Heroine(51)

She tries to get out fast now that she’s been rejected, pulling all her things into her lap and standing up at the same time. The shoulder strap of her purse gets snagged on the gear shift and there’s an awkward moment where I’m trying to unwrap it and she’s stubbornly pulling, like she means to rip the whole stick out of the car along with her purse if that’s what it takes to get out of here.

“Thanks for the ride,” Josie calls over her shoulder as she makes her escape, not making eye contact.

The door slams and I close my eyes, pissed at myself. There’s no reason I couldn’t hang out at Josie’s, other than my own stupid self. The truth is that I’m worried the easy closeness between us will be gone without Oxy to bind us, that just like the Bellas or Lydia, when I’m not on the field I won’t quite know what to say.

I don’t want to find out, but there is one thing I need to know. I roll down the window and call to her before she makes the front door.

“Hey,” I yell, and she spins on the stone walkway, hair fanning around her.

“Yeah?”

“What are we going to do?”

Elaboration isn’t necessary. She knows what I’m asking. With Betsy gone, Edith hoarding her own stash, and Jadine’s 20s almost blasted through in one night, our options are more than limited.

They don’t exist.

Josie glances up and down the street before answering. “Text me later,” she says. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

I shoot Josie a text as soon as I get home, but she doesn’t answer right away. I’m lying in bed, studying the empty pill bottle on my dresser, and thinking about the Oxy from Luther in my jeans pocket, when my door slams open hard enough for the knob to crack into the wall and bounce away. The sound of pulverized drywall trailing to the floor fills the room as I stare at Mom.

“What the hell?” I ask.

“Where is my wedding ring, Mickey Catalan?” she shouts at the same time.

“I . . . Mom!” I yell, as she swipes the orange bottle off my bed stand. Instinctively, I lunge for it, but she’s on her feet and quicker than me, pulling it out of my reach as my legs get tangled in the sheets and I roll to the floor. There’s a solid smack when I hit, and my teeth click together, but she doesn’t move to help me, or ask if I’m okay.

“My wedding ring,” she repeats, holding the bottle above her head.

“How would I know?” I say, running a finger along the inside of my lip where it connected with the floor, soft tissue already swelling.

“Did you take it?” she asks.

“Why would I do that?” I ask, hauling myself back up onto the bed, crouched under her glare. I’m answering questions with questions, hoping that love will outdo logic as I lead her down the path that makes me look good, the one she wants to follow.

“For money,” she cries, her voice breaking on the second word. “You drained your bank account, Mickey. I checked.”

The anger is seeping out now, having already crested with her entrance. I’ve overheard enough fights between Mom and Dad, seen the explosion of rage and fallout of quiet tears. She’s going to fold now. Her words will stick to her convictions, but her tone will be begging me to give her a believable alternative. I’ve got the template for this conversation down, have heard Dad talk her out of her suspicions more than once.

And she let him.

“Mom . . .” I start quiet, like he always would. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“I do, though, Mickey,” she says, eyes narrowed. “When your dad called I was so angry I couldn’t think, but then Devra texted me. She wondered if you’d been asking me for money lately, or if anything had come up missing around the house.”

Mom sinks onto the bed, her fingernail working the edge of the label. “I told her she could stick it where Chad came from, but then I looked at your bank account.”

I swallow once, thinking.

“And then I went through my jewelry box,” she says, a hitching sigh escaping with the words. Her jewelry box, which held almost nothing. The practicalities of her profession have always kept her from wearing much, but what she did keep had emotional value. I’d taken the only piece worth anything.

“So are you going to tell me what’s up, or are you going to make me keep talking?”

“Mom,” I say carefully. “I’m okay.”

I say this, because it’s not quite a lie. I say this, because it’s almost true. I could be okay. If I can get her calmed down and find out what Josie’s idea is to keep us from withdrawal and get through this ball season, everything will be all right. I take another deep breath, then let it out with a shudder.

“Carolina needed . . .” My mind is racing, looking in all the dark corners, any thing, any reason, any person I can throw to Mom for punishment.

Just as long as it’s not me.

Just as long as she doesn’t know.

“Carolina needed . . . money.”

“What for?”

“I . . . I really don’t want to tell you.” And it’s true. I really don’t want to say the words that are going to come out of me next.

“Mickey,” Mom insists, voice going thin and hard. “What for?”

“A . . . procedure,” I say, quick and fast, spitting the words before I can talk myself out of them. Mom sits up straighter, but her face clouds, the doctor in her always on duty, the mother in her ready to offer comfort.