Boring Girls(110)

“I don’t know what the hell he could possibly want with me,” I said.

“You’re awesome. Much prettier than Sophie Cleaver,” Fern said. “She’s all airbrushed in these photos. You look great without all that. Plus you have talent. You’re interesting. I mean, any one of us can pose and look sexy. Fuck, remember all that stupid Women of Metal shit I did? The photos don’t even look like me. It doesn’t take talent to stick out your chest and remove any hint of intelligence from your expression.” She laughed. I laughed too. This really, truly, was the most engaging, most fun, most herself Fern I had seen in so, so long. It was like a switch had been thrown within her.

“So are you and Edgar going to the beach?”

“I think all of us might go, except for you.”

“Oh shit. I’ll have to forego the pleasure of seeing Toad in a bathing suit.”

“I might have to loan him one of my bikini tops,” Fern said, and we howled.

“You feel better, huh,” I said.

“I do. Much. I feel like last night was a step for me. You know?”

“I think so.”

It was sort of funny — we were talking about a murder as if it was a self-help exercise, like meditation or making a collage or something. I have to admit, I felt lighter too. I don’t know how to describe this, really. Maybe it was like we’d taken back some small level of control, or somehow expressed an aspect of how we’d felt inside since all that horrible shit happened with DED. Like we were letting out some of the anger. And let’s be real. No one was going to miss that guy from that Florida parking lot. You show me one news segment, one missing persons report, one bereaved family member, anyone who gave a shit. Yeah, they identified the guy’s body when his fingerprints came up in the system because he’d already been to prison for rape and child molestation. And it didn’t even make the news until everything came out about Fern and me and someone connected the dots. So — my friend and I not only started feeling better about ourselves and our lives by smashing that guy’s face in with a brick, but we helped. We did a good thing. But, sure, I get it — not everyone sees it that way.





FORTY-SEVEN


Chris came lumbering across the parking lot wearing the same perplexed frown he always seemed to wear around me, his hair obviously washed and dried — it hadn’t looked so soft since I’d met him, I adolescently thought. I tried to keep myself from puffing too heavily on my cigarette as I rose from my seat on the curb.

“Hi,” he said in his deep voice as he neared.

“Hi,” I said, and froze as he leaned down to stiffly hug me. I hugged back. For some reason I patted his shoulder blade as we embraced, the true sign of an awkward, platonic hug — the way one hugs an estranged family member. It sucked. But he was so tall, and he smelled clean, and that soft hair brushed my cheek.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat. “There’s, er, a carnival thing going on up the road a little ways. Did you want to go check it out?”

“Sure,” I replied, and we fell into stride beside each other. Well, that’s putting it gracefully. Since his legs seemed about twice as long as mine, I broke into a coltish trot beside him to keep up. He slowed his pace. Eventually we found a common ground. God, it really was uncomfortable. I wanted him to think I was cool, and it just wasn’t going to happen. Images of slinky, sexy Sophie Cleaver kept appearing in my mind. She wouldn’t have galloped along beside him.

“I have to ask you about your girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Yes. Ah — do you have one?”

He was quiet for a moment. “No. Not anymore. I was with the same girl for a few years and we broke up a few months ago.”

“Oh.”

“I was really sad about it,” he said. “Guess I still am, in some ways. I really loved her, you know?”

I was touched by the level of emotion in his voice. He lapsed into thoughtful silence again. I didn’t want to press the issue. We walked quietly along the road, which was lined with fast-food joints and gas stations and strip malls.

“What about you?” he finally said. “You have a boyfriend?”

I don’t know why I was so startled by his question. I hesitated for a moment. “No. I don’t really have boyfriends. I’m not — I don’t know.”

He nodded. “It’s hard to keep things going when you’re always on the road.”