Marci didn’t look desperate, or like she was trying to impress anyone, or even like she was trying to flirt. She just looked like she’d known the other teens for years and fit perfectly into their group.
I took another bite of whatever baked thing was in my hand. Zucchini bread, it turned out. I looked at it, then back up at Marci. All I’d asked Brooke to do was talk to him—we had to talk to him, so I’d asked her to do it. But it had hurt her so much that Brooke had run away, retreating into her own mind and calling out someone else who could do the job for her.
Was Marci helping Brooke deal with a situation she couldn’t face? Or was she stealing her life away, second by second?
And which one did I want: the smart, capable girl I loved, or the screwed-up girl who wanted to die?
I set down the bread and watched them talk.
About ten minutes later Corey and Paul walked out, Jessica and Brielle leaving with them. Marci walked back to me and wiggled her eyebrows dramatically—something Brooke had never done, but I’d seen Marci do it a hundred times. “Eating out of the palm of my hand,” she said. She picked my zucchini bread and popped it into her mouth. “Turns out this town has an ice cream place by the delightful name of Kitten Caboodle. We’re meeting those young ladies and gentlemen there tonight.”
I nodded. “Suckin’ on chili dogs outside the Tastee-Freez.”
“What?”
“Classic rock,” I said.
“Cool,” said Marci. “But first, how about a little thanks? I’m, like, Brielle’s best friend in the world, after ten friggin’ minutes.”
“Yes,” I said, silently chastising myself. “You were awesome. If I could talk to people that easily, I … don’t even know what I would do. Have a way happier life, for one thing.”
“And you do things I can’t do,” she said. “We’re a great team.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking at the open door. “Between the two of us, I figure we make just about one whole person.”
We hung around a little longer at the church, meeting various community dignitaries and trying to seem as innocent and pious as possible. I even thought about quoting some of the scriptures I knew, but decided that the strong focus on death would make that seem creepy instead of faithful. Having Ingrid with us did wonders, as everyone in town seemed to know her and respect her. We rode her reflected goodwill for all it was worth. We even chatted with Corey’s parents, Steven and Jennifer, though it was mostly just small talk to get them to like us. The real questions could come later. When it was all over we helped clean up and carry all the plates home—not just Ingrid’s, but Beth’s as well. She hobbled behind us with her cane, remarking on how much brighter the neighborhood seemed now that everyone had come out of hiding, and spinning out grand plans for the neighborhood watch.
At the house, we unpacked some of our things, hanging our clean clothes in the closet of the pink bedroom to help air them out a bit, giving them the chance to smell like a home instead of a highway. Later we washed all the dirty dishes from Ingrid’s baking, then walked out to Main Street to look for a place to get a real haircut. We found a salon with one lone stylist, a woman named Cindy, who cut my hair short and trimmed Marci’s short bob all the way down to a pixie cut. Two dollars and eleven cents left.
We stepped outside, where we’d left Boy Dog tied to a pole, and looked around. I brushed at the back of my neck, trying to dislodge the last of the itchy hair clippings. It was past dinnertime, but we’d filled up on bread and brownies at the community meeting, and were so accustomed to going hungry that we didn’t feel any need for food. We strolled the two blocks toward Kitten Caboodle, which turned out to be a small stand with no interior seating—just a drive-thru window in the back and a walk-up window in front, next to an asphalt lot with five round tables. These were bright red, made of old, scratched fiberglass, and bolted to metal frames with semicircular benches. The frames, in turn, were chained to the ground, and I wondered what high school prank had necessitated that measure. We asked the clerk for a paper dish full of water for Boy Dog, and sat in the late evening light and waited.
“What day is it?” asked Marci.
“Wednesday.”
“I mean what day of the month?”
I thought for a minute. “July something,” I said at last. “It was on the news show we saw the other day, so just add two and there you go. I don’t remember what to add two to, though.”
“July,” said Marci. “Where were you for the fourth?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “On the road somewhere.”
The girls showed up first and they immediately fell into a conversation about Marci’s hair.
“I’ve always wanted to try mine that short,” said Brielle, touching her own very long hair. “But I think my parents would blow a fuse. And Paul would hate it.”
“Does Paul like you or your hair?” asked Marci.
“He likes her butt,” said Jessica.
“Can you blame him?” asked Brielle with a grin.