For a brief description of what takes place in each of the previous chapters, visit this page.
For a list of the characters from the story you are now reading, visit this page.
For a list of the characters from the previous two stories that you will encounter here as well, visit this page.
And now, dear readers, we make our way into the next installment. Read on…
by Rachael Yukey
I’ll kill the beast so to free my soul
And smash the mirrors that won’t let me go
W.A.S.P. 1995
“Pregnant, huh?” Paulette Reid shoveled her last bite of Eggs Benedict into her mouth, seemingly unfazed by her granddaughter’s news. Mallory only nodded.
Patting her mouth with a napkin, Paulette looked to Julie. “How’d you pull that one off?” The two younger women shared a glance, then cracked up. Mal’s grandma had lost none of her dry, cutting wit.
Julie knew it was a mistake to try keeping up with Paulette, but took a stab anyway. “It’s this service out in Colorado, Grandma. Rent-a-Stud. You call them up and—”
“For an extra five bucks do you get to watch?”
Dissolving into laughter again, Julie rubbed her eyes. Paulette could run rings around her; always had been able to.
Grinning, Mallory laid a hand on her partner’s arm. “I don’t know if we’ve ever really talked about it, Grandma, but see, I’m bisexual. I sometimes—you know—”
“Get yourself a little pickle tickle?” Paulette murmured, gazing over the rim of her coffee mug as she took a sip.
Julie and Mallory cracked up again. “Something like that,” said Mallory, talking around her laughter. “And yeah, Julie knows. I don’t do it very often, and never without talking to her.”
Paulette raised an eyebrow. “Do you talk to her before, or during?” As the younger women erupted in mirth yet again, Paulette finally allowed a smile to touch the corners of her lips. “Y’know, someone once asked me if I talked to your grandpa during sex. I told ‘em I did, if there was a phone handy.”
More laughter. Finally Mallory sobered. “The guy lives up in Bronning; he’s a friend of Nettie’s. We haven’t figured out how we’re going to work everything out yet, but I’m having the baby.”
Paulette nodded. “And I get to be a great-grandma. I was starting to wonder if that was gonna happen.”
“I always assumed one of my cousins was going to take care of that for you,” said Mallory with a grin.
“You mean Michael, by any chance?” Paulette shook her head. “The way that boy jumps from one to the next, he’s either really careful or really lucky.” She cocked her head. “If I know my Mallory-girl, you’re careful. So… not that lucky, I guess?”
Mallory chuckled. “That depends on how you look at it, right? If you’d asked me right after I found out, I’d agree with you, but at this point I’m feeling pretty damn lucky.”
Paulette positively beamed. “Then I’m happy for you, sweetheart.” She rubbed her chin, the smile fading from her lips. “Tell your mom yet?”
“Not yet. And speaking of that…” Mallory broke off, pursing her lips and looking down at her plate. “I’m not sure how to ask you this.”
“Opening your mouth and letting the words roll out usually works, dear. But I think I might just have an inkling what it is you want to talk about.”
Lifting her head to meet her grandmother’s gaze, Mallory blew out her breath, a relieved look on her face. “I should’ve known. Julie said you’d already be aware.”
Paulette gazed down at her coffee cup. “Oh, I’m aware. I was hoping she might be different with you. Guess not, huh?”
“So—she’s been all distant and icy with everyone?”
“Fraid so. We live maybe forty minutes apart, and she never visits anymore. I see her when I’m in Alex, or try to. But I never feel like she’s happy to see me, and all I get from her is the duty phone call every few weeks.”
“That’s damn peculiar,” Julie put in.
“Oh, not so much,” said Paulette. “Sharon was always mood-swingy. We maybe should’ve taken her to a shrink and seen about a diagnosis when she was a kid, but it wasn’t something people thought about all that much in those days. Mallory-girl, has it occurred to you that she’s just plain depressed?”
Mallory shrugged. “She was when I was little, sure. But going her own way and getting a career and all that seemed to fix it—”
“Bull caca,” said Paulette, her tone soft but firm. “You’re really gonna tell me that it was all roses and whipped topping when you were in high school?”
Mallory’s face turned thoughtful. Her eyes flicked to the ceiling. “I guess not. It was better, but—there were episodes, sure. Mom always took even small setbacks really hard. She put a hole in the drywall of her apartment with a frying pan when Shirley Foster broke up with her, then she was really down for a couple of weeks—”
“A couple of months, more like,” Paulette broke in.
Mallory rocked back in her chair. “Was I really that oblivious?”
“No, honey, you weren’t,” Paulette rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Your mom didn’t want you to see, is all. Maybe I should have clued you in on this long ago, but the number of times she was at my place, crying about this or that, or sometimes just crying—it was a lot. She was hiding the hurt from you, because she felt like she’d already messed up pretty bad when you were little. I tried talking her into getting into therapy, but she never would listen. I guess maybe if I’d told you about it, we could’ve ganged up on her and done one of those intervention thingies. I’m more to blame than you.”
“It never lasted this long, though,” Mallory protested. “Mom would be down, then things would seem normal—at least to me—then something good would happen and she’d be on Cloud Nine for awhile. But this has been going on for over three years, Grandma.”
“Ever since she split with Katerina, yup.”
Julie and Mallory shared a wide-eyed glance. “Whoa,” said Julie. “You mean Katerina Jorgenson? The Katerina she went to tech school with?”
“Yup,” said Paulette, “that Katerina.”
Mallory fixed her gaze on her grandmother’s placid face. “She never told me she was dating Katerina.”
“Didn’t she? That’s interesting. It was right after Katerina broke it off with that girl Tracy. There was a thing with your mom for—I dunno—maybe six months. Then they split, and I’m pretty sure Katerina is the one who pulled the plug.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Mallory. “She never breathed a word to me.”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” said Paulette, in the same measured tone she’d maintained throughout the conversation. “Your mom’s got a problem already—big highs, deep lows. There’s a word—”
“Manic-depressive,” Julie supplied. “Maybe bipolar. Jesus.”
“Yeah, that. Anyhow—she’s damn near fifty, getting close to her cycles ending, or maybe it’s already happened. Still single. Wouldn’t surprise me if the mood-swingy thing has something to do with that. Plus, she’s got a steady job, but hasn’t had much luck climbing the ladder. Most of her old school friends are supervisors or engineers, and she’s still just tech staff. I reckon she’s been feeling pretty down on herself these past few years. She won’t talk about it—and believe me, I’ve tried.”
“So—” Mallory hesitated, collecting her thoughts. “You’re thinking it’s a midlife crisis, on top of untreated clinical depression.”
“Pretty much that, yep.”
Julie rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Didn’t you say she used to come talk to you when she was in a down phase, back when Mal still lived at home?”
“Cry on my shoulder more than talk, but yeah.”
“And now she’s keeping you at arms length,” Julie persisted. “Is there maybe someone else she’s going to?”
Paulette shook her head. “I doubt it. I’m thinking that after Katerina, your mother decided she’ll get hurt less if she just keeps everyone away.”
Julie was shaking her head. “That’s exactly the kind of thing that leads to some very not-good shit. Maybe we should be thinking about some kind of intervention.”
“First of all,” said Paulette, leaning forward and lacing her hands together on the table, “without an official diagnosis, we’re just guessing here. Second, if someone does decide to step in, neither one of you ought to be anywhere near when it happens.”
“But–but why not?” Mallory protested. “I’m her daughter, for Christ’s sake!”
Paulette’s expression didn’t change, but she held her hands up in a placating gesture. “Easy, pumpkin. And listen. We mostly kept it hid from you, but I’ve been dealing with this for a long damn time. If I’m right about what’s going on here—and I think I am—you’re gonna be salt in the wound for her. You’re everything your mom wanted to be at your age, and everything she regrets not becoming. Top of your working game, solid relationship—”
Mallory’s face set. “You do know how that sounds, don’t you?”
“Oh, I know it. You’re supposed to be happy if your kids do better than you—means you did something right, for one thing. And most likely she’d feel that way, if her head was on straight. But it’s not. She’s sick, sweetie. I’ve known that for a long time. I just never did know what to do about it.”
“If you’re telling me I should just sit on this and do nothing,” said Mallory, “I’m not sure I can.”
“I don’t think that’s what’s being said, exactly,” said Julie, “but we’ve been down this road before, Mal. Remember Janey Smith, from college? The one everyone called Iowa? We all tried to be there for her, and nothing changed until her boyfriend left and took the kid with him. A person has to want help. Maybe all we can do right now is be a little more regular about staying in touch with her, and be ready to help if we see a window.”
“Go tell her about your impending little stranger,” said Paulette. “You’re about to make her a grandma; that’s a big deal right there. Maybe it’ll give her something to fight for.”
***
Four shots rang out in rapid succession, reduced to dull thuds by large earmuffs adorning the heads of the two women, sole occupants of the downtown Minneapolis indoor firing range this sunny Saturday afternoon. Realizing her hand was drifting, Nettie paused, readjusted, and let off five more rounds, emptying the last of the Glock’s fifteen-round clip.
Lowering the weapon, she turned to face Bridgett, stifling a grin. The muffs, Nettie decided, made the DEA agent look like an anime Princess Leia. Tugging the earmuffs from her head with one hand, Bridgett used the other to press the button activating the carrier system that transported the cardboard human head and torso from downfield to the firing line.
As the target traversed the thirty yard distance, Nettie thumbed the safety, extracted the clip, and visually verified there wasn’t a round in the chamber. Only then did she put the pistol on the shelf to her right. Bridgett, who had spent half an hour drilling her on this procedure, nodded her approval.
Nettie doffed her muffs, then joined Bridgett in her examination of the target. The DEA agent folded her arms, eyeballing the faux bad guy critically. Nettie counted her holes, then made a face.
“Sucks, doesn’t it?” she lamented sourly.
Pursing her lips, Bridgett shook her head. “Six hits in the torso kill zone. One in the head—I know that’s not where you were aiming, but it still counts. Two more that hit somewhere on the target. Out of fifteen rounds, that’s not bad at all for thirty yards. I’d have done better, but I’ve been doing this for a minute or two.”
Nettie shrugged. “Thirty yards doesn’t seem like a lot.”
“It is with a handgun. We qualify at twenty-five.”
“That doesn’t sound like anywhere near enough.”
Bridgett shook her head. “Stop thinking in terms of rifles and deer hunting. Most of the time, if we have to use our guns, longer ranges are out of the question. Too much risk of hitting bystanders. If you have to engage, it’ll be closer than you think. The big trick is just to anticipate the need, and have the weapon out before you have to use it.”
“I’ll have to practice my quick draw,” said Nettie with a grin.
Bridgett let out a single laugh. “Don’t let old westerns get into your head. A quick draw looks cool, but if you’re bringing the weapon up that fast and letting off a round, it means you’re not aiming. Anyway, you’ll be using a shoulder holster, so the weapon isn’t visible.” Loosening the single button, she opened her black blazer to reveal the handgun holstered on her left side.
“No quick draws with these,” she went on. “But so what? This way nobody even knows it’s there until you pull it, and once it’s out and level, you can do all the shooting you want.”
“Bridgett—” Nettie let out a heavy sigh. “Is all this really necessary?”
The agent fixed her with an incredulous stare. “You’re going to be questioning the family of a serial murderer regarding a recently committed crime with an unknown perp who’s still at large. You’re goddamn right it’s necessary.”
“So—you actually want me to take one of these when I go to Iowa to interview Melissa Brentshaw? It’s not even legal. I’m not an agent, and I don’t have a permit to carry.”
Bridgett looked down at her feet, lips pursed. Then she pivoted on her heel, pulling open the zipper of a large faux snakeskin tote bag on the metal shelf next to the Glock. “Yes, you do.” Dipping her hand into the bag, she came up with a shiny black portfolio folder, from which she extracted a piece of stiff paper embossed with an elegant border and calligraphy print.
“Here’s your completion certificate for the firearms safety course my friend Alfred Tator taught last month. If asked, he’ll say you were a model student.” Nettie took it wordlessly, her mouth hanging open.
Bridgett pulled out a pair of wallet-sized laminated cards. “Permits for concealed carry. One for Minnesota, another for Iowa. If you need to add more states, give me a shout.”
“But—”
“Your permit applications are on file with the appropriate agencies. All suitably backdated, of course.”
“How the hell—?”
“Let’s just say I know people. We can further stipulate that some of them owe me favors.” Bridgett rummaged around in the bag again, coming up this time with a black leather shoulder holster with cloth straps. She held it up by the shoulder straps for closer inspection.
“Gun on the left, two clips on the right,” she said. “If the weapon already has a clip in it that gives you forty-five rounds, and if you need more than that, you’ve got bigger problems than an ammo shortage.” Nettie took it from her, looking dazed.
Bridgett plunged her hands into the bag once more, coming up with two clips in her right, one in her left. She placed them on the metal shelf next to the pistol.
“Those are all full,” she went on, dipping into the bag one final time, coming up with two boxes of nine millimeter ammunition. “And this will give you enough to refill the clip you just emptied, with a shitload left over. You have a total of four clips. And finally—” she picked up the Glock, handing it to Nettie butt-first.
“Merry very early Christmas. This is a Glock 19, and I just picked it up brand-new yesterday. Compact, easy to handle, takes ammunition that’s readily available, and you’re already doing pretty well with it. I’ll email you some links; there are great YouTube videos on the care and feeding of these things. Also some places to shop that sell clothing designed to conceal this stuff without leaving a bulge. Get yourself a couple of blazers.”
“I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. This is at least fifty percent about helping me sleep a little better, knowing you’re out there pursuing this case. Just promise me you’ll practice, that you’ll carry it, and that you won’t pull the trigger unless you’re absolutely sure of your target. Can you do that, Agent Hastings?”
Nettie met Bridgett’s eyes. “Yeah. I can do that. Thanks, Bridgett.”
“My pleasure. One thing though: if you’re carrying, you need to have your concealed carry permit on your person. Otherwise you’re illegal. Ready to get out of here?”
“Yeah.” Nettie began gathering up her things.
“You know,” Bridgett mused, stuffing her earmuffs into what was now a much lighter tote bag, “I’m almost sorry you have a girlfriend. The range always gets me in the mood.”
Nettie rolled her eyes. “We’re on your home turf. Are you telling me there’s nobody you can call?”
Bridgett turned to Nettie with a glint in her eye. “There just might be at that.”
***
Same restaurant, same corner booth. Mom was even wearing the same damn gold hoop earrings, and had just placed an order for the exact same chicken fettuccine. The only difference, Mallory reflected, is that this time she had her partner at her side. Oh, and I also happen to be just a wee bit more preggers than I was last time.
Mallory had tried to arrange a meeting in a more private setting, but her mom had adroitly sidestepped, and they’d ended up right back at Longtrees. At the dinner hour this time around, which meant the place was much more packed than the last time she’d been there. So I can’t count my differences today. Big deal.
As the chipper, pretty young waitress walked away with their menus, Sharon Kalvornek gazed across the table at her daughter, wearing a smile that Mallory wasn’t buying at all.
“So!” said Sharon, clapping her hands together. “Now that we’ve ordered, what’s the big news?”
Julie and Mallory shared a look. Julie gave a helpless shrug. Your call, Mallory.
Mallory took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”
Sharon froze, her glass of wine halting only inches from her lips. “Come again?”
Mallory gave a wan smile. “Pregnant. Knocked up. Bun in the oven. Up the duff, if you’re British.”
“But—” Sharon set her glass down, red wine sloshing over the sides. She looked as if she’d been slapped. “You’re pregnant?!” Her voice had gone up half an octave in pitch. Several heads turned at neighboring tables.
Mallory rolled her eyes. “Dial it back, Mom. This is why I wanted to meet someplace a bit less public.”
The slapped expression remained on her face, but Sharon did manage to reign in her tone. “Well, I didn’t think you were going to tell me something like—pregnant? How did it happen?”
“Unless I’m a test tube baby,” said Mallory, trying to sound playful rather than sarcastic, “exactly the same way you got pregnant with me.”
Julie lifted her hand to her mouth to hide a smile. Sharon, however, looked less than amused. “I seem to recall,” she said stiffly, “that you’re in a relationship with the young lady sitting next to you. Don’t tell me she’s the one who got you this way.”
Julie laughed out loud, tipping her head towards Sharon. “Your mom asked me how I pulled it off.”
Finally, the ghost of a smile touched Sharon’s lips. “Yes, she would ask that.” The smile disappeared, her lips thinning to a flat line. “None of which answers my question.”
Despite her best intentions, Mallory realized she was getting mad. No matter what else was going on, her mother had no right to behave this way. Choking back her irritation, she soldiered forward. “You didn’t really ask one, Mom. Look—Julie is sitting right here next to me, giggling at my lame-ass jokes. If I’d done anything behind her back, this would probably look a little bit different.”
“So—this was planned, then?”
“No, Sharon, it wasn’t planned,” said Julie. “But Mal does have occasional one-offs with guys, and not behind my back. The baby was an oopsie.”
Sharon nodded. Her eyes had softened, but her mouth was still set in a firm line. “I see. Am I allowed to ask who the father is, and what you’re planning to do?”
Julie grinned. “Ever seen The Angira Conspiracy? Or Snakeskin Overshoes?”
Sharon’s eyebrows lifted. “No, but I’ve read the novels. Terrance Wilder—he’s one of my favorite authors. He—”
“He’s also the father of your grandchild,” said Julie. Her grin got bigger. “I guess that makes Mal kind of a groupie, doesn’t it?”
Malllory smacked Julie on the shoulder, but with a smile. “Terry lives up in Bronning now; he’s a friend of Nettie’s. I met him early last month and—well—”
“Yes, I get the picture, thank you.” Sharon frowned. “Wait a minute—he made the news a few months back—his daughter got shot, and he got kidnapped, isn’t that right? By his ex-wife?”
“Yup,” said Mallory. “Nettie saved his daughter’s life, apparently. The girl’s doing well; she cooked us dinner when we were up there last time.” She shared a sidelong glance with Julie, both of them basking in the memory of having shared a lot more with Halee Wilder than food.
Sharon was nodding. “Sure. I remember seeing the news, and wondering what someone like that would be doing living in Bronning. It’s been a long time since he’s had a new book. Do you know if he’s working on anything?”
Mallory shook her head. “I have no idea about that.”
Sharon gave her head a rapid shake, as if to clear it. “You still haven’t told me what you’re planning to do.”
“I’m going to have it, and keep it. We’re still trying to figure out how we’re going to make it work so it’s fair to both me and Terry. We’re both agreed that whatever we decide has to put the kid’s needs first, but that’s about as far as we’ve gotten.”
The waitress chose that moment to arrive with their food. Plates were passed around the table; Julie asked for a little hot sauce. The leggy brunette favored her with a warm smile and promised to be right back with that.
“Look at that ass,” said Julie soto voce, as the jeans-clad buttocks in question sashayed back in the direction of the kitchen.
“Believe me, I’m looking,” Mallory intoned, also keeping her voice low.
Sharon stole a quick glance over her shoulder, then turned back wearing her first genuine smile of the evening. Julie, Mallory realized, had done that on purpose, rekindling a game the three of them had played whenever Sharon took them shopping during their middle school and early high school days.
“Nice piece,” Sharon murmured. “Julie gets first sighting on that one. She won’t get the drop on me again, though.” As Sharon turned back to her first bite of fettuccine, Mallory tossed her partner a grateful smile.
***
Patty Spisak strode along Douglas Avenue, making a conscious effort to keep her shoulders back, head high. A long habit of scurrying around hunched over and staring at her feet was brutally hard to break, but she’d been working with her therapist on this. It was more a mental habit than a physical one, the cruel manifestation of a crippling inferiority complex. You can meet the world head-on, she continued to remind herself as she walked. You’re as good as everyone else walking around out here.
As she passed Cory Stitch, owner of Stitch Bait and Tackle, she not only met his eye, but actually managed to coax forth a smile. True, it was timid and fleeting, but still a genuine smile. Stitch tipped her a slight nod as he passed. “Afternoon, Patty.”
Patty opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Just as well—the barrel-chested, scruffy-bearded man was now behind her, and hadn’t noticed her moment of awkwardness. Cory Stitch would never know what a triumph it had been for her to look him in the eye and smile, earning a greeting in return. “Big win for Patty today,” she murmured under her breath. “Not as big as the other night, though!”
Her cheeks flushed, and she felt warm and tingly all over as her mind turned to that incredible evening with Vicky Hanson and Crissy Moen. Best night of my life, Patty told herself. She and Vicky had been texting back and forth since, just the two of them. There was something developing there, something that Crissy would not entirely be able to share in, but Patty thought that was okay. At the same time, the friendship between the three girls was deepening, and Patty loved how it felt to feel wanted rather than just tolerated.
Just now she was on her way to Crissy’s house, and from there they’d head over to Vicky’s. The plan was for the three of them to hike out to Lake Norman and go swimming. “My aunt and Vicky’s sister used to do the same thing,” Crissy had commented. “So this is kind of like—I dunno. The circle of life, right?” Vicky had rolled her eyes and swatted Crissy on the arm.
“Hey, Patty!” The voice shook her from her reverie. Looking to her right, she saw Sarah Spencer strolling in her direction across the city park, diverting course to skirt the playground equipment, then coming up alongside. Despite Patty’s feelings of ambivalence toward the girl, she had to admit the short brunette was stunning, her feminine attributes accentuated in all the right ways by a low-cut mauve tank and jewel-bedecked denim shorts.
“Where ya headed?” Sarah wanted to know, talking around a wad of gum she was chewing.
Patty felt a shiver course down her spine, and had to fight down a sudden impulse to make something up rather than admit where she was really going. Then her uneasiness turned to irritation, partly at herself for letting this girl intimidate her, partly at Sarah for going out of her way to intimidate anyone she perceived as weaker. I’m NOT weak, you bitch. She desperately wanted to believe that.
“To Crissy’s house,” she said, keeping her tone carefully neutral. “We’re going to meet up with Vicky and go swimming.” Sarah stopped in her tracks. Patty decided not to break stride, but was brought up short by Sarah’s hand on her arm. The grip was hard, fingertips digging into the muscle.
“Let go.” Patty yanked her arm from Sarah’s grip. “What’s wrong with you, anyway?” She hadn’t meant to say that last; it just popped out.
Sarah let out a short bark of laughter. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? Crissy was my best friend since fucking elementary school, and all of a sudden Miss High Horse turns her back on me. Think she’s not gonna do the same with you, of all people?”
You of all people. Patty cringed at first; almost by reflex. See, you’re a loser, you’re not good enough, everyone knows it, even Crissy and Vicky are just pretending, they actually hate you hate you HATEYOU…
Then a hot jolt of anger surged through her gut. Pushing that evil inner voice aside, she drew herself to her full and considerable height, towering over Sarah. She advanced forward a step.
“Me of all people? Me of all people? That says everything about who you are, Sarah, and why Crissy doesn’t want you around anymore. What are you so, so bitter for, anyway? You’re pretty, you have friends, your parents have money—why do you have to cut down everyone who’s not like you?”
Patty realized she was almost yelling, her breath coming fast and hard. She recognized the onset of a panic attack, and knew she could head it off if she was quick enough. She forced her breathing to slow—in through the nose, out through the mouth, like she’d been taught.
Sarah was staring at Patty as if she’d never seen her before. Perhaps even a little frightened. Patty wondered how she must appear to anyone in the vicinity, who only saw her looming over a smaller girl and shouting. Having always been intimidated by others, Patty marveled at the possibility that she had it in her to frighten anybody at all.
She backed off a step. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to shout. But you’re not a nice person, Sarah. I hate to say that, but it’s true. You used to be, and maybe you will be again, but you’re not right now. And Crissy didn’t turn her back on you. She misses you—I’ve heard her say so. You could have her as your friend again, if you wanted. You don’t even have to stop being who you are, you just have to stop being—you know—whatever you’ve turned into.” She waved her hands vaguely in Sarah’s direction.
Sarah was frozen in place, still looking a bit fearful. Patty wondered what it was she’d unleashed here. “Did you know I used to look up to you?” she said. “That’s why I agreed with you when you were talking shit about Vicky at that sleepover, even though I didn’t really agree. Ever since, I couldn’t stop thinking about how mean you were to say those things—and how much I sucked for going along with it.”
She paused; heaved a deep sigh. “I wanted so bad to be like you, Sarah. You were always so cool and popular, and me—well, I’m autistic, so that means I never know what to say or how to respond to people. I’ve always felt worthless because of that.”
Something amazing was happening, Patty realized—getting all this off her chest was taming her panic attack right the hell down. She felt calm, poised, and a little sad. “I still hate myself sometimes, and I still feel worthless a lot, but I don’t want to be like you anymore. At least I’ve come that far. What I really hate myself for is that I was mean to Vicky, just because I wanted to impress you. Well, I’m not that person any more. If that’s the kind of thing you respect, if that’s what it’s gonna take to get you to like me, then fuck you, Sarah.”
“I—” Sarah’s eyes were narrowing, her face pinched, but she still couldn’t seem to form a reply.
“I’m going to go hang out with my friends now,” said Patty. “Because they like me enough to not care that I’m weird. And you know what? You could come, if you wanted. I think if you said you were sorry and meant it, Vicky would forgive you. I know Crissy would. We could all be friends. Know what else? I think you really are sorry. I think you don’t want to be this, this person you’ve turned into. I know what that’s like. What do you say? Come with me? Talk to Vicky and Crissy; make things right?”
Sarah’s mouth was working soundlessly. Then a sob escaped her lips, and tears spilled onto her face. Patty took a step forward, reaching out to draw Sarah into an embrace. But instead, Sarah flung out her hands, gripping Patty’s shoulders and shoving her back a step. “Fuck you, bitch,” she snapped. “You think you know everything. You don’t know shit. G-go to hell!” Whirling on her heel, she stomped off, breaking into a clumsy run after just a few steps.
Patty watched her go, feeling a bizarre combination of sadness and elation. The sadness was for Sarah, what she’d become, and her unwillingness to find a better way. She was also sorry to have frightened the girl, and hurt her feelings.
The elation was for herself, for the unprecedented courage she’d dredged up. “I did it,” she murmured. “I stood up for myself. I stood up for my friends. I said what I felt, and I don’t feel like a loser for doing it. Holy fuck, Patty. How cool is that?”
Setting her feet in the direction of Crissy’s house, Patty continued on her way. Her shoulders were set back, head held high, and not only was she not trying, she didn’t even notice.
When she passed Chiara Ness from the drugstore, Patty looked her right in the eye and beamed, her mood positively buoyant. Chiara smiled back.
On to Chapter Twenty-Four!
2
2
1