly a boyfriend-girlfriend situation. It was just two people who felt like having a random slice of pizza, Mary told herself. Right? It didn’t mean anything. But it was quietly exciting just the same.
They laughed about school and talked about different classes. Eric told her he was determined to try out for the modified basketball team, though not many seventh graders made it. He seemed, also, to have his own troubles. He talked about Griffin Connelly, troubled by recent events. Mary guessed that he was beginning to see Griff’s dark side. She considered telling Eric about that day with David Hallenback, terrorizing that helpless boy with ketchup packets that scorching summer afternoon when they first met. She decided against it. “Let’s not talk about him,” she finally said. “That guy’s not worth it.”
“Cheers,” Eric said, raising his strawberry Snapple.
He walked Mary all the way back to the front of her house. There was still some light left, the sun almost dropping behind the trees. Mary stepped inside and came back with a bag.
“Peanut?” she offered.
She didn’t want to see him go.
“Um, seriously?” Eric said.
“I’m addicted,” Mary said, immediately regretting the word choice. “It’s ballpark food. Nothing better.”
Eric took one peanut, crushed it between his thumb and forefinger, slid off the paperlike skin, and popped the nut into his mouth. He reached for more, and took a large handful.
“See what I mean?” Mary said. She dropped the bag to her feet and plopped down, cross-legged on the October grass. “I got hooked at my brother’s baseball games. My mother dragged me to every one, said it was important, you know, being a family. And I guess she bribed me with peanuts.”
Mary unshelled a few while talking, never looking down, feeling them with her fingers. Soon there was a small mound of broken shells on the lawn, eight raw peanuts in her palm.
“Do you play ball?” Eric asked.
Mary shook her head. “Used to, softball. Pretty good, too.”
Eric leaned back on his right hand, assessing her. “Shortstop?” he guessed.
Ha, Mary laughed. She jumped up, windmilled her arms, leaped forward, and executed the complex motion of a softball pitcher’s underhand windup.
“Pitcher!” Eric said, clapping. “That’s a hard windup. Do you have a spare glove and a ball? I’d like to see this in real time.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I do,” E
ric insisted. “Then I have to get going. My mom’s probably wondering.”
“Then she should get you a phone,” Mary countered.
“True fact!” Eric said.
“Jonny’s glove is probably in the garage somewhere. It’s been a while. We throw all our sports crap in a big contraption.”
“A contraption!”
“I don’t know what to call it,” Mary laughed. “It’s just this big boxy netlike thing. Where we shove our stuff. Rollerblades and basketballs and Frisbees and whatever.”
“Yeah, you’re right, that’s technically called a contraption,” Eric said.
Mary skipped off and returned with a bright green softball and two gloves. She flipped a glove to Eric, who snared it midair.
They began tossing the ball back and forth. Finally Eric said, “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”
“I’m out of practice,” Mary said, somewhat doubtfully. But almost in contradiction, she expertly paced off the distance, turned, and with a flattened hand gestured for Eric to squat in the catcher’s position.
“Ready?”
Eric nodded. “Try not to hurt me.”
Mary raised her glove just below her eyes, right hand on the ball. Her face was composed, relaxed, intent. She breathed in and the machinery started: her arms swung up and back, her hips came forward, her left leg pointed straight out, and everything leaped forward as the ball zipped from beside her right thigh, fast and true.
A perfect strike.
Mary couldn’t keep the big smile off her face. It was, she decided right then and there, maybe the most beautiful pitch she’d thrown in her life.
“Nasty!” Eric took off the glove and blew on his hand, flexing his fingers. “I’m pretty sure it’s broken,” he joked, and tossed the ball back to Mary.
Mary snatched it with casual grace. “Now I’ll show you my drop pitch. When it’s on, I’m unhittable.”
32
[apology]
Days passed. Mary didn’t go to Chrissie’s house or get involved in their plot against Chantel. She didn’t do a thing. Lift a finger. Or say a word. Just stood by and let it happen.
Hoping, maybe, it would play itself out.
Not bad if you can live with yourself.
There’s a tipping point in friendships, Mary had learned. It begins with a twilight stage, an in-between. During these past few weeks, Mary belonged and yet didn’t belong. Her grip was slipping. She felt it in different ways, a million subtle signs: an expert eye roll, a whisper, a comment, a “like” on social media or not, a stinging insult accompanied with an insincere smile. It came down to inclusion and its opposite, exclusion. One example: everybody signs up for a club meeting after school on Tuesday, but Mary is the last to know. She can join the group—it’s a free country, after all—but no one made the plan with Mary in mind. Come, don’t come, whatever.
Mary was like a plane that was steadily losing altitude—engine two was malfunctioning and leaking gas. Still aloft, technically, but it wouldn’t last. Only a matter of time before she hit the ground and burst into flames.
Mary could especially sense it regarding Chantel. Suddenly the hot topic wasn’t discussed anymore. Or, at least, not when Mary was around. Maybe Alexis and Chrissie didn’t trust her anymore. The hive brain understood before any individual person could articulate it: Mary still had a seat at the table, but she was out.
Summers never last.
And for Mary, the truth was, it felt fine.
Mary was ready to be her own person, no matter the cost. She also sensed trouble brewing for Eric. Something was going on between him and Griffin. Mary didn’t trust Griff, and now, for good reason, neither did Eric. She remembered what Griff said that day behind the middle school: “I told him that I was a good guy to be friends with, and a lousy enemy.”
Even worse, she heard Sinjay and Pat goading on Cody the other day, saying he should take care of business with Eric. “We’ve got your back,” Sinjay said. Mary made a decision to warn Eric to watch out. Don’t trust any of those guys. Griff was a master manipulator. When he was pulling the strings, bad things were bound to happen.
Then last night the messages went out. Texts and emails and links, the whole social media onslaught—snarky, supposedly funny, pure nastiness directed at Chantel Williams. There was even a website dedicated to it. The source of the attacks was nameless, faceless. They’d done a good job covering their tracks. Tamara must have helped; she was smart that way.
Mary didn’t sleep well that night, staring blindly into the darkness, and in the morning she stood before the bathroom mirror, facing the disapproval of her identical twin. Mary’s face frowned at her reflection, visibly unimpressed—and, yes, she could see that by the fold of her arms and the cock of a hip. Mary turned to the smaller makeup mirror on the shelf. She leaned in close, flipped it for the intense, giant close-up. What was happening to her skin? Blotches, dry patches, blackheads. Stress, probably. She applied benzoyl peroxide to her face, washed and rinsed and dried, then rubbed in an oil-free moisturizer her mom had purchased. She scowled again at her twin’s disapproving expression. If you don’t like it, do better, the face in the mirror told her. Mary nodded at the message of her wiser twin. Do better, yeah, she’d give it a whirl.
In home base, third period, Mary overheard a couple of girls laughing about Chantel. It was all over school. The big joke. Mary fumed, her face contorted in anger. Tamara snapped back, “Like you’re the innocent one. Keep your mouth shut.”
Mary had to get out of there. She literally wanted to climb out the window. Fortunately, Mr. Scofield gave her a pass. Walking down the halls, Mary felt her whole body vibrate with anger and frustration.
By lunchtime, Mary had been ostracized. Dead girl walking. She’d lost her seat at the table. Not that Mary cared anymore. Being alone felt better than sitting with the wrong people. Not that it felt good. Her thoughts flashed on Jonny. Did he ever feel like this? So sad and empty, like a plastic bag blowing in an alley, that he needed something to fill him up again? Was that why he did it? Mary gave sidelong glances at Chantel, who sat huddled with two friends. The way she sat, the expression on her face, everything about Chantel spoke of misery. She was hurting. Embarrassed and in pain.
Mary waited until lunch was over to talk to Chantel. To tell her the truth. Chantel was standing off to the side of the schoolyard, leaning against the building with a small group of friends.
“Chantel,” Mary said softly.
One girl, Beatrice Rosario, stepped up in front of Mary, blocking her path. But Mary set her shoulders. She didn’t budge. “Please,” she said.
Beatrice looked back at Chantel, who nodded sharply.
Mary came forward. “I’m so sorry.” She reached out a hand to touch Chantel on the arm, to connect, but Chantel pulled away. “Chrissie and Alexis—” Mary began, sputtering to explain, “No, I mean, me—I haven’t been a good friend to you. I was silent when it mattered most—I didn’t stand up—and I am so sad and so sorry.”
Chantel listened, arms crossed, slouching against the brick wall, never looking Mary in the eye. After a while, Chantel’s breathing became more regular, her emotions under control. She nodded once or twice. Scratched her arms. Finally, Chantel raised her chin and stood tall. “You hurt me very much, more than you’ll ever realize—”
“Yes, I know, and I’m so sorry,” Mary said. “But—”
“No, you don’t get to talk,” Chantel cut her off. “It’s my turn to talk. You can listen, or not listen. I honestly don’t care.”
Chantel looked away, her head shaking. She lifted up a hand, made a waving gesture as if swatting away a fly. “Just … just … go. I’ve heard your words, Mary. But that’s all they were. Just words. You’re sorry. Okay, maybe you are. Good for you. Now go, leave me alone.”
Mary hesitated.
Chantel turned away.
“You heard her,” Beatrice piped up. “Go.”
Mary looked at Beatrice. Nodded in def
eat. This wasn’t how she’d hoped her apology would play out.
“Wait,” Chantel called. “Tell me why. Do you know? Why did they do this?”
Mary looked up. To the right, over the crown of trees, a mass of white cumulus clouds hovered, rimmed with sunlight. She imagined painting it, all the colors she’d need. Not just blue and white, but gray and silver, green, even yellow and pink. It would be nice to make something beautiful for a change. Four black crows landed in the open field, close to the tree line. The scavengers picked at something—a gray, dead squirrel. They pecked and ripped and hopped away, gulped and swallowed and butted in for another bite.
“Hakeem,” Mary finally said. “I think it started with Hakeem.”
“Hakeem?” Chantel repeated. “A boy? Those girls did this to me, all over some boy?”
A guttural sound came from Chantel’s throat. A laugh, a screech of fury and astonishment. Mary knew she would hear that cry echoing in her ears for a long time to come.
“Time’s up, buttercup,” Beatrice said, leaning close and whispering in Mary’s ear. “Now vanish.”
Mary wished she could. Instead, she walked toward the doors. Still had half a day to go. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Eric standing alone. He wore a puzzled expression on his face, which was typical of him. He was always trying to decipher meaning from the complex code of middle school behavior. She saw that he was watching a conversation between an unlikely pair, David Hallenback and Griffin Connelly, walking and talking close together, thick as thieves.
33
[rumor]
Somehow Mary got through the rest of the school day, a crippled ship drifting through rocky straits. The final bell blared, and they were released to the buses and bike racks, the sidewalks and coffee shops. The halls resounded with the metallic-gunshot clang of slammed lockers. Students raced off to the next thing. Sports practice, cheerleading, play rehearsals, band, chess club, LGBTQ meetings, the town library, a friend’s house, the skateboard park, the shimmering universe inside their phones—a hundred urgent places to be.
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