name to Ellen, her middle name, when she was four years old and then decided to change it back to Ruthie when she was in the second grade. Upon this second name change Mrs. Love had declared, “I’m so confused I’m just going to call you Max!”
“Come here, sweetheart; let me see you up close,” said Mrs. Love.
Ruthie poked her head in the window and felt the spring of unexpected tears. It was the smell of Mrs. Love’s Joy perfume that brought them on, the essence of rose that brought back so many easy afternoons of playing at the Loves’ house with Alex, dressing up in Mrs. Love’s old clothes, pulled from the spare closet in the guest room, before Mrs. Love would finally shoo them out of the house and into the backyard, proclaiming that “wild Indians need a little sunshine.”
“How are you doing?” she asked, her voice leaking sympathy.
Ruthie swallowed. Blinked. “I’m good.”
“We are going to have you and Julia and your sweet aunt over to dinner soon.”
“Okay,” said Ruthie. “Great.”
“You take care now, sweetie.” Mrs. Love waved good-bye and drove off, the tailpipe of the wagon blowing black diesel smoke.
Alex walked over to Ruthie, her brows raised in a question.
“What the heck is going on?” she whispered, pointing to Laney, who was trying to reach underneath a parked car in order to gather the last of the tampons.
“I guess she brought an entire box of tampons with her and they fell out of her bag.”
“Should we help her?” asked Alex, her tone indicating that was the last thing she wanted to do.
“No! People might think they’re ours.”
“Gosh, you’re right,” Alex said, clearly relieved.
“Anyway, the second bell already rang.”
The girls hurried inside, where they split off, each headed to her own homeroom.
It was the first quasi-normal conversation that Ruthie had had with Alex since the accident. Actually, it was the first quasi-normal conversation they’d had in a long time. They had been so excited the year before when they both were admitted to Coventry. But soon after classes began, Alex and Ruthie became socially competitive. Each yearned to be friends with the Eight, that elite group of pretty white girls, all of whom had been at Coventry since kindergarten, who had grown up splashing in the Piedmont Driving Club pool together and smacking their tennis balls back and forth on the club’s courts.
It didn’t matter that the Eight seemed to have no idea that either of them existed; in Ruthie and Alex’s desire for popularity, they had turned against each other. Alex began pointing out pimples on Ruthie’s skin, asking sweetly if her mom had considered taking her to the dermatologist. And Ruthie’s teasing about Mrs. Love’s many rules—no R movies, no TV during the school week, no soda—took on a mean, bullying edge.
And then after the accident, Alex’s attitude shifted toward Ruthie again. Alex became alarmingly sweet. She developed a habit of smiling encouragingly at everything Ruthie said—the way one would with a crazy person—even if Ruthie was just complaining about Mrs. Stanford giving them a pop quiz in math, or the fact that it had rained for five days in a row. Alex would just beam at Ruthie, her eyes widened as if in perpetual surprise, her lips stretched upward, her long white teeth prominent.
Sometimes she would give Ruthie’s arm a little squeeze of encouragement and Ruthie would yell “Ow!” just to startle her.
Ruthie definitely preferred the scheming, plotting, competitive Alex of the pre-accident days, rather than this saccharine version. Ruthie wondered if future interactions with others would always feel so fake, if no one would ever again know how to strike up a conversation with her for fear of accidentally reminding her that—oh yeah—her parents had died.
As if she could forget.
When she finally made it to homeroom, which was also her English classroom, Mr. Roman gave her a squinty look of concern and
“Come here, sweetheart; let me see you up close,” said Mrs. Love.
Ruthie poked her head in the window and felt the spring of unexpected tears. It was the smell of Mrs. Love’s Joy perfume that brought them on, the essence of rose that brought back so many easy afternoons of playing at the Loves’ house with Alex, dressing up in Mrs. Love’s old clothes, pulled from the spare closet in the guest room, before Mrs. Love would finally shoo them out of the house and into the backyard, proclaiming that “wild Indians need a little sunshine.”
“How are you doing?” she asked, her voice leaking sympathy.
Ruthie swallowed. Blinked. “I’m good.”
“We are going to have you and Julia and your sweet aunt over to dinner soon.”
“Okay,” said Ruthie. “Great.”
“You take care now, sweetie.” Mrs. Love waved good-bye and drove off, the tailpipe of the wagon blowing black diesel smoke.
Alex walked over to Ruthie, her brows raised in a question.
“What the heck is going on?” she whispered, pointing to Laney, who was trying to reach underneath a parked car in order to gather the last of the tampons.
“I guess she brought an entire box of tampons with her and they fell out of her bag.”
“Should we help her?” asked Alex, her tone indicating that was the last thing she wanted to do.
“No! People might think they’re ours.”
“Gosh, you’re right,” Alex said, clearly relieved.
“Anyway, the second bell already rang.”
The girls hurried inside, where they split off, each headed to her own homeroom.
It was the first quasi-normal conversation that Ruthie had had with Alex since the accident. Actually, it was the first quasi-normal conversation they’d had in a long time. They had been so excited the year before when they both were admitted to Coventry. But soon after classes began, Alex and Ruthie became socially competitive. Each yearned to be friends with the Eight, that elite group of pretty white girls, all of whom had been at Coventry since kindergarten, who had grown up splashing in the Piedmont Driving Club pool together and smacking their tennis balls back and forth on the club’s courts.
It didn’t matter that the Eight seemed to have no idea that either of them existed; in Ruthie and Alex’s desire for popularity, they had turned against each other. Alex began pointing out pimples on Ruthie’s skin, asking sweetly if her mom had considered taking her to the dermatologist. And Ruthie’s teasing about Mrs. Love’s many rules—no R movies, no TV during the school week, no soda—took on a mean, bullying edge.
And then after the accident, Alex’s attitude shifted toward Ruthie again. Alex became alarmingly sweet. She developed a habit of smiling encouragingly at everything Ruthie said—the way one would with a crazy person—even if Ruthie was just complaining about Mrs. Stanford giving them a pop quiz in math, or the fact that it had rained for five days in a row. Alex would just beam at Ruthie, her eyes widened as if in perpetual surprise, her lips stretched upward, her long white teeth prominent.
Sometimes she would give Ruthie’s arm a little squeeze of encouragement and Ruthie would yell “Ow!” just to startle her.
Ruthie definitely preferred the scheming, plotting, competitive Alex of the pre-accident days, rather than this saccharine version. Ruthie wondered if future interactions with others would always feel so fake, if no one would ever again know how to strike up a conversation with her for fear of accidentally reminding her that—oh yeah—her parents had died.
As if she could forget.
When she finally made it to homeroom, which was also her English classroom, Mr. Roman gave her a squinty look of concern and
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