“Leave me alone,” Gretchen said.
“What is going on?” Abby asked. “Where have you been?”
Gretchen rubbed her arm where Abby had grabbed it.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Why haven’t you called?” Abby asked.
“I don’t know,” Gretchen said, and she seemed genuine.
“Why’d your mom drop you off?” Abby asked.
Gretchen stared over Abby’s shoulder.
“Doctor’s appointment,” she mumbled.
“What kind of doctor?”
The seconds ticked by.
“Did you ask about the flashbacks? Did you tell him you threw up?”
“It wasn’t that kind of doctor,” Gretchen said, and on the last word her face turned bright red and her forehead furrowed.
Abby didn’t understand. “What kind of doctor was it?”
Gretchen sucked in a big whoop of air and began to cry. “To see if I was a virgin,” she wailed, covering her mouth with the crook of her elbow to muffle her scream. Then she bit down hard on her arm, her teeth sinking into her sweater as tears slicked her face. Abby pulled Gretchen’s arm out of her mouth and led her deeper into the chapel garden, getting her to a bench and sitting her down.
Gretchen slammed her feet on the ground. “Fuck them,” she hissed. “Fuck them, fuck them, fuck them. I hate them.”
“You are a virgin, right?” Abby asked.
Gretchen’s eyes zoomed in on Abby.
“You’re my best friend,” she said. “How can you even say that?”
Abby looked away.
“Why’d they take you?” she asked.
Gretchen stared straight ahead and Abby turned to see where she was looking. Behind her was the auditorium garden, the brick walkway, the sidewalk, and the distant Lawn where fourth graders were filing outside with Mrs. Huddleson’s turtles. Abby realized Gretchen wasn’t seeing any of it.
“I had to put on a robe that didn’t cover anything,” Gretchen said. “Then the doctor made me put my feet up in stirrups so he could see everything, and then he stuck his fingers inside of me. They were freezing cold, and afterwards they gave me a tissue to wipe out the grease, but I can still feel it down there.”
Gretchen’s pupils were pinpoints. She was breathing hard.
“That’s sick,” Abby said.
“My mom said it’s because of the noises,” Gretchen whispered. “She and my dad can’t sleep at night because of noises in my room.”
“What noises?” said Abby.
Gretchen bit a hangnail off her little finger and spat it out.
“Sex noises,” she said.
Abby didn’t understand.
“From your room? What are you doing?”
“Nothing!” Gretchen snapped. “I’m sleeping. I’m finally sleeping. They’re liars. And they lied to the doctor, and now he thinks I’m having sex.”
“Your mom’s crazy,” Abby said. “They can’t do this. It’s child abuse.”
Gretchen wasn’t listening to her anymore.
“They’re going to tell everyone,” she said. “They want to get rid of me. They want to send me to Southern Pines.”
“Did they say that?” Abby asked.
Southern Pines was worse than Fenwick Hall. Southern Pines was where crazy kids went, and even Riley wasn’t bad enough to wind up there. But it existed, somewhere out in North Charleston, the ultimate threat. Cause too much trouble, cross some invisible line, and your parents sent you, like Sweet Audrina in the V. C. Andrews book, to get electroshock therapy and lose your memory, one toasted brain cell at a time.
The fifth-period bell rang.
“The doctor has a file on me,” Gretchen said, tears gathering along the bottoms of her eyes as she held up her thumb and forefinger two inches apart. “This thick. I’m not going to let them send me away. You can’t let them.”
The sky was thick with clouds and a strong wind pulled them to shreds. No one was sending Gretchen away. This kind of thing didn’t happen to people like them. Abby found a ragged Kleenex in the bottom of her bag and wiped Gretchen’s face.
“It’s going to be okay,” she said. “You’re just tired.”
Gretchen jerked her head away.
“If they send me away, I’ll kill them both,” Gretchen said. “I’ll get my dad’s gun and kill them both.”
“You don’t mean that,” Abby said.
“I begged them to help me,” Gretchen said. “I begged them. And they put my name in for prayers at church and—”
Gretchen couldn’t go on. She dug her fingernails into her knees, squeezing so hard her wrists shook. Abby tried to pull on them, to make her relax, but Gretchen kept digging in.
“What happened?” Abby asked.
“It was an accident,” Gretchen said, letting go of her knees and swiping tears off her face. “I threw up again.”
“In church?” Abby asked.
Mute with shame, Gretchen met her eyes and nodded.
“They know you didn’t mean it,” Abby said.
“They made me eat oatmeal,” Gretchen said. “I told them I didn’t feel good, but they didn’t listen. They decided I had to have breakfast. They decided that’s what’s good for me. They never ask me what’s good for me.”
“When’s the last time you ate something?” Abby asked, taking Gretchen’s left hand in hers.
“I can’t,” Gretchen said.
“It’ll settle your stomach,” Abby said. “I’ll get you Donut Stix and ginger ale from the machines.”
“No!” Gretchen said, pulling her hand away, her eyes wide. “Everything I eat tastes nasty and rotten. I’m so hungry and I’m so tired, I don’t know what to do anymore.”
Abby put her arm around Gretchen’s shoulders and pulled her close while Gretchen buried her head against Abby’s chest and hyperventilated. After a few minutes, Abby tried rocking her from side to side. A minute later, Gretchen held her palms out.
“We are the world,” she whisper-sang, rocking into Abby from side to side. “We eat the children.”
She exhaled sharply through her nose, and now they were both rocking from side to side all cheesy, singing their own private version of “We Are the World.”
“We put butter on everything,” they both whisper-sang. “And just start chewing.”
In sixth grade, Mrs. Gay had made the lower school choir do a special lunchtime performance of “We Are the World.” Gretchen had been Kim Carnes. Abby, who had no musical ability whatsoever, was relegated to playing Quincy Jones, standing in front of the choir and pretending to conduct. In blackface.
Now, sitting in front of the auditorium, late for class, they did the Cyndi Lauper part, and the Bob Dylan part, and by the time they’d re-created the Stevie Wonder/Bruce Springsteen duet, Gretchen was dry-eyed enough to clean up her face.
Abby got them both into their next classes with late notes from Miss Toné, and at lunch she bought Diet Cokes for Margaret and Glee and used everything she had to convince them to sit with her and Gretchen.
“She’s totally sick,” Abby told them. “She wants to apologize, but she feels awful.”
Margaret remained unconvinced. Gretchen had made her look bad in front of her senior boyfriend, and she’d never forgive her. But Glee dreaded any kind of unpleasantness.
“It’s supposed to be gross all week,” Glee said. “Let’s sit outside while we can.”
“Exactly!” Abby agreed.
Together, they bullied Margaret into going, and for the rest of lunch they all huddled together on the Lawn, under gray skies, and the entire time Abby told herself that it wasn’t so bad. But it was. The wind was freezing. Margaret sat on the bench, not talking. Gretchen sat on the grass, not talking. Margaret barely ate. Gretchen barely ate. Abby and Glee had to do enough talking and eating for all four of them.
“Did you do your notecards for The Scarlet Letter?” Abby asked Glee.
“Oh my God, it’s so boring,” Glee said. “And why are we supposed to feel sorry for Hester? She’s a tramp.”
Abby and Glee talked about the homecoming dance and PSATs and Spirit Week while Gretchen and Margaret stared into space. The conversation limped along until the bell rang and Margaret bolted without a glance back. Glee followed.