Scar Girl (The Scar Boys #2)(35)

Dinner was good. Kathy’s latest husband, Greg, was some kind of expert cook. He made a glazed ham, glazed carrots, and glazed onions—I guess he liked glaze—and they were all delicious. My mom made the dessert, a chocolate cake.

“This is wonderful, Susan,” Aunt Kathy said to my mother. It took all my mom’s effort to grunt a thank-you. My mom hated my aunt Kathy. She used to tell us girls not to turn out like our aunt, that she had no moral compass, no love or respect for Jesus and God.

The truth is, I think my mom was jealous of her sister-in-law. Jealous that she had the nerve to leave an unhappy marriage, jealous that she had the courage to chase her dreams, and jealous that, unlike my mom, Aunt Kathy celebrated, rather than hid, her beauty.

After dinner, when Agnes, Joan, and I were washing and drying dishes, Aunt Kathy tapped me on the shoulder and told me to come with her. I put down the dish towel and followed her down the hall and into her bedroom.

She kicked her shoes off, hopped up on the bed, and sat down cross-legged. She patted the spot next to her, so I followed suit.

“So,” she said, taking my hands and looking straight into my eyes, “how long has this been going on?”

I played dumb. “How long has what been going on?”

Aunt Kathy rolled her eyes. “Cheyenne, I’m not a narc, and I’m not a prude, and I won’t tell your parents, but maybe I can help you.”

All I had to do was let myself go and tell Aunt Kathy everything that had happened, everything that was happening. Part of me knew that if I got it off my chest it would all be okay.

“Chey?”

. . .

I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t do it because I was ashamed. Ashamed of what I’d done and ashamed of the lies I’d told. I loved Aunt Kathy and looked up to her. I was sure that, if I told her, she would never love me the same way again. That, by the way, might be the dumbest thought I’ve ever had in my entire life, which has been a life filled with nothing but dumb thoughts.

And, yeah, I’m not good at asking for help.

“There’s nothing going on,” I said. “I’m fine.”

She looked at me like she was weighing her options. In the end, she did what she thought was right.

“Okay, sweetie,” she said. I loved that she called me and my sisters sweetie and honey and sugarplum. “Just know that I’m here if you need me. I can get to Yonkers in a flash. You have my phone number, right?”

I nodded, feeling like I was going to cry. “Let me write it down anyway.” She did, and I stuck the piece of paper in my pocket. “Do you want a minute by yourself? You can stay in here if you do.”

I said I did, so she hugged me and left.

I sat on her bed for a while, too numb to actually cry, which made it worse. Then I noticed a small flask on the top of my aunt’s dresser. I opened it and took a whiff.

Yep. Alcohol. You gotta love my family.

I took three long sips and rejoined the party.





HARBINGER JONES


Johnny called me on Christmas Day.

That by itself wasn’t weird. We’d spent a bunch of holidays together since we first became friends in middle school. Every Halloween and Fourth of July, but also a bunch of Thanksgivings and Christmases, almost always at my house, as his mother seemed to think of me as the village idiot. Or at least she used to.

When Johnny called, my parents and I were getting ready to leave for my grandmother’s house in Stamford—she had moved there when my grandfather died, to be closer to Uncle Jamie, my mom’s only brother.

Uncle Jamie never got married and never had any kids, and he had all kinds of mental problems. I guess my grandmother moved there thinking she could take care of him. We had no idea if he would even show up for Christmas dinner, and in some ways, I think my mom was hoping he wouldn’t. In the dictionary next to the entry for black sheep, there’s a picture of my uncle Jamie.

“Hey,” Johnny said when I picked up the phone. “Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You, too.”

I’d been keeping my distance from Johnny and Chey, and even though I had no reason to, from Richie, too. Guilt by association, I guess. I was still sorting out what to do with my future, still writing my now book-length college essay, and just enjoying my time alone.

That’s actually kind of funny, when I think about it today. All I wanted as a kid was to be with other people. But then, after everything that had happened with the Scar Boys, I found myself craving space.

“How was the annual haul at Casa de Jones?” he asked. It was a well-known fact that my parents—strike that, it was a well-known fact that my mother liked to spoil me rotten, and Christmas was her Super Bowl. Nineteen eighty-six was no different. Aside from the plethora of guitar gear—strings, patch cords, this reverb pedal I’d had my eye on—she got me a whole bunch of stuff meant for a college dorm room. I’d only told my parents about my plans to apply a couple of weeks before Christmas, but already under the tree were two comforters (why I needed two, I couldn’t figure out) with sheets and pillowcases, a desk blotter, a bulletin board, and, get this, an actual desktop computer.

I’d used computers in the lab at school and once at Johnny’s house (his dad’s), but we’d never had one at home. I’d already set it up, planning to play with it that night when I got home from my grandmother’s.