That fucking bird. She fucked a good thing up with them. Even Taylor had been different, shifting hot and cold with the wind since that bird. Lucia held fast to the denial, but Taylor knew, her eyes flicking around Lucia’s face looking for the lie.
Lucia had a temper, Jimmy used to tell her that. She knew they called her a witch. Fuck them, she’d be a witch then. You become what people expect. Who said that? Lucia pulled her journal out of her bag, scribbled it on a page, and shoved it back into the front pocket. She’d look it up later.
She glanced up to see Taylor, as if seeing her for the first time. She smirked, leaned over to Josh, a light tickling of his arm, and whispered in his ear.
Lucia didn’t know why she kept coming to these things. So desperate to be invited that she’d put up with this kind of shit? Not knowing what to do with her hands and her eyes or even the muscles around her mouth; they felt stiff and like they weren’t really hers.
The back of her head tingled and itched and she wound a tendril of hair around her index finger, pulling just to the point of pain, just enough to stop the urge. Taylor watched her and shook her head, a short burst, with a roll of her eyes. Don’t you goddamn dare.
She stood, too quickly, the pricks of stars dancing in her eyes, her legs swaying, and for a moment she thought she might pass out. Jesus God do not pass out.
“Where you going?” Taylor kept her eyes to her phone, her fingers dancing, those French-manicured tips white and bright over the glow of the screen as a smile played at her lips, the kind of smile she used to give Lucia but was now giving the nameless phone person, and Lucia almost, almost slapped that new iPhone right out of her hand. She was this close to it.
“Home.”
Her head snapped up and she snorted, a quick burst of air through her nose. “For what?”
The bitch of it was, she didn’t have an answer. Lucia looked out onto the field. Mr. Winters was pressing his palms against the ceiling of the dugout now, the hem of his shirt inching up, a soft stripe of skin there. Andrew’s face was a sheen, glowing, on fire. The whole crowd was quiet.
“You know he’s working on a no-hitter, right?” Porter pointed into the stands, his voice a whisper, the recruits with their radar guns clicking. “They’re watching him. He’s a sophomore. And they’re watching him. Fucking amazing.”
Lucia didn’t know. She thought of Andrew, that mouth against hers, those big-knuckled hands against her back, in her hair, her scalp tingling. That openness in his face that she never saw again, his eyes closed up tight now, those lids like curtains. It could just make a person so goddamn tired all the time, all this effort.
She looked back at Taylor. Her fingers waggled in her direction, bye, see ya, go now, but she didn’t look up, and then suddenly she laughed and leaned over, showed Riana her phone and Riana laughed.
Later she’d learn that Andrew finished that no-hitter, the second in Mt. Oanoke history. That later, because of that game, UT Austin would come, watch him try to repeat it and fail, but they’d offer him a full ride anyway. Because he was Andrew, no one expected any less.
But all she’d remember is their laughter at some inside joke. A big fucking mystery. Some inner circle she couldn’t understand and she’d never be part of again. She was so sick of wondering what they were talking about, laughing about, and how to figure it out, if she was doing the right thing or the wrong thing, and whether she was everything that was wrong or nothing that mattered at all.
That was the worst part: trying to figure out if she mattered at all.
CHAPTER 20
Nate, Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Tripp’s couch might as well have been made of cement. Nate tossed one way, then the other, punching the square, knotty throw pillow in his sleep. In his dream, Lucia came to him, sat on his lap, his head resting on her shoulder. She kissed his cheek, stroked his hair. She held out her closed fist and he took it, kissed her knuckles, cold against his lips, and when she opened her hand, a starling lay half rotted and paper-boned in her palm. When she laughed, the inside of her mouth was black, like fur.
He sat up, his heart hammering inside his chest. The room was dark, only the faintest light peeking out through the curtains, a thin, pink beam. It seemed like morning but the clock read 2 p.m., his brain thick with fog, his mouth tacky.
The night before came back in a rush. First the argument with Alecia. He’d just gone to pick up a few things: a new shirt, a pair of jeans, another pair of sweatpants. To say hi to Gabe.
“Will you stay for dinner?” she asked, her back to him in the kitchen while Gabe played with his toys at the table. He lined up the metal construction vehicles, according to an order in his head, and Nate watched him, fascinated. On the refrigerator stuck his worksheets from the week. His name, painstakingly printed in block letters. He used to write, get frustrated, scribble and tear the paper. The letters had to be exact, which was beyond his capability. These letters were perfect. He was getting better, advancing.
“Gabe, you’re doing great, buddy. Look at this!” Nate pulled a thin red-and-blue lined sheet from beneath its magnet. “It’s almost perfect.”
Gabe hummed but smiled to himself. He’d heard his father and that gave Nate a beam of pride. He crossed the kitchen and hugged Gabe from behind. Gabe liked affection, but mostly only from Alecia and a few select therapists. From Nate, he sought approval.
To Alecia, he said, “Do you want me to stay for dinner?”
She shrugged and stirred something on the stove.
“I shouldn’t. I told Tripp I’d meet him.” A lie.
“Whatever. Do whatever, you’re not obligated to be here.” Alecia brushed past him into the living room, picked up the remote, and scrolled through the channels. She was a fidgeter when she was mad. She couldn’t sit still, brood like a normal person. He doesn’t know how many fights they’d had over the washing machine, or the kitchen mop. She needed to move her body, expend her energy. He loved that about her. Her movement. The way her arms and legs were strong from fifteen years of childhood gymnastics classes, when she filled out after Gabe was born to a soft curve, so new and supple, and then later, when Gabe was diagnosed and she was such a nervous wreck she lost it all, the weight sloughing off of her like a skin. Today, in the living room with the twilight sun across her face, her fingers shaking as she pushed up, up, up on the remote, and cursing under her breath, she looked like a paper doll.
She didn’t look real.
“Are you eating?” he asked, knowing immediately it was a mistake.
“What the fuck do you care?” She asked not even looking over at him, her voice wobbling high.
“Jesus, Alecia. I care. Okay? You kicked me out.” His palms itched, his scalp, his nose. His skin felt tight and hot.
“You slept with your student.” Her voice was firm, resolute. She still wouldn’t look at him, her hair falling in her face, hiding her like a shield.