Boring Girls

“It isn’t a date,” I said.

“Go, Rachel!” Socks laughed. “Marry him and get us famous.”

“Rachel doesn’t exactly strike me as the guy’s type,” Toad said. “I mean, he dated Sophie Cleaver.”

“Yeah, totally,” I said. “Normally he likes hot chicks. What a step down, eh, Toad?”

“I’m just kidding, don’t be so sensitive!” Toad said.

“I think Sophie Cleaver’s ugly,” Timmy said.

“Well, it isn’t a date anyway. And I don’t care who he used to date, or currently is dating, or whatever.”

“Yes, it is,” Toad said. “And you totally do.”

xXx

“She’s so skinny,” Fern commented. She and I were on the bus. I’d decided to get ready for my outing with Chris there, to avoid Toad’s remarks from his bed-throne. Fern and Edgar had brought back a bag of tacos, and once we’d eaten, Fern had followed me back to the bus. Now she was reading one of Toad’s tattoo magazines with a feature on Sophie Cleaver.

“It’s because that stupid corset she’s wearing is yanked so tight,” I muttered, trying not to overdo my eyeliner. A few weeks of putting on show makeup had kind of ruined my gauge for what looked pretty and what looked garish.

Fern turned the page. “She’s got her own clothing line. Shit, this girl must be rich.”

“Please stop talking about it.”

“Oh, here we go: Sophie and heavy metal guitarist Chris Egerton called it quits in July after three years together. Three years! Shit.”

“I don’t know what the hell he could possibly want with me,” I said.

“You’re awesome. Much prettier than Sophie Cleaver,” Fern said. “She’s all airbrushed in these photos. You look great without all that. Plus you have talent. You’re interesting. I mean, any one of us can pose and look sexy. Fuck, remember all that stupid Women of Metal shit I did? The photos don’t even look like me. It doesn’t take talent to stick out your chest and remove any hint of intelligence from your expression.” She laughed. I laughed too. This really, truly, was the most engaging, most fun, most herself Fern I had seen in so, so long. It was like a switch had been thrown within her.

“So are you and Edgar going to the beach?”

“I think all of us might go, except for you.”

“Oh shit. I’ll have to forego the pleasure of seeing Toad in a bathing suit.”

“I might have to loan him one of my bikini tops,” Fern said, and we howled.

“You feel better, huh,” I said.

“I do. Much. I feel like last night was a step for me. You know?”

“I think so.”


It was sort of funny — we were talking about a murder as if it was a self-help exercise, like meditation or making a collage or something. I have to admit, I felt lighter too. I don’t know how to describe this, really. Maybe it was like we’d taken back some small level of control, or somehow expressed an aspect of how we’d felt inside since all that horrible shit happened with DED. Like we were letting out some of the anger. And let’s be real. No one was going to miss that guy from that Florida parking lot. You show me one news segment, one missing persons report, one bereaved family member, anyone who gave a shit. Yeah, they identified the guy’s body when his fingerprints came up in the system because he’d already been to prison for rape and child molestation. And it didn’t even make the news until everything came out about Fern and me and someone connected the dots. So — my friend and I not only started feeling better about ourselves and our lives by smashing that guy’s face in with a brick, but we helped. We did a good thing. But, sure, I get it — not everyone sees it that way.





FORTY-SEVEN


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