Every Single Secret(50)

If I betrayed the Super Tramps, they’d never let me back in the clubhouse, and I’d be left to handle Chantal on my own. On the other hand, if Mrs. Bobbie wasn’t happy with my answers, she might send me to a different house—maybe the blue-shingled one at the other end of the road where Mr. Barry, an ex-marine, woke the girls up at four thirty every morning before school and made them do exercises, then cook their own breakfast. Or I could be sent back to my caseworker. Even though she hadn’t returned to check on me since she dropped me off, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t take me to another group home. I’d heard about those homes where the people took in foster kids for the money.

That fat fuck. Chantal must’ve done this. She must’ve tattled to Mrs. Bobbie about the clubhouse or what went on in the woods or something. She was the cause of this—she was the cause of all my problems, the root of all evil. That fat, ugly, mean fuck. I wanted to shove the heel of my hand right into her stupid upturned nose, a move that I’d heard could kill a person.

I could kill her. The words made my scalp prickle deliciously and the adrenaline surge from my hands all the way through me. The simple thought of Chantal being dead settled my nervous stomach. I wrapped my arms around my torso, tucked my book under my arm, and followed Mr. Al and Omega up to the house. I wasn’t scared any longer. A new power nestled safely inside me, a hard little nut no one could crack.

Fat fuck, I repeated silently to myself the whole way up to the house. Not the whiny way Chantal said it to me, but the way Tré and Shellie had flung it casually over their shoulders at me the first couple of days I was at the ranch. Just an afterthought, a bad girl’s inside joke. And then it hit me—the name-callers had only been Tré and Shellie. Omega had never said anything mean to me, not one thing, not once. She’d intimidated the hell out of me, but she’d only ever spoken to me in a kind way.

Warmth filled me, an unreasonable optimism. We’d stand together against Mrs. Bobbie, whatever happened. Omega was my friend. My sister.

Mr. Al ushered us into the bedroom, where Mrs. Bobbie sat at her sewing table, a huge swath of gauzy mauve fabric cascading around her chair and over her lap. She was in charge of making all the pillows and curtains for all the houses at the ranch. She kept her back to us, the whir of the machine filling the air. I wondered for a brief, wild moment if there was a new girl already on her way to replace me, and these were the new curtains for her room. Chantal and I had white plastic blinds. Maybe Mrs. Bobbie thought the new girl should have curtains.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Bobbie sniffed at Mr. Al. “You can go, hon. And don’t let them girls hang around outside the door. We need privacy.” She flicked her hand at him, then went back to arranging the fabric under the needle, folding and pushing and smoothing the material. Her thick French-manicured nails tapped on the machine. Mr. Al nodded at me and Omega. When the door clicked shut behind him, I attempted to catch Omega’s eye. She wouldn’t look at me.

Mrs. Bobbie turned to us, her blue eyes wide. They looked like doll’s eyes, flat, expressionless. Empty. “Ladies,” she declared. “Do you know why you’ve been invited back here, to my private rooms?”

She said it like her bedroom and bath comprised a whole wing of Versailles.

We shook our heads dumbly, and the woman heaved an enormous, pained sigh.

“Because what we have to discuss is very”—she glared at me, then Omega—“very private.” Then, reaching under the avalanche of neatly arranged fabric, she drew out a pair of rainbow-striped girls’ underwear. She held them aloft between two fingers, her face puckered in distaste. “What is this?”

“They’re underpants,” I piped up, eager to set things right, sooner rather than later. Mr. Al and Mrs. Bobbie’s bedroom smelled funny. And I couldn’t help looking at the bed and wondering what went on in it. I knew about sex, but I couldn’t imagine sweet, puppyish Al doing things like that to shellacked Mrs. Bobbie with her perfect hair-sprayed hair and enormous boobs. “They’re Omega’s underpa . . .”

My voice trailed off. Omega’s face was a stone, and Mrs. Bobbie was smirking. I glanced from one to the other, struggling for a foothold.

“Give them back,” Omega growled. Her ominous tone made me shrink inside.

“Not until you explain what they were doing in her”—at this point she waved the panties in my direction—“backpack. They were found in Daphne’s backpack with this message written on them.” Bobbie looked at the panties and read theatrically: “9-27 midnight.” She looked at Omega. “That’s the night of the camping trip, isn’t it? September twenty-seventh. Daphne, did you promise to deliver these underpants to someone? To a boy?”

Omega pivoted and leveled her destroying laser-beam stare at me. Like she’d flipped a switch, I began to shake. “I don’t know how they got in my backpack. I’ve never seen them.” I thought back to the last time I’d had laundry duty with Chantal. Her smile as she’d sent me on my way.

“Yes, you do,” snapped Mrs. Bobbie. “You know and you’re gonna tell me right now or I swear, I will snatch you up and march you down the drive and cut you loose.” She shook the panties some more and they danced like a puppet. Omega pressed her lips together—her beautiful, perfect bright-pink lips—and kept her narrowed eyes on me. They paralyzed me. I guessed she wanted to know how I’d ended up with a pair of her panties as much as Mrs. Bobbie did.