Good Neighbors(16)

“R-E-D spells red and you are it!” Shelly finished, pointing at Larry’s nose. Then she smiled. “Face! I’ll break your nose.”

Rocking, Larry reached into his pants and yanked his willie. Which meant he was about a breath away from a full-on meltdown—the kind that lasted for hours, and ruined all the weeks of progress and energy Julia had put into him, trying to get him normal.

Shelly grinned, teeth bright and fancy black hair shining.

Stuff went out of focus for Julia. She stopped hearing the morning heat-song of the cicadas, and the soft, uncomfortable shuffles of the rest of the Rat Pack. She bent low and rammed, headfirst, into Shelly’s skinny belly.

“Uumph!” both girls cried.

Julia’s neck made a crack! It hurt so much it felt like it was broken, and when she stood right again, her throat swelled.

Shelly staggered. Tears of pain welled in her giant blue eyes. “You slut! You don’t hit me! Nobody ever hits me!”

“You don’t touch other people’s brothers,” Julia rasped through her hurt throat. “Every dumb fuck with a brain cell knows that in East New York. He’s mine to beat up, not yours.”

By now the rest of the Rat Pack had surrounded them.

“Girl fight! Girl fight!” the Markles chanted.

Charlie Walsh, Sam Singh, and Dave Harrison were watching, too. Larry stayed where he’d been, rocking and afraid. But at least he’d taken his hand out of his pants.

“Stop,” Julia panted. But Shelly didn’t stop. She came at Julia, grabbing her shoulders in front, shoving a foot behind, and trip-pushing her down. Then she straddled her. Julia wriggled but couldn’t get out from under. Shelly’s fist slammed down, smashing Julia’s cheekbone so hard she saw white sparks.

“You do it with your daddy. You’re his ghetto girlfriend!” Shelly screamed.

Another meaty punch! Julia jolted to swelling, impossible pain. “Help!” she begged.

At last, Dave Harrison broke away from the group. He wrapped his arms around Shelly’s waist. Chubby Charlie got her by the arms. They held her while Julia scrambled out from underneath.

Stronger than both boys put together, Shelly broke away. She was crying and screaming, and even laughing. “He looks at me!” she shouted, the red plainly visible now. It etched a fibrous, marker-like caterpillar along the loose linen seam of her crotch. “I know because at sleepovers, he was always looking at me!”

“Time-out,” Julia rasped, staggering. “You’re lying. It’s too far.”

Shelly charged.

Julia only had a second, and for true, she was scared another blow from Shelly would break her neck. “Perfect hair. Perfect Free People. But you’re all messed up inside. Your period’s bleeding through,” she croaked in a whisper you had to listen for to hear.

The words sank in. Shelly’s fists unclenched. Julia kept going, saying all the bad thoughts she’d never voiced. All the things you think when you’re alone and you’re mad, and you fantasize about telling somebody off. The things you’ll never really say, because they’re way too mean.

“My dad doesn’t look at anybody but my mom. You’re just jealous because I have a dad. Yours is just some ghost who sleeps in your house. Your mom treats you like you’re crippled. She doesn’t hear and she doesn’t see. You’re not a person to her. Just a doll she dresses up and shows off. You could be made of maggots on the inside and she wouldn’t care so long as your hair’s brushed.”

Shelly paled. Her under-eyes, by contrast, got more purple.

“Shelly, what is that? Are you hurt again?” Ella asked, pointing at Shelly’s low-slung linen jumpsuit. The stain. Now that Julia had named it, everyone could see it for what it was.

“It’s her crimson tide,” a Markle answered.

Shelly’s mouth wrenched open as if to gag, but no sound came out. It was a grisly thing to see, like invisible fingers were strangling her. Then, croaking words, soft and hideous: “It’s not a period. Your daddy did me.”

“Liar,” Julia answered, mad and shaking and sick to her stomach, because she’d never been in a fight so mean. So low.

To hide the red, Shelly fanned her hands in front of her, and then behind. And then one hand in front and the other behind. But her jumpsuit hung too loose. You could still see.

Someone laughed. And then somebody else. And then even Shelly’s own sister Ella was laughing. The laughter got louder. It wasn’t fun-laughing. It was scared, pressure-release-laughing, like the soulless sound a filled balloon makes when you let it go and it zings across a room. The whole Rat Pack, in hysterics. Everybody but the Wilde kids, who were horrified.





From Interviews from the Edge: A Maple Street Story, by Maggie Fitzsimmons,

Soma Institute Press, ? 2036

“It started long before that child fell down the sinkhole… The Wildes were strange. I never liked them. No one did, except for Rhea. Which is ironic.” —Jill Ponti, Sterling Park





Sterling Park


The Rat Pack’s laughter sagged. They watched as Shelly, fanning her linen jumper’s backside with her hands, disappeared into her house. After that, it was just the Markles still laughing, plus Lainee Hestia, who matched her titters to theirs, trying to make sure she stayed on the inside of the joke.