Friday was Spirit Day, and God’s fist, made of angry black clouds, slammed down on Charleston with a vengeance. The wind kicked over garbage cans and sent trash skittering down the streets, whipping fine sand through the parking lot, lashing its grains against exposed ankles. By first period, everyone’s hair was ruined—the girl’s bathroom reeked of hairspray, the sinks were spattered with gobs of mousse. The breezeways became wind tunnels that blew up skirts and blasted faces red.
By the end of second period it was pitch dark outside the windows. Packs of football players gathered in the halls, muttering blackly about how their game had better not be canceled or there would be hell to pay. Something oppressive coiled around the school and squeezed. Five of the football players face-planted Dereck White into a garbage can. Someone shook up a Coke can and tossed it inside Carson Moore’s locker.
The rain smashed down during Spanish 2. One second Mr. Romasanta was conjugating asesinar, the next second his voice was drowned out by a wave of static as the full fury of the sky was unleashed. Cold water misted through the windows, followed by a scramble as the suck-up students raced to close them and turn on the air-conditioners.
That night, Abby didn’t eat anything except a bag of microwave popcorn in her room while she watched Dallas, Miami Vice, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous—anything that turned off her brain. The rain kept up all day Saturday, turning streets into rivers and yards into lakes.
Abby’s dad ran out to his shed early and stayed there all day. Abby hid in her room and distracted herself by cleaning out her closet. Normally the rain made her feel snug and cozy, but today it only made her feel cold.
She found her old Dukes of Hazzard lunch box where she kept all her pictures, and she sat on the bed with her stuffed animals and went through them, dealing out a deck of cards from her past: she and Gretchen dressed for the punk rock party at Lanie Ott’s house when they were all still friends; Gretchen in fifth grade showing off her moonwalk in the driveway. Gretchen asleep, covers pulled up to her chin, photographic evidence taken by Abby that she smiled when she slept (Gretchen still wasn’t convinced).
So many pictures right before a moment or after a moment; pictures of each other when they weren’t ready for the picture yet, or when one of them had her hat on when she meant to take it off or her sunglasses off when she meant to put them on. Abby talking, mouth in weird half-open shapes, Gretchen gesturing at unseen things Abby couldn’t even remember anymore. Abby laughing. Lots and lots of pictures of Abby laughing.
The summer after sixth grade it had rained like this. Abby and Gretchen had put cots on the screened porch of the Langs’ beach house on the Isle of Palms and slept outside every night, listening to the rain whisper as they fell asleep. For a week in August, Mr. Lang took off from work and stayed at the beach house, too. He spent the mornings on the phone, but at night they played Uno and Monopoly. During a lull in the rain, he took them shrimping to show them how to use a cast net, but it turned out he didn’t have a clue. A black lady fishing on the beach had shown them how to hold it in their teeth, sucking in salt water, biting the lead weights along the edge, then twisting their upper bodies and hurling the net like a carpet. They caught exactly one shrimp. It was delicious.
At night they lay in the dark, listening to 95SX play “Russians” by Sting and “Take Me Home” by Phil Collins over and over again, and they talked about how they’d move in together after high school, and they’d each get a cat and they’d name them Matt Dillon and Mickey Rourke, and even if they had boyfriends, they wouldn’t let boys get in the way of their friendship.
Now the rain came crashing down, and there was no one calling Abby and no one she wanted to call. She was completely alone, and she couldn’t imagine a future where it wasn’t raining.
She woke up Monday morning and decided she had to fix things. She took a hot shower and put on her face, then steered through the darkness, tires barely clinging to the old bridge, wind shoving the Dust Bunny from lane to lane; she vowed the whole way that by the time the day ended, she and Gretchen would be friends again.
Abby waited outside Mrs. Erskine’s English room for Gretchen to show up. As the last echo of the second bell died, the stairwell door swung open and Gretchen entered the hall. Abby had her statement all planned out, and then she saw Gretchen and couldn’t say a word.
Gretchen had cut her hair. The long blond frizz was gone, replaced by a tight halo of curls that hugged her scalp, showing off her neck, suddenly giving her cheekbones. There was a lump in Abby’s throat—she would never make such a huge move without consulting Gretchen first, and Gretchen had gone and done it without talking to Abby at all. Even worse, it looked great.
Gretchen’s skin wasn’t perfect, but it was clearing up and makeup concealed the rest of the damage. Her eyes were bright. She was wearing black stirrup pants and black Capezios and a leopard print sweater with a black turtleneck underneath. Her posture was perfect, spine straight, shoulders back, and she’d done her nails with French tips. Most of all, she glowed. She was beaming. She was healthy. She was beautiful.
“What?” Gretchen asked, hand on the classroom door, noticing Abby for the first time. Her voice wasn’t hoarse; it was thick and southern and sounded like normal.
“Are you all right?” Abby asked.
Gretchen wrinkled her brow.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked.
“All that stuff,” Abby said. “Last week? Everything that was going on?”
Gretchen raised an eyebrow and gave a half smile.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I’m fine. But maybe something’s wrong with you?”
New Sensation
“No way is that dillweed sitting here,” Margaret said.
It took Abby a second to realize that she was the dillweed in question.
Abby wanted to say “Up yours” or “I didn’t want to sit with you anyways,” but to her profound disappointment she found herself looking down at the grass, embarrassed, desperate to be allowed to sit at the picnic table.
The tropical storm had missed Charleston and veered out into the Atlantic, and Monday was humid and clear. It had rained the night before and the grass was still spongy. Margaret and Glee had commandeered the picnic table in the middle of the Lawn and there was plenty of room, but apparently it was for non-dillweeds only.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” Gretchen said. “I don’t know why she’s following me around.”
“Whatever,” Margaret said. “But I don’t want that thing speaking.”
Abby watched in shock as Gretchen sat down with Margaret and Glee and the three of them started talking as if she didn’t exist. Too humiliated to leave, too uncomfortable to stay, desperately wishing she could make up her mind, Abby started to sit, then stopped. She looked at everyone walking across the Lawn, throwing Frisbees, running and sliding over the rain-slicked grass in their dress shoes, and then she looked back at the picnic table and finally decided to perch at the far end. So it was like she was sitting with them, but not close enough to make anyone angry. Was that okay for dillweeds?
“I need a faculty advisor for the Environmental Awareness Club,” Gretchen said.
“Ask Father Morgan,” Margaret said, then she lowered the green apple she’d been toying with for the past few minutes and looked at Glee. “Glee would have to join.”
“Stop it,” Glee said, blushing.
“Father Organ,” Gretchen said, and she and Margaret collapsed onto each other’s shoulders, laughing.
“Father Morgasm,” Margaret said, and they laughed even harder.
“Father More-Than,” Abby said.
They both stopped laughing and stared at her.
“What?” Gretchen asked.