What We Saw(26)

Rachel and Christy are already picking through the racks of ancient dresses. Will and Tyler have found an old drum set. Mrs. Bonine glances over as Ben and Lindsey lean in on either side of me to hear the news. Her lips stretch and roll like a lazy cat in a sunny spot, a smile lighting up her face and lifting her off the stool behind the counter.

“I have a Buccaneer in my store! Wait!” She holds up her hand, palm out. “Don’t tell me.” She squints and chews her cheek. “Starting forward. Jersey is . . . seven . . . ?” (She squints one eye open.) “No! Seventeen. Cody! Is it . . . Barry? No! Don’t tell me . . . Ben!”

Ben smiles and nods.

Connie Bonine beams at us in victory, then remembers the TV and grabs a pair of pliers, jamming them into a small hole next to the screen where a knob apparently used to be. She gives a sharp twist and Sloane flashes once, then flattens into a glowing line that shrinks to a tiny pinprick of light. Going . . . going . . . gone.

“Terrible news. Those boys must be friends of yours?”

Ben nods slowly.

“Well, I just think it’s awful what that Stallard girl is doing to them. Dragging their good names through the mud. If you ask me, they oughta arrest her mother and put that poor girl in a good Christian home.”

“Did they say her name on TV?” Lindsey stops Mrs. Bonine with a question.

“What?” She turns back to the TV as if to check. “Oh no. No, no. They won’t release her name. Not that they have to around here. LeeAnne comes by looking for white shirts to wait tables in all the time. Used to hold the good ones back for her, but I can assure you that won’t be happening any longer. That little girl of hers was in here, too, just the other day—Saturday, in fact. Day of this party everybody’s so worked up about. Whining at her mama about having to buy other people’s old clothes. Well, beggars can’t be choosers, I say, but they can at least cover up their butt cheeks, for Chrissake’s.”

Connie stops and eyes Ben, feet to forehead. “You’re here for the Spring Fling, huh?”


“How’d you know?” Ben grins. I can tell he’s enjoying the VIP treatment. It’s like this pretty much everywhere in town. People might not know who represents them in Congress, but they can pull up a varsity Bucc’s jersey number on sight.

Ben’s arm slides around my waist, and Mrs. Bonine smiles. “Oh my. Is this pretty little thing here your girlfriend? Now that’s the kind of girl to date.” She grabs Ben’s arm, then winks at me. “I’m gonna borrow him for just a second, sweetheart.” She steers Ben toward the back of the store like she’s a bulldozer in tennis shoes. “C’mon with me. You’re a couple feet longer than most of my customers, but I keep a stash of big-and-tall things in the back.”

The point of Spring Fling is to look ridiculous without crossing the line into absurdity. As we pick through Connie’s treasure trove of ancient fashions, Christy holds a flash of jade against my chest, the hanger under my chin. “Look familiar?”

“Should it?” Rachel asks.

Christy blinks from Rachel to me. “Oh, man. You two were drunk Saturday night. Stacey was wearing a red top cut almost exactly like this one.”

Stacey’s outfit surfaces through the fog that surrounds my Saturday memory. Red halter top, tiny black miniskirt. Spinning around Dooney’s kitchen, throwing her arm over my shoulder. You’re empty, Kate. Time for some shots! Her tipsy whoop as Dooney pours tequila. Rachel’s laugh as she licks the back of her hand so the salt from the shaker Stacey is holding will stick. The burn of the liquid. The bite of the lime. Stacey turns away, but I reach out and grab her arm. No, wait! One more shot! Don’t be a quitter!

“Don’t you remember?” Christy pulls the sides of the flimsy top across my body. The fabric doesn’t quite make it under my arm. She laughs. “More side boob than the law allows.”

“I remember,” I mumble.

“Sort of wish I didn’t,” says Rachel.

“Oh, c’mon. Where’s your sense of humor?” Christy tosses the halter top back onto the rack and flips through more hangers, draping every other garment over her arm, and grinning as she hunts for the perfect outfit. She doesn’t seem fazed by the arrests or the accusations. I’ve always envied her ability to let bad news roll off her back. She could lead a pep rally on the deck of the Titanic.

“This whole thing is making my stomach hurt,” I say.

Christy shrugs a whatever my way and barrels into one of two makeshift dressing rooms. She tosses a rainbow of polyester pantsuits on the stool by the mirror and jerks the curtain closed. Christy shops like she plays goalie: Divide and conquer.

Rachel sighs and shakes her head. For perhaps the first time in our friendship, she’s fine with not talking about something. I’d rather not discuss it either, but this isn’t a comfortable silence. It’s like someone has poured itching powder all over us, only we’re pretending nothing’s wrong and trying not to scratch ourselves. I can hear Christy pulling clothes off and on, laughing and groaning at the results.

“Find anything good?” I ask Lindsey.

She shrugs. “Feels weird shopping for a dance when all this is happening.”

“Well, we don’t really know for sure what’s going on,” Rachel says, pulling a dress off a rounder behind me.