He was looking at me, and I wondered if my face had changed. If I would look different now, not the same girl he’d been recreating on canvas for so long.
The strangest thing was that I felt different. As if something pulled taut for so long had eased back, everything that had been strained settling into place: those forty-five-and-a-half pounds finally gone for good.
“The portrait,” I said quickly. I assumed my pose, adjusting my chin, my heart still racing. “We should—”
He glanced across the room. “Colie,” he said. “It’s done.” It is?
“Yep.” He turned around and walked over to the easel, dropping his brush into the coffee can. “I put the last touches on about an hour ago.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up then?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “You just looked like you were having a good dream.”
I got up and stretched, then started over to the canvas. “Okay. Let’s see it.”
He dodged in front of me—he could be awfully quick, that Norman—and planted himself right in front of the easel. “Hold on,” he said.
“Oh, no,” I told him. “I have waited and waited. You promised.”
“I know, I know. And I will show you. I just—I just wanted it to be special.”
“Special.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Look. Let me cook you dinner tomorrow night. And I’ll get it all set up and unveil it, make a big deal. So you’ll get the full effect.”
“Norman,” I said, suspicious, “if you are just jerking me around …”
“I’m not,” he said solemnly. “Cross my heart.” And then he did, for good faith. “Dinner and the unveiling. It’ll be awesome. Trust me.”
“Okay,” I said. It was like a date, a real date. “I’ll be here.”
We said good night, and as I started walking up around the house I remembered my dream. It came to me suddenly, making me stop in midstride.
I’d been at the beach, kissing a boy. I could feel the sun on my face, bright and warm like in the afternoons on the back stoop of the Last Chance. It was a good kiss and I was enjoying it; I pulled my head back and smiled at the boy, who smiled back.
It was Norman.
“Oh, my God,” I said. I stopped walking. Cat Norman was on the edge of the porch, licking his paws, and he glanced up at me, startled.
You looked like you were having a good dream, he’d said. And when I’d told him everything, he stayed there, close to me, until we were even.
Suddenly, I saw lights coming down the road. Fast. I heard the car before I saw it, gravel crunching and rattling underneath as it got closer.
I walked around Mira’s porch, wondering who would be coming so late. The little house was bright; Isabel was home, sitting out on the front steps with Frank, the guy she’d met on the Fourth of July. I could see the end of her cigarette glowing—she always smoked more when Morgan was away.
The car turned in to the driveway, scattering rocks, its headlights stretching past the trees before flooding the porch. It was the Rabbit. Isabel stood up, shielding her eyes.
“Who is that?” I heard Frank say.
The car sped up to the house, swerving slightly, before coming to a sudden, jerking stop. The driver’s door opened, and as the light came on, I could see Morgan.
“What happened?” Isabel was already saying, as Morgan ran past up the steps. She’d left the car going, the high beams on, so I could make her out plainly. Her face was red and blotchy and she had her hand over her mouth. She also had something around her neck, something yellow and fuzzy-looking.
Morgan ran through the living room to the bathroom. Isabel dropped her cigarette in the dirt and quickly followed her.
I came a little closer, sticking to our side of the hedge. Frank turned off the car engine and lights, and suddenly everything was much quieter. He stayed outside.
“Morgan!” I could see Isabel through the half-open kitchen window. She was banging on the bathroom door. “Open the door!”
There was no answer. Isabel banged harder.
“Morgan, come on,” Isabel said. “You’re scaring me.”
Isabel, scared. Now that was something I hadn’t seen before.
Frank walked inside, hands in his pockets. He stood a respectful distance from Isabel, watching, before he said, “Should I—?”
“Go,” Isabel said, waving him off. She didn’t even look at him. “I’ll call you later.”
“Right, right.” He was already backing away. This was not a place for the weak of heart. I waited until he was gone before moving on to the porch.
“Morgan!” Isabel was yelling now. “Open this door!”
No response. I stepped inside.
“This is crazy,” Isabel said. She didn’t look at me either, but somehow she knew I was there. “Tell me what happened,” she said to the door. Then, more softly, pleading: “Morgan.”
“Maybe we should just—” I began. But that was as far as I got.
“You’ll be so happy, Isabel,” Morgan said from behind the door. Her voice was choked and tight, and I had to listen hard to understand her. “Because you were right. So go ahead and celebrate.”
“Just tell me what happened.”
The doorknob rattled, taking a second to catch, and then Morgan stepped out. She was in the outfit from that morning, but now it was a wrinkled mess, with one big rip along the front hem of the skirt. She had a bad scrape on her knee. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she clutched a Kleenex in one hand. It was a Hawaiian thing—a lei, I remembered suddenly it was called—hanging around her neck. It was yellow and looked dirty, like it too had been through something big.
“Jesus,” Isabel said, looking at her.
“Go on, Isabel,” Morgan said, gesturing at her with the Kleenex. “Pat yourself on the back. Do whatever it is you right people do.”
“What are you talking about?” Isabel said. “Look what you’ve done to my skirt, for God’s sake.”
“You were right all along!” Morgan shrieked. “And I know how much you love to be right. How you live for it. So do your little dance or whatever. Get it over with.”
Isabel raised an eyebrow. “Why won’t you tell me what happened?”