“We’re going to make some popcorn,” said Hannah, as she led Nicky across the room with a saunter Mary had never seen her use before; she was trying to impress her friend. Hannah opened the cabinet next to the refrigerator and pulled out the metal pan of Jiffy Pop—it was Hannah’s favorite treat. “Do you want any?”
Nicky was staring at Mary, twirling her hair and letting her ankles buckle to the side as she rolled over on the sides of her feet. Mary had met girls like Nicky, girls for whom being looked at wasn’t a means to an end but the end itself. “No, thanks,” replied Mary. The cabinet closed with a clink.
As Hannah heated the popcorn on the stove, she and Nicky made small talk, the self-consciously blasé sort that young girls make when they have an audience. It was all sighs and so anyways. When the foil wrap of the pan was distended, Hannah held its handle and led Nicky back to the couch. She and her friend sat in front of Mary on the floor, their legs spread, the pan between them, and Hannah peeled back the foil, the steam hurrying out.
Nicky picked up a single kernel and put it in her mouth. Hannah took a small handful.
“So like,” started Nicky, looking briefly at Mary. “You guys live here all by yourselves?”
Mary was stretched out on the couch, her body occupying its entire length. Since she worked nights, this was morning for her. She let Hannah answer.
“Yeah,” Hannah said, looking at her handful of popcorn. “Our mom died a while ago.”
“Oh, my god,” said Nicky, her brow furrowed in sympathy. “That’s so sad.”
“It’s okay,” said Hannah. “I mean”—she blushed, not knowing how to explain herself—“we’re used to it. I was four. And Mary was like eighteen.”
Mary closed her eyes again and sunk deeper into the couch.
There was a moment of silence. “So, are you going to go to the dance?” she heard Hannah ask.
“I think so.” Nicky leaned on her side, her hand in her hair, her body arranged just so. “I want someone good to ask me, ya know?”
“I think I’m just gonna go,” Hannah said, through a mouthful of popcorn.
NICKY SOON BECAME A FIXTURE at the Chase girls’ apartment. Her mother often didn’t get home until late evening so Nicky would ride her bike with Hannah after school, and Mary would wake up to their voices, their furtive whispers, their manic laughter. She often heard Nicky coaxing Hannah into calling a boy for her or writing her essay for her or letting her borrow the new shirt Mary had just bought.
“Can you guys keep it down?” Mary would call from the bedroom. And then she’d hear them shush each other through quieted laughter.
“Nicky thinks you don’t like her,” Hannah said to Mary one evening. Nicky had just left. Mary was sitting on the floor folding the laundry she had hauled up from the Laundromat. Hannah plopped down across from her. Mary didn’t look up.
“Am I supposed to?”
Hannah gave an exasperated huff. “Yes!” she said. “She’s my best friend!”
Mary tossed a pair of Hannah’s underwear into her pile. “Sure she is,” she replied.
“What is wrong with you?” demanded Hannah. “Why can’t you be happy that I finally have a friend? That I finally go to a school like a normal kid?”
“Stop being so dramatic, Bunny. I want you to have friends, and if you want to go to school, then go. But Nicky’s just not as good a friend to you as you are to her.”
“What are you talking about?”
Mary looked at Hannah squarely. “You basically do her homework for her every night while she lies on the floor, eats our food, and watches you.”
“I’m helping her. That’s what friends do.”
“That’s bullshit, Bunny. And you know it. Friends don’t make you give them your Taylor Dane tape.”
“How do you know?” spat Hannah. “You don’t have any friends!?” Hannah was wounded and trying to wound back.
“I don’t want any,” replied Mary.
Hannah shook her head. “You are so messed up.” Then she stood and wheeled away from Mary and stomped into the bedroom.
“Bunny,” Mary called, as the door slammed. She waited for a moment, her chin lifted. “Bunny, you need to chill out.”
“No, you need to chill out!” Hannah called back to her, her voice muffled.
“You’re acting like a total brat!” called Mary, as she mated a pair of socks and threw them in Hannah’s pile.
Mary finished folding the laundry, stacking her clothes next to Hannah’s, feeling the weight, as she had so often lately, of raising a teenage girl. “Hey, Bunny!” she called after a few minutes. “I think I’m going to get some Chinese!” She had the night off of work. She’d thought they would do something fun.
Hannah was silent.
“What do you want?”
There was still no answer. Mary picked up the phone and called Hunan Garden. I’d like to place an order for takeout.
She took the long way to pick it up, driving along the coast with the black silhouettes of the hills on her left and the star-littered sky that faded into sea on her right. She drove with the window down, letting her hand weave through the cool air like a hawk gliding through thermals, then she guided the wheel into a wide turn toward the road that wove its way back to the center of the town the Chase girls now called home.
The restaurant had her order ready when she walked in. And she was in and out of the tidy dark little space with barely a word spoken. They knew Mary there. She paid them, they thanked her, she left. And she drove home wondering if Hannah was still mad at her.
She picked up their mail from the small metal box beside the door that led to the staircase up to their apartment, sticking it under the arm that also held their dinner. Inside, Mary found that Hannah was still in the bedroom. She set the white bag with red characters on the counter between the sink and the stove, and tossed the mail over to the couch. “Food’s here!” she called, as she opened the container. She piled her plate with shrimp lo mein and kung pao chicken. “If you want any!”
Mary took a seat in front of the couch, leaning back against it as she wedged her plate between her chest and her bent knees, feeling its warmth rise toward her face. Her nose was red with cold from the drive. She took a bite and reached for the pile of mail. The letter was stuck inside the Penny Saver; she hadn’t seen it at first.
Her hands were still as she opened it, as she pulled out its contents. They were still as she unfolded it and read its lines once. Then again.
Ms. Chase,
You’re a difficult person to contact, but that seems to be your intent. I have spent the last six years grateful that you haven’t once again, quite literally, shown up on our doorstep. But that doesn’t mean that there isn’t business between us that needs to be settled, namely the claim you made in the letter you left with Stefan.