“Do I hear thirty dollars?”
Miranda suddenly realized that the auditorium was silent. Not just normal high school assembly quiet, where the air still buzzed with gossip and commentary, but the eerie, ominous Who died? quiet of the kind you find in lame horror movies, when the heroine puts her hand on the doorknob, just before it turns beneath her grasp and the spooky sound track kicks in.
”Okay ... do I hear twenty-five dollars? Twenty-five dollars for a night on the town with Harper Grace?”
More silence. Miranda wanted to place a bid herself, just to end the misery, but that, obviously, would be the most humiliating blow of all. She kept her mouth shut. And onstage, Harper seemed barely aware of her surroundings or Grady’s swiftly fading enthusiasm. She just smiled.
”Twenty-five dollars!” a nasal voice called out from the front row. Miranda didn’t have to crane her neck to see the bidder; she would recognize Lester Lawrence’s voice anywhere after sophomore year, when he’d called every Tuesday night for three months, waiting for her to change her mind about a date and succumb to his well-hidden charms. Harper didn’t even wince.
”Thirty dollars!” A Texan twang from the back, owned by Horace Wheeler, who also owned an extensive gun collection he was fond of exhibiting to creeped-out visitors who’d made the mistake of stopping by his parents’ Wild West-themed ranch.
Out of the frying pan, into the firing range.
“I have thirty dollars,” Grady said, feigning excitement. “Do I hear more? Going once? Going twice?” He was talking quickly, as if eager to end the awkwardness and move right along to the next victim.
”A hundred dollars!” someone shouted.
Harper flinched.
Oh, no. Miranda slumped down in her seat, shaking her head. He really was the dumbass of the year.
”A hundred dollars!” Grady repeated, a smile radiating across his face. “Going once? Going twice? Sold, to our very own basketball champion!”
Oh, Adam, she moaned silently. You poor idiot.
He’d just wasted a hundred dollars on what he probably thought was the ultimate chivalrous gesture, sweeping in to rescue Harper from her humiliation, saving the day as all heroes can’t help but do. And he’d obviously failed to notice that the rest of the school would see it as nothing more than a hundred-dollar pity date, a fresh sign of just how far the mighty Harper had fallen.
Miranda knew how much Harper hated to be rescued; she knew better than most, since she’d been trying to do exactly that for a month now, to no avail. The harder you pushed, the faster Harper ran away, and poor, oblivious Adam had just guaranteed a record-breaking sprint.
Not that you’d know it from looking at her, of course. As Grady banged the gavel to a smattering of applause and a growing tide of laughter, Harper just gave the audience a curt nod, as if she’d done them all a favor by gracing them with her presence but was too polite to accept their gratitude. Then she turned on her heel and walked off toward the wings, where, Miranda knew, she would remain calm and dry-eyed, proud to the bitter end.
Miranda was the one who bent over in her seat, burying her head in her hands, ignoring the arrival of Inez Thompson onstage to auction off a painting from her father’s gallery of cheesy desert-sunset paintings. Feeling like she’d been the one to stand up onstage weathering the silence, wishing that she could have been the one, or could at least have done something, anything to help, rather than, as always, remaining quiet and ineffectual in the face of Harper’s pain, she squeezed her lips together against a wave of nausea.
This was how it always was in their friendship: Miranda waiting on the sidelines, while Harper fought the battles and reaped the rewards. It was better that way, Miranda had always told herself. Harper was the strong one, who could take anything, as she’d just proven to herself and everyone watching.
Miranda was the one who cringed at every blow, as if she were the one being struck. And when it was all over and Harper was left battered but still standing, Miranda was the one who cried.
Beth woke up as someone laid a cool, damp washcloth across her head, but she didn’t open her eyes. It was too easy just to lie there, on the small cot in the nurse’s office, and let someone take care of her. The nurse’s small radio was set to an easy-listening station, and the numbing sound of light jazz, punctuated only by occasional static or a soporific DJ, had lulled Beth to sleep shortly after the nurse laid her down for “a little R & R.” She would have been happy to stay that way. But the cot was uncomfortable, the washcloth was dripping down her face, and eventually, as Beth shifted around, trying to force her body back to sleep, the nurse realized that her patient was finally awake.
”Feeling better, dear?” she asked, sounding significantly more sympathetic and nurselike than she had the last time Beth encountered her, trying to teach sex-ed to a horde of hormonally crazed teenagers. She seemed much more relaxed and competent here in her natural habitat. “Ready to sit up?”
Beth had only passed out for a few seconds, but when she awoke to find herself flat on her back in the middle of the hallway, twenty or thirty faces gawking down at her, the nurse had insisted on taking her down to the office. Beth wasn’t about to resist; her mind was still sluggish and fuzzy, and she was happy to leave it that way for as long as possible.
They didn’t trust her to drive herself home; probably for the best—she didn’t trust herself. And she couldn’t pull her parents out of work and make them lose a day’s pay just because she couldn’t handle her stress. She’d be burden enough, once they found out the truth. So the nurse had let her recuperate in her office for the rest of the day, and Beth had stayed there, sleeping on and off, hiding out from her tests and her projects and her meetings and her decisions until the final bell rang, and it was time to escape.
“I’m feeling a lot better,” she said truthfully. “Thanks for letting me hang out here.”
”Are you sure?” The nurse frowned with concern. “I still think I should send you on to a doctor, have someone check you out.”
”No, no, I’m fine,” Beth protested. “I didn’t eat anything this morning, and it just . . . got to me. Really. I feel okay now.”
She had a job interview after school, one that might actually pay off, and she couldn’t miss it, anxiety attack or not. Except I don’t need the job now, do I? she asked herself. What would she do with spending money in reform school? Or prison?
But she forced herself to stop thinking about what she’d heard that morning, and what she was going to do about it. She needed to be rational and plan her next move, and to do that, she had to make it through the rest of the day. Tonight, she promised herself, she would figure everything out. She would find a way to live with herself—she would have to.
Beth waved off the nurse’s concerns and gathered her stuff, then, steeling herself, rejoined the outside world. Managing to make it down to the parking lot without speaking to anyone—not too difficult, considering that she’d run out of friends weeks ago and so only needed to dodge the handful of acquaintances who needed something from her—she got into her car and wrapped her hands around the wheel.
I could crash too, she told herself. I could pull out onto the road and crash into anything. No drugs, just me. Just an accident. It could happen to anyone.
But it was no comfort; yes, some deaths were random, some accidents were really just that. But some effects had causes—some victims had killers.
”Stop,” she ordered herself again, aloud in the empty car. She couldn’t think about it while she was driving, not unless she really did want to crash into something. (And she didn’t, she assured herself. Much as she hated herself and what she’d done, it would never come to that.)
By the time she’d pulled into the lot of Guido’s Pizza, she’d reassembled herself into some semblance of calm. She smoothed down her hair and did a quick mirror check: She wasn’t exactly decked out in a suit and heels for her interview, but then, given Guido’s usual T-shirt and grease-smeared apron, h
er faux cashmere and khakis would probably do the job.
Just keep it together, she begged herself. Just for one more hour, keep it together.
And she did, all the way across the parking lot, up to the door of the restaurant, where she almost slammed into a guy backing out the door carrying a large stack of pizza boxes.
He turned around to apologize—and she nearly lost it.
”Hey,” Reed said, his smile just peeking out over the top of the boxes.
”Hey.” Her heart slammed against her chest. Would he be able to tell, just by looking at her? she wondered. Was her guilt painted across her face?
”Listen, about yesterday . . .”
“I’ve gotta go,” Beth said quickly, clenching her stomach and trying to keep her lower lip from trembling. She brushed past him and stepped inside, immediately blasted by a wave of garlic that made her want to throw up.
”See you later?” he called hopefully as the door shut behind her.
Beth pressed both hands to her face and took a deep breath. God, I hope not.
chapter
_______________
6
It turned out that “Guido” was actually Roy, a sixty-two-year-old widower from Vegas who, having a hankering for small-town life, had moved west to find himself. He’d found Grace instead, a go-nowhere, do-nothing town in dire need of a pizza parlor, however mediocre.
And that’s pretty much all Beth took in from his half-hour monologue as she trembled in the chair across from him, willing him to continue talking so that she wouldn’t have to speak. It was hard enough to listen when there were so many loud thoughts crowding into her head.
“My daughter, she wanted me to move in with her and her husband. They fixed up the room over the garage real nice.”
My life is over.
“I raised her right—but that’s no life for a man, livin’ off his daughter, wasting away the days starin’ at someone else’s walls.”
My life should be over. I killed her.
“It’d be different if there were grandkids, but you know how it is today, no one s got any time for family. ‘What’s the hurry, Dad?’ she keeps asking me. ‘What are you waiting for?’ I say, but she just laughs, and that husband of hers . . . it’s not my place to say, but if you ask me, he doesn’t want the bother.”
I didn’t mean to.
“He’s not a worker, that one. Never did a day’s hard work in his life. Not like me. Twenty-five years at the casino and now here I am, shoveling the pizzas every day, and let me tell you, life couldn’t get much better.”
But it’s still my fault.
“Couldn’t get much worse, either, if you know what I mean. That’s life, eh? Gotta take that shit and turn it into gold, I always say. And it’s not so bad. Rent’s low, sun’s always shining, and customers know better than to talk back.”
Ruining my life won’t change anything.
‘”Course, can’t say as I don’t miss the old days. Vegas now? That’s nothin’ but a theme park. But in my day . . . yeah, you had your mob, and you had your corruption— but you also had your strippers and your showgirls and your cocktail waitresses. And then there was my Molly....”
I don’t even know what really happened.
“So what’s your story? I got your resume here, and I see you got plenty of experience serving. But why ditch the cushy diner job and come here? Don’t know as I’d see this place as a step up.”
I know what happened.
“Beth? You still with me?”
Beth tuned back in to realize that a large, calloused hand was waving in front of her face. “Oh . . . sorry. Yes.”
”So?”
She tucked her hair behind her ears, a nervous habit. “So . . . I’m, uh . . .” She wasn’t good at bluffing, even on a good day. And this had not been a good day. “I didn’t quite hear what you asked.”
He gave her a friendly smile. “Nerves got you, eh? Take your time. A few deep breaths never hurt anyone.”
She tried to follow his suggestion, but the heavy scent of garlic made her head pound. She didn’t know why he was being so nice to her. She didn’t know why anyone would be nice to her anymore.
“I asked why you wanted this job,” he repeated.
But Beth couldn’t concentrate on sounding responsible or eager to work in a grease-stained pit. She just shrugged. “I think it would be ... I mean, I like pizza, and ...” She’d prepared a perfect answer the night before—but it had escaped from her mind, and now she had nothing. She held her hands out in surrender. “I need the money.”
He grinned. “Who doesn’t? And why’d you leave your last job?”
Another perfect answer that she no longer had. “Creative differences?” she said instead, giving Roy a hopeful smile.
“Gonna have to ask you to be more specific on that one, hon.”
“Well . . .” She giggled nervously, her eyes tearing up. “I dumped a milk shake on one of the customers.”
“Can’t say as clumsiness is something I look for in a waitress,” he said, tipping his head to the side. “But I’m no ballerina myself, if you know what I mean.”
“No,” she said quickly. “No, I did it on purpose. I just dumped it on his head. It felt great.” Her giggles grew into full-scale laughter, the kind that steals control of your limbs and your better judgment. There was no joy in the spasms rocketing through her body, just an explosion of all the tension she’d been storing since morning—once it started coming out, she couldn’t figure out how to shove it back in again. She flopped around on the chair, heaving with hysteria, gasping for breath, until finally Roy’s frozen scowl brought her back to reality.
“Look, I don’t know what the joke is,” he said, standing up, “but I really don’t have time for this kind of thing.”
“No!” she cried, leaping up. “No joke. This isn’t me— I’m a great employee, really, just give me another chance, I really need this job, I’ve tried everywhere else in town—”
His expression warmed, but he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I am. But I can’t hire you just because I feel bad for you—I need someone reliable, and it’s pretty clear that you’re—”
“Not,” she finished for him. It would have been hilarious if it hadn’t been so sad. Reliable was all she’d ever been. Good ol’ reliable Beth. And now she didn’t even have that. She slumped down over the table, her head resting on her arms and her arms resting on something wet and sticky, but she didn’t cry. She’d been holding it all in for hours now, and it seemed the tears had all dried up.
When she felt the hand on her shoulder, she knew who it was, and she knew she should stand up and rush out of the restaurant without even looking at him, but she was too weak and too selfish, and so she lifted her head up and smiled. “Hey. Again.”
“You’re having a bad week,” Reed said, without a question in his voice. “Come on.” He grabbed her arm gently and pulled her out of the chair, walking her toward the door. She let herself go limp, happy for a moment to be a marionette and let someone else pull the strings.
Once outside, he sat her down on the bumper of his truck, then perched up on the hood.
“I should go,” she mumbled, avoiding eye contact. “I should get out of here.”
“Slow down.” He pulled something out of his pocket— a small, squished paper tube, and offered it to her. “This always helps,” he explained.
Drugs, she thought, and the hysterical laughter threatened to burble out of her again. Why does every guy I’m with keep shoving drugs in my face? Doesn’t he know what could happen? That shut down the laughter impulse immediately; Reed, better than anyone, knew what could happen. She waved the joint away and sighed heavily.
“What is it?” he asked, his soft, concerned voice so incongruous against his punk rock wardrobe and apathetic pose. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I just screwed up my interview,” she admitted. “And everything.”
Reed laughed, a slow, honeyed chuckle. ??
?Don’t worry about ‘Guido.’ He’s a pushover. I’ll talk to him, vouch for you—he listens to me.”
“Why bother?” she asked. “You don’t even know me.”
“So tell me.”
“What?”
“About you.”
So she told him about how she made up stories for her little brothers when they had trouble falling asleep, and about the stacks of blank journals that were piled up on her bookshelf, each with two or three entries she’d written before getting distracted and giving up. He told her that he’d taught himself to play the guitar when he was twelve, when the school had started using the music room for detention overflow. She admitted that she liked Natalie Merchant, Tori Amos, Dar Williams—the sappier, the better. He admitted that he hated the whole girl-power, singer-songwriter, release-your-inner-woman genre, but recommended Fiona Apple and Liz Phair to bulk up her collection.
They didn’t talk about Kaia.
Reed was lying back on the hood of the truck, staring up at the darkening sky. Beth couldn’t stop watching him, the way he moved his body with such fluid carelessness, as if he didn’t care where it ended up. The cuffs of his jeans were fraying, and his sockless ankles peeked out above his scuffed black sneakers. Beth resisted the crazy urge to touch them.
“I should take off,” she said, realizing that the sky was fully dark—her brother’s babysitter would be eager to leave, and her parents would be expecting to find dinner on the table when they got home from work.
“Wait—” He grabbed her wrist, and she gasped as the touch sent a chill racing up her arm. Their eyes locked, and neither of them spoke for a long moment. She had time to notice that his skin was softer than she’d expected, and then, abruptly, he pulled away. “If you need me . . .” He dug a scrap of paper and a stubby pencil out of his back pocket. She now knew he always kept one on hand, for times when a strain of melody popped into his head and he needed to record it before it disappeared. He scrawled down a number and handed it to her.