“Enough, Kelsey.” Dale finally took charge. They’d all let Kelsey go on longer than they should have, their mouths hanging, and even Jane, usually forceful—she once dragged a sophomore down to Bachman’s by his dyed-blue hair because he accidentally-on-purpose grabbed her ass—was stunned silent. “Everyone. Back to lunch. Back to wherever you are supposed to be. The bell rang”—he checked his watch—“four minutes ago. Go. Now.” Dale, meek and sort of impotent, his pointy shoulders in his short-sleeved dress shirt, his rimless glasses, and Hush Puppy shoes that squeaked when he walked. But they listened and the hallway emptied. “Riana and Lucia, now, to Bachman’s office.” He put a hand on Riana’s bicep, steering her down the hall and Lucia followed, her gaze still empty and blank.
Bridget couldn’t believe Lucia had come right back to school. Nate had only been suspended a few days ago. The rumor mill swirled and churned and spit Lucia back out on the other side, and something about the whole thing nagged at Bridget, pricking at some part of her: the fact that she would come right back to class like nothing happened. The teachers, although seemingly on Lucia’s side, made no move to comfort her or walk with her, and she trudged the long hallway, dragging behind Dale and Kelsey, her fingertips aimlessly skimming along the lockers, a faint humming in her throat. The half-charred remnant of a note fluttering between Dale’s long white fingers. She hadn’t seen him grab it.
Bridget couldn’t help but study Taylor, who watched Lucia with a kind of dazed awe, her head pivoting back and forth between Lucia and Riana, but she made no move to catch up with her best friend. When Kelsey whispered something to her, she laughed, her head thrown back, and Andrew turned around, his mouth open.
On instinct, Bridget jogged to catch up, reached out and pinched Riana’s elbow, spun her around, and the girl gurgled, sputtered with surprise. Bridget’s hand went lighting quick to Riana’s jeans pocket—one, then the other—and plucked out a clear hot-pink lighter, the safety broken off. She snapped it up once in Riana’s face with a smirk and Riana barely got out a hey! before Bridget fell back, following them down to Bachman’s office.
It only made sense: Lucia found the note, started hollering at Riana, and Riana taught her a quick, mean little lesson with the snap, snap of her fingers.
Bridget hustled next to Dale and his face whipped around and his eyes narrowed, almost like he wanted to scold her like a student. She snatched the small paper out of his hand, which was burned into a circle, a little slip of a thing.
The writing was in bold, black Sharpie. It could have been written by anyone, intentionally disguised, all capital letters.
It said everything you touch.
CHAPTER 18
Alecia, Christmas, 2012
Nothing fit. A mother’s lament. Alecia was two years out of pregnancy and her breasts still spilled out of tops, her waist thick and straight. But now, standing in front of the full-length mirror, with Nate downstairs whistling, the air heady with his aftershave and steam from the shower—why couldn’t he turn on a vent fan? Anyway, now, finally, the extra weight bothered her. She tugged on her hair, straightening the kinky waves, wondering why it hadn’t bothered her before tonight. It was still all relatively new.
Being a mom to a toddler was more work than any book had said it would be. The terrible twos had zapped the energy right out of her: the meltdowns, the tantrums, the sleep regression. Gabe was up all night again like a newborn and Alecia, tired and hungry and angry at Nate who snored comfortably from their bed, had been seeking refuge in 3 a.m. chocolate chip cookies. The days blurred by, Alecia nipping grilled cheese crusts off Gabe’s plate, and even once a whole half a sandwich off the floor after he threw it in refusal. She was too tired to make one for herself.
But tonight, there was a party. The Tempests, Peter and Bea (that’s it, just Bea, not even short for anything), lived in the neighborhood behind the high school, near Bridget. Their house stood high on the hill, the largest in the development, the biggest pool, brown-and-tan stone, a five-car garage that would hold Alecia’s whole townhouse. The invitation was a coup. Even Bridget seemed awestruck when Alecia told her. Maybe awestruck is too strong a word: impressed. The Tempests were impressive. Two strapping teen boys, both baseball players, both blond, both toothy-grinned: Quentin, the eldest one, and Josh, his younger brother, who were left (albeit happily) home alone several weeks a year while Bea and Peter traveled. They had parties, of course, as warm-blooded teenage boys do, but not wild ones that showed up on the newspaper police blotter the next morning.
Behind her, Nate cleared his throat. Alecia met his eyes in the mirror and he gave her a sideways smile that always melted her heart, even when he said, “We have to go, you know. We’re going to be more than fashionably late.” Nate looked perfect: black pants, a button-down shirt, crisp belt, his hair gelled in soft waves.
“This is a big deal. I don’t look right.”
“You look beautiful. It’s not a big deal. It’s a party.” He rubbed his chin with his palm and covered his mouth and Alecia whipped around, swatting at the air. He was laughing at her. “A big deal is the house over by the lake that burned down last week and now four children don’t have a home. A big deal is that the polar ice caps are melting. A big deal is pancreatic cancer.” He raised his eyebrows at her and Alecia rolled her eyes.
“I know this. I know. You’re right. Of course.” She tilted her head. “But also, low blow.” Because of course Holden was sick and Bridget was a disaster, and in the grand scheme of things, this party did not matter, not even a little bit.
Except that it did. Perspective mattered, but so did acknowledging that the question of importance is personal and not discriminatory.
“Well, I think you look amazing.” Nate held her wrist and pulled her toward him, kissed her neck.
“This. Look, I’m a mess.” Alecia gestured to her cleavage, a bit more than just cleavage, a bit wobbly and spilling up and over, all the Lycra in the free world holding the rest of her into place, pushing everything up, up, up and over. She didn’t look sexy or bombshell. She looked fat. Wiggly, jiggly, uncomfortable and just plain fat. Her black sweater hugged in all the wrong places and the deep neckline was a joke. Her chest looked like a mogul run. “I have to change.”
Nate bent down and kissed her chest, the swell of breast then the other. “Don’t you dare. I love this sweater.” He kissed her mouth, his tongue licked gently at her lips, and Alecia felt her legs wobble. His hands moved down her waist, to the soft bubble of pudge above her waistband.
“Nate. Stop.” She pulled away, averting her eyes. “Where’s Gabe?”
“Relax, he’s in his crib.” Nate shook his head, his brows knit in annoyance. “He’s fine.”
“Nate! He can climb out of his crib. You can’t leave him alone this long!”
A crash and a wail from the other room and Alecia threw a pointed glare in Nate’s direction before she rushed to Gabe’s room. She listened to Nate’s heavy footsteps on the stairs; he hadn’t even followed her.
?????
In the car, he was quiet. Alecia tried to hold his hand; his fingertips lay in her palm like a dead fish until she gave up and let it rest on the emergency brake between them. Gabe kicked his legs in the backseat, yelping a high pitch over and over, rhythmic and unrelenting on the ten-minute drive.