In Her Skin(37)

“But—you’re smart. Everyone knows you’re smart.”

“He doesn’t think so. He thinks I’m a math head who can’t write. Basically, he’s profiling me!” you say, crying with rage.

“He has to prove it. And he can’t, right?”

“Of course he can prove it. All he has to do is find the text I lifted it from.”

“Wait. What?”

“I said he just has to google it. It’s a matter of time.”

“You’re saying—wait. You’re saying you did plagiarize?”

“I was rushed. I’m so angry at myself, I want, I want—” You hold clumps of hair and stare into my mirror, like you might rip your hair out, or maybe rip your own head off.

“This is the kind of thing you get flagged for,” you rage on. “This is the kind of thing you get expelled for. This is the kind of thing you don’t get into college for.”

You drop your hair and lunge around the room, herky-jerky, muttering, “Stupid stupid stupid.” You’re scaring the crap out of me, and if I was hoping for a distraction from the mess I left in your father’s desk drawer and the bag of loot sticking halfway out from under my bed, then I got it.

I grab your shoulders and sink you down onto the bed. “It’s okay. Don’t be hard on yourself. You’re under so much pressure.” I search for the right words, something between a sitcom mom and the phrases printed on the Lululemon bags in the pantry. “Everyone makes bad choices. Humans are flawed. You’re human.”

You look up, biting your lip gently.

“Deep breaths,” I say.

You exhale long and hard. Finally, you say, “I guess everyone is flawed in some way, right?”

“Absolutely definitely yes.” It comes out fast, too fast, Jo. Creepy. Pull back. “And on the upside, you’re interesting. And incredibly fun. And a generous friend. These things count for something.”

You drop back onto my bed and I do the same beside you. Our heads are close, and your hair falls across my bare arm. It must feel good to have hair like that, brushing against your own arms, down your bare back, and against your cheeks, when you want to hide inside it. I lift a chunk of it and tickle your arm, and you laugh, and it’s a little bit of music.

“There are flaws that are worse than mine.” You say it like a fact. Or maybe a test.

“Of course there are.”

“You believe that?”

“I do.” This is the truth, and the truth causes you to snuggle against me.

“You know, after you left, I kept pictures of you in my room. I made myself look at them every day,” you say.

Yes you did, you poor thing. I’m starting to understand why you are so messed up. “Wasn’t that tough?” I say.

“That’s the point,” you say. “I was trying to feel something. But there was nothing.”

“I get that,” I say, and I don’t, but whatever. “I mean, there’s something weird about a person just vanishing. What are you supposed to feel?”

You laugh at the ceiling, deep and lusty. “You are empathy incarnate. You’re like an exotic pet.”

I don’t know how to take that, but you feel so good next to me, better than anyone has felt, even Wolf, whose heat was comforting, where your heat is exciting. You roll onto your side and prop yourself on your elbow. “I didn’t know how I felt about you being back. Now, I can’t imagine you gone,” she says.

I stare at the ceiling. How am I supposed to scramble down that fire escape now, when you are the closest thing to love I have? I can feel this very thing flashing across my face, and I am losing it, until you lean over and whisper in my ear.

“Just to be clear. I don’t regret that I did something bad. I regret that I got caught. I’m so much better than that.”

I snap my head to look at her, and we burst out laughing. Temple Lovecraft, you are dazzling. You grab my hands and play with them. “You make my life so much better. I wish there was something I could do for you.”

“Your parents took me in. I would have been with foster parents, probably, living in some sketchy home with twelve other foster kids. You and your family are doing everything you can for me. What else is there?”

You make a short disgusted snort. “My parents don’t do anything without getting something in return.”

“Most people don’t.” It was a Jo thing to say, but you’re on a roll and don’t notice.

“You disappeared at a time when people still remembered the story about the little girl who got kidnapped from the resort while her parents ate dinner. Unfortunate timing for Henry and Clarissa. Now they get to sweep in and make it right, be the parents who take in the girl they wronged, now an orphan. It’s like a freaking Dickens novel. It’s amazing how far a little goodwill will take you in this tiny town.”

“It was the right thing to do,” I say lamely.

“I’m not complaining. Mom and Dad are easier to deal with because they’re happy about the good buzz, for Dad’s business, and for the useless things my mother does. She’s back in standing with the Junior League; I bet you didn’t know that.”

“I did not.” I picture Clarissa Lovecraft in a baseball uniform, though that cannot be right.