Big Summer(107)

“Fantastic. Just what every suicide wants.” I took a halting step, suddenly aware of how much bigger than Leela I was. I probably weighed twice as much as she did; I was taller and, presumably, stronger.

“Let me get some paper.” I walked to my craft table, rummaging among the wallpaper samples, looking for the knife. “Think about it,” I said, pushing aside a pot of Mod Podge and a box of foam-tipped brushes. “We both had parents who loved us and encouraged us. Drue never had that. Think about how she must have envied us.”

“Yeah, yeah, poor little rich girl,” Leela sneered.

I was rifling through the scraps of magazine paper, fingers shaking, feeling Leela’s breath on my back. Distract her, I thought. Surprise her. I took a deep breath and then I screamed as loud as I could, sweeping everything off my desk, the wallpaper books and the scrapbooking paper, the bottles of glue and paint, the pens and paintbrushes and rulers and colored pencils and wooden boxes, sending all of it crashing to the floor. Bingo howled from the closet. Just for an instant, Leela turned.

And then there was no more time to look for the knife, no more time to think. I launched myself at her, flinging my body against her with all the force I could muster. I heard every cup and mug and plate in the kitchen rattle, and the furniture thump as we fell; I heard Leela’s pained screech and my own grunt. The gun flew out of her hand as we landed, with Leela on her back and me on top of her.

“Help!” I screamed as Bingo started to howl. “Help me!” Leela was thrashing, bucking her hips, trying desperately to shake me loose, but there was too much of me and not enough of her, and I had gravity on my side. I grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling hard, and settled my knee against her midriff as I heard footsteps, pounding in the hall. Be a neighbor, I thought, be a stranger. Be Detective McMichaels, even. I don’t care.

But it was Nick.

“Get the gun!” I screamed. I watched from the floor as he grabbed it and pointed it at Leela.

“Don’t move,” he told her, but she’d stopped fighting, her body limp, her eyes closed. I stayed there, my hand in her hair as he called 911, telling the operator, in an impressively calm voice, that the police were needed at my address, that a woman with a gun had tried to kill me. Then he reached out his free hand, repeated, “Don’t move,” to the woman on the ground, and helped me to my feet. I let Bingo out of the closet and hurried to the bedroom, where I found two pairs of tights. I went back to the living room and handed them to Nick, who began deftly knotting them around Leela’s wrists.

“What are you… how did you…?”

His face was tight. “I got your message, and you weren’t answering your phone. I got worried. I thought I’d check here and walk with you.”

I was shaking all over, knees knocking, teeth chattering. When Leela was immobile, Nick wrapped his arms around me, pulling me tightly against him, and I buried my face in the sweet-smelling warmth of his shoulder, letting him hold me, letting him soothe me, rubbing my back and saying “You’re safe” and “Don’t worry, it’s over, I promise,” until the police arrived.



* * *




After I’d called my parents and told them what had happened; after the trip to the police station, where I’d given my account of the events, first to the New York City detectives and then again to Detective McMichaels once he’d shown up; after I’d accepted tearful thanks from Mrs. Cavanaugh and Drue’s brother, Trip, and exchanged cool nods with Mr. Cavanaugh, Darshi turned to me. “Want to go home?”

I shuddered, imagining walking up the stairs and seeing Leela and her gun in the hallway, or sitting in the corner with my eyes on the knife.

In the end, Nick and Darshi and Bingo and I went back to my parents’ place. My mother hugged me hard, and my father mixed up a pitcher of sidecars and served us his cioppino with chickpea salad and hearts of palm and toasted wedges of baguette.

My mother hovered and fretted and wrung her hands and cried when she thought I wasn’t looking. My father slipped Bingo a small summer sausage, which she propped between her paws and devoured with noisy relish. Darshi fielded calls from her parents, her brothers, both sets of grandparents, and her great-grandmother, and, finally, Carmen, with whom she had a murmured conversation in the kitchen that I thought ended with “I love you.” Nick called his aunt and uncle to tell them that he was fine. At around midnight, my parents excused themselves and retreated to their bedroom. A few minutes later, Darshi stood up and stretched ostentatiously.

“Well,” she said, “guess I’ll take the pullout couch.” I gave her a pair of my pajamas to wear. In the living room, we made the pullout couch together.

“I owe you an apology,” I said, smoothing the comforter over the skimpy mattress.

Darshi looked at me curiously. “For what?”

“You were right. I did chase after Drue, even though she was never a good friend to me. And you were. You always have been.”

Darshi waved away the praise, looking uncomfortable. “I owe you an apology, too,” she said. “No matter how bad Drue was, everyone deserves justice. And who knows? Maybe she really was trying to change.” She tried for a smile. “Maybe someday we could have all hung out together. You and me and Drue and Aditya. And Nick.”

“And Carmen?” I asked, eyebrows raised. Darshi’s smile faded. Then she sighed. “It won’t kill them,” she said, half to me, half to herself. I knew she meant her parents.