“Sorry,” Glee said. “My sister was being a total pig. Can you hear me okay? What were you saying about Wallace?”
Abby told Glee everything. She told her about Gretchen’s confession, Gretchen’s parents freaking out, driving to Wadmalaw when Margaret wasn’t there and finding the wine cooler bottles and the Dukes of Neon graffiti. It was a relief to get it all out, and Glee was a good listener. If Abby hadn’t been able to hear her breathing, she would have assumed Glee had hung up; she was so quiet, but that was Glee. Whenever you had a problem, you could count on her to focus.
Finally, Abby finished. Neither of them said anything for a minute.
“This is why she said those things about Wallace?” Glee asked.
“It’s what happens, right?” Abby said. “You have someone do that to you, and then you kind of go crazy. She’s not thinking right, Glee.”
“But do you really think Wallace did it?” Glee asked. “He told Margaret he’d never cheat on her.”
“I know,” Abby said. “But boys lie all the time. If Margaret believes Wallace, then she’s super naive. Wallace brags about other girls all the time.”
“That’s not nice,” Glee said.
“But he does,” Abby said. “You’ve heard him.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Glee said, and that’s when Abby should have known something was wrong.
“What are you going to do?” Glee continued.
“I have to tell someone,” Abby said. “I thought I’d start with Wallace. See if he admits it. If not, I’ll go to the police. And if they won’t listen to me, I’ll tell everyone at school.”
“What about Margaret?” Glee asked.
“I don’t know,” Abby said. “That’s the tricky part. Maybe I should tell her first?”
“No,” Margaret said. “I don’t think you should tell Margaret first.”
Abby almost dropped the phone. Her stomach and head hollowed out and her hands turned numb. Glee had her on three-way calling.
“Don’t you ever come near us again!” Margaret screamed. “You’re jealous of Wallace, and you want to fuck up everything that’s good in my life!”
Abby was trying to talk at the same time.
“Margaret!” she was yelling. “Margaret! Margaret! Margaret! You have to understand—”
“I don’t have to understand shit, you slut!”
“You have to talk to Gretchen!”
“Fuck you!” Margaret snarled, and then she was screaming directly into the mouthpiece; her voice was louder than Abby’s, blowing out the earpiece speaker. “Stay away from us! Stay the fuck away from us or I will fuck you up! You want to be pals with Gretchen—fine! You tell her your sick little lies. But if you look at us, if you talk to us, if you say anything to anyone near us, I will get my dad to sue the shit out of you!”
Margaret’s line went dead. Abby sat there, her ear ringing, and then realized that Glee was still on the line.
“Glee . . .” she said.
“You’re evil,” Glee said.
And hung up.
Total Eclipse of the Heart
Spirit Week was the school’s annual festival of misrule.
Faculty hated it because they got through less material in class, the administration hated it because handbook violations increased, parents hated it because it threw carpool schedules out of whack—but Spirit Week was impossible to stop. It was Christmas in October. It was the carnival of chaos.
It was the worst week of Abby’s life.
Monday was Twins Day. Last year, Abby and Gretchen showed up in matching outfits. This year Glee and Margaret were dressed alike and they refused to speak to Abby when she tried to apologize. Gretchen didn’t show up at all.
Tuesday was Dress-Down Day, when everyone wore jeans and attended the Battle of the Bands at lunch. Last year, Abby and Gretchen had sat on the Lawn and watched Parish Helms play, bending over his bass, the sun burning his blond hair white. This year, Gretchen wasn’t in school and Abby was wandering through the auditorium garden, looking for a place to have lunch, when a carton of milk exploded on the sidewalk at her feet. She looked up. Standing in front of her was Wallace Stoney, wearing his football jersey, face blank, breathing hard through his nose.
“You want to get stomped?” Wallace asked.
Abby looked around to see if anyone was nearby, but everyone was on the other side of the Lawn watching a Wallace-less Dukes of Neon play “Brown-Eyed Girl.” She looked back at Wallace. His pupils were pinpricks, his nostrils were flaring.
She tried to walk around him. Wallace blocked her way.
“You think I would piss on Gretchen Lang if she was on fire?” he asked. “You think I’d stick my dick in that cooze if she begged me?”
Abby held very, very still. When she spoke, she chose her words carefully.
“I don’t think anything, Wallace,” she said, making sure to keep her eyes down.
Because she wasn’t watching, she didn’t see his hand swing until it was too late. He didn’t hit her hard, but it took her by surprise and she stumbled to one side, dropping her books.
“No one spreads lies about me, bitch,” he said, stepping up close.
Abby flinched and Wallace smiled, then he shoulder-checked her and walked away.
Abby needed to speak to Gretchen so bad. It wasn’t just Wallace, it was everything. All the pent-up things she had to say clouded her brain, made her drunk, slowed her thinking, thickened her tongue. She said them to herself when she drove home from school, she tried to write them down, she told them to Geoffrey the Giraffe. Finally her fingers picked up the phone and dialed Gretchen’s number by themselves.
“Hello?” Mr. Lang said. “Hello?”
Abby slammed down the receiver. It buzzed beneath her hand.
“Hi, I’m Mickey!” the phone said. “Hi, I’m Mickey!”
Slowly, Abby lifted the receiver.
“Abby,” Mr. Lang said, “if you call our house one more time, I’m telephoning the police. You are not wanted here.”
That night, she snuck out her window and drove to the Old Village and parked at Alhambra Hall. She walked the block down Middle Street to Pierates Cruze, and in the darkness she stood beneath Gretchen’s bedroom window and threw rocks at the glass. They were tiny, but the sound echoed around the block.
“Gretchen!” Abby hissed. “Gretchen!”
When she finally gave up and turned to go, something swooped down out of the darkness. Abby threw herself to the ground, skinning her palms on the dirt road, barely holding back a scream. Looking up, she saw a great horned owl glaring at her from the branch of a live oak across the street. Abby picked herself up and got the hell out of there.
Wednesday was Nerd Day, when everyone pulled their pants up high, wore rainbow suspenders, and buttoned their top buttons. Everyone except Abby. She just kept her head down.
Thursday was Slave Day.
Five years later, Slave Day was gone as if it had never existed, but in 1988 no one dreamed that it could possibly be offensive. It was a tradition.
A clot of students was clustered around the front office window, where the Slave Market was posted. It was a giant piece of white butcher’s paper, and the idea was that students could buy a slave for a set price. If the slave didn’t beat the bid by one dollar, then they were “owned” by their master, who would make them do whatever she wanted during the lunchtime Slave Parade. The master might make the slave wear an ugly sweatshirt, or if she was feeling really evil, the slave would have to wear her bra on the outside of her clothes. Some guys would make a girl wear a leash and walk the Lawn on all fours like a dog. All the money raised went to the Alumni Fund, so that made it okay.
Miss Toné was out front with a marker writing down names of slaves and owners. Abby gave the list a glance and then froze. It was right there in Miss Toné’s rushed block letters.
owner: Gretchen Lang