My Best Friend's Exorcism(37)

“Families like that don’t listen to other people,” Mrs. Rivers said. “You get in the middle of whatever this is and you’ll be giving them an excuse to blame you for everything.”

Abby was reeling. Deep down she thought that, too, but it sounded so unfair coming out of her own mother’s mouth. Her mom didn’t know anything about the Langs.

“You’re just jealous that I have friends,” she shot back.

“I see the friends you have,” Abby’s mom said. “And they’re of no consequence. You’ve got big things ahead of you, but these girls will wear you out and drag you down.”

Abby’s chest prickled with heat. Her mom had never expressed an opinion about Abby’s friends—and she was horrified to hear how twisted and misguided it was. Her mom didn’t know anything about her friends.

“You don’t even have friends,” Abby said.

“Where do you think they went?” Abby’s mom asked. “Charleston people like the Langs, they only want easy times. The minute it rains, watch them run.”

Words could not express the frustration Abby felt.

“You don’t understand anything,” she said.

Her mother looked genuinely surprised.

“Good God, Abby. Where do you think I grew up? I understand these people better than you.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Abby said.

Her mom massaged the bridge of her nose. She started talking while her eyes were still closed.

“When I was your age, I trusted the wrong people,” she said. “I was silly when I should have been serious. I let myself get in over my head. Those girls are not the same as you. If they make a mistake, their parents can buy their way out of it. But people like us? We take one wrong step and it haunts us forever.”

Abby wanted to say that her mom was wrong. She wanted to force her to see that they were nothing alike; but she was so angry, her throat couldn’t form the words.

“I never should have talked to you!” she shouted and stormed off to her room.

On Monday, Abby pulled up in front of the Langs’ house and saw that Max had knocked over the garbage cans again and pulled a bag into the center of Dr. Bennett’s yard, where he was ripping it apart. When Abby pulled the emergency brake, Max yanked his nose out of the white plastic and ran away. That’s when Abby saw that the bag was full of used Maxipads and tampons, a whole pile of them, saturated with clotted black blood.

Abby was debating whether to clean up the mess or honk the horn when Dr. Bennett came around the Cruze from the opposite direction. He was returning from his morning walk, swinging the cane he’d made out of a sawed-off broomstick, a rubber cap nailed to one end.

He saw the bloody garbage strewn across his grass at the exact moment Gretchen emerged from her house, looking dazed and still wearing the same outfit as the day before. From inside the Dust Bunny with the windows rolled up, the whole scene was like a silent movie, with Dr. Bennett shouting at Gretchen, punctuating his sentences by whacking the garbage bag with his stick. Gretchen replied by raising her middle finger, and Abby read her lips:

“Fuck you.”

Abby’s spine stiffened; she didn’t know what to do. Get out? Stay in the car? Dr. Bennett was coming at Gretchen faster than Abby had ever seen him move, passing in front of the car’s hood and swinging his stick at Gretchen’s legs. Gretchen hit him with her bookbag, knocking him against Mrs. Lang’s Volvo. He was shouting again, and then Mr. Lang was running out of the house, with Mrs. Lang right behind him in a pink sweatsuit.

Abby watched Mr. Lang mouth the words “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” as he put himself between Dr. Bennett and his daughter, and then the two men were tussling, grabbing each other’s shirt collars.

Gretchen, forgotten for the moment, ran around the back of the Dust Bunny and yanked open the door, shouts filling the car as she dropped into her seat in a nostril-searing cloud of United Colors of Benetton.

“Go,” she said.

Abby hit the accelerator, sending rocks spraying from underneath her tires. They flew through the Old Village. At the first stop sign Abby really looked at Gretchen, trying to see who was there, not just who had always been there before. Angry pimples were smeared across Gretchen’s chin, infected whiteheads grew in the creases next to her nostrils, dry scabs were encrusted on her forehead. Her breath smelled bad. Her teeth were yellow. Crust was caked in the corners of her eyes. She stank of perfume.

Someone had to do something. Someone had to say something. Teachers weren’t doing it. Her mom wasn’t going to do it. The Langs wouldn’t do it. That left Abby.

Traffic on the bridge was light because they were running late, so Abby veered left onto the new bridge. As they started to climb the first span, with the Bunny’s engine having a heart attack underneath the hood, she finally said it.

“What’s happening to you?” Abby asked.

At first she thought Gretchen wasn’t going to say anything, but then she spoke, her voice hoarse.

“I need you to help me,” Gretchen said.

Abby levitated.

“Anything,” she said.

“You have to help me . . .” Gretchen repeated, her voice trailing off. She chewed her fingernails.

“Help you what?” Abby asked, riding the brakes downhill.

“You have to help me find Molly Ravenel,” Gretchen said.