We Are the Ants(49)

“He’s not Jesse.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I know you’re right, but I can’t shake the feeling he’s the one who smashed Marcus’s windows. And that’s scary, you know? Who does shit like that? It’s psycho.”

Audrey cleared her throat. “Speaking of Marcus. Have you talked to him lately?”

I shook my head. “No. Why?”

Audrey whistled when Plath wandered too close to the water, but the stupid dog ignored her. If she got pulled out to sea, I was not going in after her. “No reason,” Audrey said in a singsong way that meant she absolutely had a reason.

“Spill it.”

“Well, he got suspended for punching Zac, and Cheyenne said that he’s going off the rails. The rich boy trinity: booze, pills, and meaningless sex.”

It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. I’d seen him eat the occasional oxy he’d stolen from his mom, but his drug use had been strictly recreational. “Why are you telling me?”

“I thought you’d want to know.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Okay.” Audrey paused for a moment. “I know you liked him, Henry.”

“We were only fooling around.”

Audrey snapped her fingers in front of my face to get my attention. It was getting too dark to see her expression, but I didn’t need light to feel the intensity of her stare. “You can’t lie to me.”

I tried to shake my head, to tell her that none of it had meant anything, but I couldn’t. I dug at the sand, unable to face her. “He took my mind off Jesse, but I didn’t worry about having feelings for him because I thought I’d never have feelings for anyone again.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“No!”

“You wouldn’t be the first person to fall for a jerk, Henry.”

I dug the hole until it was so deep that the sand at the bottom was wet and cold. “After Jesse’s funeral, after everyone else disappeared or went back to their normal lives, Marcus was there for me.”

“He’s an * who doesn’t deserve you.” Audrey took my hand, kissed the top of it, and held it to her chest. When she let go, she pushed my mountain of sand into the hole and packed it down.

“His parents put a lot of pressure on him,” I said. “And his friends—”

“Don’t you dare make excuses for him, Henry Denton.”

“I’m not.”

“You are!”

I raked my hair with my free hand as I wrestled with how to explain what I meant. It was so clear in my mind, but when I tried to say it out loud, it fell apart. “All of this . . . all of them . . . it matters to him. What they think matters to him. Their opinions form the foundation of Marcus McCoy. Without them, he’s nothing.”

Audrey tut-tutted. “You know that’s not true.”

“He believes it.” Most people hadn’t seen Marcus the way I had. They’d never seen beyond the facade. Even I’d only glimpsed a little of who he truly was, but I worried that, the longer he wore it, the easier it would be to forget that the mask wasn’t the truth. Marcus wasn’t a lost cause yet, but convincing Audrey of that was.

“As far as I’m concerned, he’s a waste of good hair.”

I made gagging sounds. “I’ve already forgiven you. You don’t have to keep insulting him on my account.”

“I’m serious!” Audrey began giggling, and Plath took that to mean it was time to play. I hopped up and ran down the beach, letting the yappy beast chase me until I was out of breath. When we returned to Audrey, she was brushing sand off her jeans, hugging her knees to her chest. “I know it was Marcus who attacked you in the showers.”

Plath was still barking at me and trying to bite my fingers, but I stopped cold. “You can’t tell anyone, Audrey.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s not worth it.”

“If he hurts you again, I’ll tell everyone.”

“He won’t. Anyway, it’s the end of the world. What does it matter?”

“It matters, Henry.” She clipped the leash to Plath’s collar, and we started walking back toward the road. The bright lights from the cars sped past like comets.

I wanted to believe Audrey, I really did, but I knew better.

? ? ?

Mom was parked in the driveway, sitting in her old Buick, smoking and listening to the oldies station on the radio. She’s always had a soft spot for Motown. I stood quietly and listened to her sing along with “You Can’t Hurry Love” in her raspy but beautiful voice. When the song ended, I cleared my throat so I didn’t scare her.

“Henry?”

“Hey, Ma.”

Mom scrambled in her seat, waving her hands around. It took a second for me to realize she wasn’t smoking a cigarette. “What’re you doing sneaking up on me?”

“Are you high?”

“No.” Silence. “Yes.” Mom climbed out of the car, shamefaced. She was still wearing her waitressing uniform, and the puffy skin under her deep-set eyes sagged heavily. I snaked the joint from her and took a hit. The weed was cheap and burned my throat. “Henry!”