Since we’re so much alike.
Maria turns to face me, her eyes all red and spider-veiny. I imagine her aura as a solid black cape over her shoulders. Her lunch box is wide open on the ground. Her sleeve is rolled up. And there’s a safety pin, of all things, jammed deep into her inner forearm, all the way in.
I fold the door open, and there are blood tears running down her olive cheeks. “Here,” I say, “let me help you.” I take her arm and cradle it in mine, pull up on the safety pin and pluck it out.
Maria allows my arms to wrap around and hold her. I feel her fingers press against my back. And I think how it must have been destiny that Ache and I never did end up meeting today. How maybe Maria’s the first real friend I’ve met since I got here.
How maybe I’ve accomplished a lot today.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 12, 5:45 P.M.
I don’t know Kelly Pickerel. But I know of her.
I know that Mr. Vargas, the computer teacher, paid her two hundred dollars to give him a blow job, and that she ended up doing it, right there in his classroom, right under his desk. That’s what I heard. I also heard that she did it in the park with four guys from the lacrosse team—all four at once!
She’s one of those girls who, on the surface, everybody thinks they want to be like—pretty, popular, lots of boyfriends. Except as soon as she opens her mouth you can tell she’s really a bitch and a slut, and everyone knows it.
I flip through the scrapbook I’ve found at the back of her closet. She’s got some pretty screwed up hobbies. It’s loaded with all these old newspaper clippings about some guy who murdered his girlfriend.
“Ginger?” Emily calls from the doorway. “What are you doing in Kelly’s room?”
“Your mom asked me to clean,” I say, draping one of Kelly’s scarves around my neck—a purple shimmery one with silver threads woven throughout. “Go play.”
Emily gives me a pouty face, but she knows better than to give me shit, so she just stomps off.
I love babysitting for the Pickerels. Not that I love kids. I hate kids. I hate all kids over six and under thirteen. My sister Sadie is eleven and she’s the worst. Emily is five, so she’s borderline.
Babysitting here is cool for the following reasons:
1. Mrs. Pickerel only goes out for two hours, tops.
2. She pays me fifteen dollars an hour, plus a big tip.
3. Emily doesn’t mind playing by herself.
4. Unlike my mother, Mrs. Pickerel could probably care less that I’m a dancer. So she doesn’t care when I pig out on her snacks. Doesn’t say anything about how many Suzy Q’s are gone from the package. Or how big my thighs are. Or how straight my back is when I do a pirouette.
5. Kelly’s away in California for the summer, visiting her father, so her room is ripe for snooping.
Of course, it wasn’t easy landing this gig. I had to work for it. I knew Kelly had a younger sister, and when I found out through Cheryl’s older brother’s friend Jessie that Kelly was going away for the summer, a lightbulb clicked on over my head.
The day after she left, I went by Kelly’s house, rang the doorbell, and introduced myself to Mrs. Pickerel. I told her that I was fairly new to the area, just riding by on my bike, looking for kids (potential clients), noticed she had some (from the telltale swing set in the yard), and was wondering if she’d ever need someone to look after them once in a while. Then the clincher: I started talking about all my plans for college and how I was already saving up, how I was the freshman class treasurer at Salem High, certified in CPR, and a classical ballerina, happy to pass on my dancing skills to small children, namely hers. A perfect blend of responsibility, brains, and talent.
But I think what really did it was the resume I typed up, with the carefully chosen font—Comic Sans—to show my fun, yet professional side. I listed my work experience in bold: a babysitting job of Cheryl’s that I passed off as my own, a fund-raiser thing I’d organized (a chocolate sale I’d read about in some book for English class), and a volunteer summer gig at the Crombie Street Shelter. All completely bogus.
All so I could get into Kelly Pickerel’s room and teach her a lesson once and for all.
Of course, I can’t just rifle through her room every time I’m here. Emily would get suspicious and I’d be fired. I have to be discreet, rummage through in stages, cover one area at a time (like today, for example, with her closet). Plus, I’m not just looking for anything. I’m looking for the thing. The one ingredient that will really bring Kelly down.
A couple weeks ago I went through her bookcase. They say you can tell a lot about people from what they read. Plus, since I like to hide stuff in and between books, I thought this might be the most incriminating place. She’s got a few copies of stuff I’ve read—-Judy Blume, Christopher Pike, Maya Angelou. But mostly it’s all these touchy, feel-good, self-help books. Titles like When Nothing Matters Anymore, Fighting Invisible Tigers, Get Over It, and When Love Hurts. Total snore material.
The time before that, I looked under her bed. I found one of those fire-safe boxes. At first I thought I’d hit the incriminating jackpot, seeing that there was a key sticking out of the lock, but instead it was kind of … weird. There was all this stuff crammed inside. One of those plastic snow globes with a family of yellow cats holding paws in a circle, one spotted cat in the center. A handful of foreign coins. A set of rosary beads and a laminated picture of the Virgin Mary. And then, at the bottom of everything, as if it were a liner, a folded up drawing of a whale. It had been done with little-kid hands, in crayons, and signed at the bottom: Love Kelly. At the top it said To a Whale of a Dad. I could tell it’d been crumpled up, and that Kelly had done her best to try and straighten it out.
It made me wonder if my dad still kept my old art stuff. Or if it, too, ended up crumpled into a paper ball.
The closest I’ve ever come to actually talking to Kelly was this past year. I had my hair braided and then spiraled around the crown of my head. I don’t normally wear it that way, but I was being dragged into Boston right after school to try out for the Nutcracker (my mother’s stupid idea), and needed to have it up. Kelly and her friend, this girl Maria, were talking in the courtyard outside the school gym. Kelly tapped me on the shoulder as I walked by them. “Hey, freshman,” she said, “do us a favor and be the ashtray.” Then Maria, the smoking one, flicked her ashes in my hair, and Kelly let out this loud hyena laugh.
Then, one time after school, right before Thanksgiving, I saw her walking with some jock-guy from the lacrosse team. He had his arm dangling around her shoulders, but he kept moving it down to tickle her waist. She was laughing extra loud, like she wanted everyone to hear how much fun she was having—she thinks she’s so great. But then she saw me, just standing there watching her, and her expression changed—two rock-hard eyes; one long, tight slit of a mouth—like she was mad or embarrassed or something. She peeled the slit open for only a second to mouth the words “go screw” at me.
But my worst run-in with the bitch was right at the beginning of finals last year. It was in study hall, in the cafeteria, and I was talking to Matt, this guy in my algebra class who I’d been majorly crushing on for the past two quarters. Of course, Matt didn’t know about my crushdom—at least I don’t think he did—because I’d been pretending to be interested in his math skills (yeah, right!). Anyway, while the two of us were reviewing his Pythagorean theorem notes, Kelly and her bitch friends were sitting a full two tables back, but I could still hear their huge junior mouths. Obviously none of them cared about passing finals or getting into college or anything, because not even one of them had a book opened. I kept eyeballing Mr. Vargas the whole time, wanting him to say something to them. I mean, after all, it was study hall. But he just kept flipping through the pages of his newspaper like the overweight and underpaid slouch of a teacher that he is. Not that I ever really expected him to reprimand his precious Kelly; that could cost him some serious nookie points.
Anyway, after a good twen
ty minutes of listening to Kelly’s hyena laugh, I felt something hit against the back of my head. I ignored it at first, hoping it was just a fluke, but then I felt more.
“Hungry?” I heard someone shout out.
At the same moment, a handful of sunflower seeds landed on the table in front of me. I looked up at Matt to see if he’d noticed. He had. He was staring right at Kelly and all her bitch friends.
“Tell her to have some birdseed,” Kelly shouted at him.
I turned to look. At the same moment, a couple of sunflower seeds beaned me in the face—one landed at the corner of my eye; the other hit me in the nose. Kelly was staring right at me, a stupid smirk across her stupid face, a sandwich bag full of sunflower seeds clutched in her hand. “Can I buy you a burger, honey?” she asked. “You’re looking a little rexic.”
“Excuse me?”
“As in anorexic,” she explained, raising her eyebrows like I’m the stupid one. “What are you … a size negative seven?”
Holy. Effing. Shit. My face turned flame red—I could feel it—and there were hot bubbly tears filling the rims of my eyes. Laughter erupted all around me, probably just from Kelly’s table, but at that moment, it was like everyone was making fun—even Matt.
I opened my mouth to say something clever but nothing came out. And so I just turned back around, hoping that Kelly would just go away.
She didn’t.
More sunflower seeds pelted against my back. I looked up at Matt, and he looked away, back to his a-b-c notes, like he didn’t want to talk to me anymore. I grabbed my books and spent the remainder of the study hall period in the bathroom, locked in one of the stalls, crouched atop the toilet so no one would see me.
A week later, when I saw Kelly Pickerel again, it was like she didn’t even know who I was, like she didn’t even remember what she’d done. Her eyes passed over me as if I were nothing more than another faceless freshman in her path.
I wonder if she’ll be even more of a bitch now that she’s a senior.
I toss the scrapbook onto her bed for a later look and glance through her closet a bit more, checking out the rest of her clothes. I can’t believe Kelly’s a size seven/eight. I had her pegged for way bigger than that. I pluck a dress off the rack—this pepper-green velvet number, with long matching gloves. It’s her winter ball dress. I recognize it from the photo by her bed—she and Sean O’Connell posing smack-dab in the middle of two giant balloon bouquets. I consider trying it on, but the phone rings, interrupting me.
I’m thinking it’s my mother, telling me she’s finally located Sadie after the little head case decided to run away again (like I care!). But it isn’t. It’s some girl who’s looking for Kelly. “She isn’t home,” I say, kicking my sandals off and pressing my toes into the thick melon-colored carpet. I hold the dress up and glance in the mirror. There’s a giant red mark on my chest. I look closer. It’s colored in with a bunch of tiny blood dots. I can thank Sadie for this. If she wasn’t so hard up for attention that she has to run away every five minutes, Mom would have driven me here instead of making me walk, and I wouldn’t have gotten mauled by a car full of losers carrying water balloons. I hate adolescent boys!
“Well, do you know where I can reach her?” the girl asks. “She left her cell phone in my diner.”
“Kelly’s in California,” I say, peeking at the red sunburn stripe down the part in my hair—so attractive. I’ve been thinking about doing one of those six-week color washes, one with a raspberry tint, but I know my mother would kill me. She loves my hair butt-long, blond, and straight.
“Yeah, so am I,” the girl says. “She was in my diner earlier today, with her boyfriend, and left her cell phone. She has this number labeled as ‘home.'”
“Yeah, well this is her house in Massachusetts” I say, making a smile face in the mirror, wondering if the green color of the dress coupled with my metal braces makes me look like a tinsel-topped Christmas tree.
“Do you know how to reach her here?” she asks.
“Nope.” I slip my water balloon—dampened shorts down my legs and pull the dress up over my bathing suit, managing to zip up the back by balancing the phone between my neck and shoulder. It goes down to a little below my knee.
“Well, do you know how to reach Robby?”
“Who?” I turn sideways and wonder if my butt looks big.
“Robby. Her boyfriend.”
Robby? I take a second glance at the winter ball picture. “You mean Sean?”
“No, I mean Robby, Kelly’s boyfriend. Wait, who am I speaking to?”
“I don’t know where you could reach him,” I say, and hang up quickly.
This is almost too juicy-good to be true. I pinch at the folds of extra fabric gathered at the waist and pirouette around and around with excitement, until I lose my spotting and smack down on my butt. This needs clear thought. I need to be smart. I need to plan well. I grab the scrapbook and finger at the binding. Should I look around for her dad’s number and call her, make her shit with what I know? Could I maybe use this info as blackmail?
But what if she and Sean broke up? I guess it’s possible. Maybe it happened right before she went away. Maybe I should call him to be sure.
I tiptoe down the hallway, so Emily doesn’t hear me, and make my way into the kitchen. Sean’s number is on a list tacked up by the phone. I ink it onto the back of my hand, pluck a Scooter Pie from the free-for-all cupboard, and peek into the family room on my way back to Kelly Land. Emily’s got her back to me, her eyes practically glued to the TV, watching Bob the Builder fix some birdhouse. Ode to cable TV—the ultimate babysitter.
Back in Kelly’s room, I flop onto the bed. First things first. I peel the paper back from the Scooter Pie, take a giant bite, and think up what I’m going to say to Sean. Maybe while I’m talking to him I could mention that his girlfriend has a twisted idea of what goes in a scrapbook. I flip it open and glance over the pictures. A closeup of a boy handcuffed and being led into a police car. A class picture of the girl he killed. She’s got this giant crooked-teeth smile wedged up her face, like being killed by her boyfriend is the last thing she expects. Sucks for her. Then there’s a picture of a rock, the murder weapon, with blood spatters on the point.
Perfect breakup ammo!
I swallow down the last bite of the Scooter Pie, press STAR-SIX-SEVEN to block the caller ID, and dial Sean’s number. “Hello, is this Sean?” I ask when a boy picks up.
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“A friend.”
“Tell me who this is or I’m gonna hang up.”
“No you won’t.”
“Why won’t I?”
“Because I know stuff that you’ll want to know.”
It’s church-quiet on the other end, like maybe he’s deciding. “Like what?” he finally says.
“Not so fast. Before we go any further, I want you to know that we may have seen each other before, but we’ve never actually spoken. In other words, there’s no point in your trying to guess who I am.”
“Why don’t you just tell me who you are?”
“First answer my questions. You’re Kelly Pickerel’s boyfriend, right?”
“Yeah.”
Yes!
“So, have you been a good boy while she’s been away in California?”
“Who is this?”
“Is that a yes or a no?
“Who the hell is this?”
“Not quite the response a faithful boyfriend would give.” The phone falls quiet again, but I’m feeling good about the way the conversation’s going. I know I hold the winning hand, and I think he’s starting to know it, too.
“Tell me what you’re talking about or I’m going to hang up.”
“I told you already, I know stuff. About you. About her. Do you want to know if Kelly’s been a good girl?”
“I already know the answer to that.”
I smile, hearing him fold. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“So you kno
w about Robby, then.”
“Who?”
And as soon as the name shoots out my mouth, I peek back at a scrapbook page, at the boy’s name glaring from an article heading, and make the connection. Robby Mardonia. So freaking good!
“What do you think of murderers?” I ask.
“Murderers?”
“Yeah, you know, guys who off their girlfriends.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We need to talk in person.” I lean back against Kelly’s puffy watermelon comforter and flip my legs in the air so that the skirt of the dress jumps up around my hips. Perfect dancing attire. “There’s stuff I need to show you,” I say. “Stuff you’ll want to see.”
“Either tell me over the phone or I’m hanging up now.”
“I told you, Sean. There’s stuff I know about you too, so don’t even pretend you have a choice here.” I flip over onto my belly and feel a shift beneath the comforter. It’s another one of Kelly’s feel-good books, License to Cry. I flip a couple pages, the corners folded over to bookmark her place—a chapter on isolation; stuff about dark days and even darker nights.
I mumble to Sean to meet me in an hour at the Dunkin’ Donuts on Derby Street, hang up, and continue reading. But then my cell phone starts ringing. It’s Cheryl. She wants to know how it’s going, and so I tell her. She couldn’t be more impressed; she just keeps screaming “Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod!” into the phone.
There isn’t anyone who wouldn’t just love to see Kelly Pickerel go down.
But then, as soon as I tell Cheryl about our little field trip to Double D’s, she gets all nerdy on me, “I can’t go out,” she says. “My mom wants me to stay in tonight. She thinks I need to catch up on my summer reading.”
“That’s such bullshit,” I say, tossing the book toward my bag.
“I’ll try to sneak out and meet you there,” she promises.
“Try hard,” I say, and hang up. Sometimes Cheryl can be so lame.
I take a last peek at myself in the mirror, finally decide the dress is butt-ugly, and grab another—a short black spandex one that dips low in the front. Mega-slut material. I can just picture Kelly in it at some cheesy-ass club, dancing that stupid side-to-side-and-clap shuffle that people who have no rhythm resort to, having to yank the skirt part down every other second ‘cause her fat ass rides it up.