Heroine(70)

“My coach paid for my shoes last season. Nobody knows that.”

“I hate my skin. Not just when it itches.”

“Don’t ever be alone, kids. Die before your friends do.”

“I don’t know who I am.”

The words come so easily here, in this place. Everyone else fades, Josie’s head resting on Edith’s knee, a half-finished braid abandoned in her hand as the older woman stares at a commercial for denture cleaner. Luther is pointing at the ceiling fan, his finger trying to follow its circular route. Derrick is out, unconsciousness delivering him from the torture of having skin.

I leave the others behind, no longer invested in their words, not interested in the warm hollow of Luther’s arm. I’m restless and prowling, making Edith’s house my own. The regular dose isn’t taking me where it used to, and I’ll have to pop another hole in my skin if I want to feel good tonight. But for now I’m wandering around, up the stairs to the second floor, somewhere I’ve never been.

It’s tidy but unclean, beds neatly made with covers that smell musty when I sit on them. I picture Edith sleeping in her chair every night, the stairs a journey she can no longer make, osteoarthritis robbing her of half her home. I wonder when someone was up here last, and who it might have been. I go to another room, one with a larger bed and family photographs lined up on the dresser, a fine layer of dust covering them all. I swipe my finger across the glass of the largest one to see Edith’s wedding picture, the same one used in Bob’s obituary.

I rest on the bed and find a crossword puzzle book from 1992 next to the lamp. It’s half finished, yellowed pages brittle under my fingers as I flip them. Bob’s name is on the front cover, written in cursive. Under the crossword book is a dictionary—Bob, you cheater. It’s huge and heavy, with an inscription inside from Helen, wishing them the best in their marriage.

Helen, you gave them a dictionary as a wedding gift? Weird.

Still, I pull it into my lap, fascinated by the heft of it, the tiny print inside and the seemingly endless, almost translucent pages. All the words must be in here, every single one I’ve ever said and a million I’ll never use. In here is the right combination to tell Mom, to confess to Carolina, to come clean to Dad. If I knew all these words and could teach my tongue to say them, maybe I could make things right. I press it to me, hugging the book deep into my chest as I curl around it, willing the words inside of me.





Chapter Forty-Six


pride: a sense of one’s own worth; lofty self-respect; noble self-esteem

I’m out.

The balloons have felt smaller since I had to up my dose, and I’ve found myself weighing them in my hand each time I get them from Josie. I did a shit job of rationing myself this week because I bobbled a perfect throw from Bella Left in the sixth inning when we played Radley. It’s something we’ve done together a hundred times at least, since we were kids. She cleanly fielded a hard shot on the bounce, throwing it right down the third baseline so that I could peg the runner at home.

Left is a genius at this, winging it at a spin so that it bounces just right, timing it so that it hits directly behind the heels of the runner before she goes down into her slide, the ball hopping over her to my glove before her toes can touch the plate, my glove tapping her hip almost gently. No need to rub it in.

But this time I didn’t do it. This time I flubbed the snag, my reflexes too slow. Coach practically dragged me behind the dugout and tore me a new one. I kept my eyes on the ground the whole time, thinking of nothing but the needle. That runner scored, and we would’ve lost the game if Nikki hadn’t subbed in for me and punched a nice double in the bottom of the seventh, getting two RBIs and clinching the win.

Fucking Nikki.

I came home ready to forget about everything. Coach’s eyes boring into me, Left ignoring my back slap when we came off the field, Carolina picking up Nikki and spinning her around when we won.

But what I have left in my shoebox isn’t enough to make a kitten high. I call Josie but her mom is home and she doesn’t want me just showing up. She gives me Patrick’s new number, and he says he’s close and will be over in five.

I haven’t even showered and I’m still in my uniform. I strip down fast, pulling on sweats and a hoodie, but I don’t have time to wash my face before I hear Patrick’s polite knock on the door.

“Hey,” I say, pulling it open. “Come on in. Mom’s not here.”

Patrick follows me inside and I’m all arms and legs, big and awkward in my own home. I’m so flustered I didn’t even remember to get my cash around and there’s a long moment of silence before I realize that’s what he’s waiting for.

“Shit,” I say. “Sorry, hold on.”

I run upstairs and rifle through my drawers, but I blew everything from Henderson last weekend, and Mom only carries cash in her purse, which is with her. I come back down the stairs, face red.

“So, I don’t actually have any—”

Patrick waves me off, dropping two balloons on the kitchen table. “Pay me later,” he says. “I trust you.”

“Seriously?” I swipe them up fast, partly because I’m afraid he’s teasing me, partly because I can’t stand seeing them on Mom’s table, or the rings of his spit that are left behind. I wipe them off with my sleeve.