you go there, anyway?” Baker asks as he slides into the front seat. The fake leather must be freezing through his flannel, but he’s too intent on me to notice.
“I told you,” I say, trying to get the engine to turn over in thecold. “I’m looking for Carly, and I’ll do anything to find her, even go to creepy bars.”
He takes a deep breath and turns to face me.
“Dovey, it’s easy to find Carly. She’s buried on the hill in Bonaventure Cemetery. She’s gone. Have you talked to your therapist about this? Or told your parents?”
The engine finally sputters to life, and I reverse onto the street with a squeal. I gun the car through downtown, running a few yellow lights and cornering on two wheels to keep from having to stop and acknowledge what my supposed friend just said. We turn onto Truman Parkway, and I push the old Buick as fast as she’ll go, daring Baker to say a single word and risk splitting my attention. One tiny shift of the steering wheel could send us crashing through the divider or plummeting to our death in the forest far below. The lonely highway surges on and on in the dark, and I can barely see the lines, and it feels like an old map on a flat world, like we might just be near the end of everything. Like we might fall off the edge.
“Your ‘Check Engine’ light is on,” he says quietly.
In response I press harder on the gas.
When I screech to a stop in front of his house, he pauses and looks at me like it’s my turn to say something, but I look straight ahead, chin up.
“I’m sorry you’re angry,” he says. “But someone has to be honest with you. That’s what friends do.”
I turn slowly, jaw clenched, and meet his gaze.
“Friends never give up,” I say.
“That’s what I said.”
He turns, shoulders slumped, and walks to his front door. I can see the silhouettes of his younger sisters mobbing him like puppies, but I don’t let myself smile.
What he said, and what I said? Not the same thing.
10
BACK AT MY HOUSE, I’VE never been so glad that my mom is working late. I’m starving, so I heat up a Hot Pocket and gulp it down as soon as it’s cool. It sits in my stomach like a cannonball as I consider how complicated things have gotten. I can’t believe that Baker would dismiss me so easily. I may be dramatic and I may be pushy, but I’ve never been a fool. Baker was always the most cautious of our trio growing up—the one who reminded Carly and me of the possibility of getting spanked or grounded, when we were already halfway over the fence. But his mischievous side always won out in the end. Either that or Carly and I were simply unstoppable when we were together. Maybe I just need more evidence to convince him. Maybe I just need more time to get my head clear.
I look on the big wipe-off calendar my mom started keeping when I went on the meds and got forgetful, and it remindsme that tomorrow is garbage day. I hate garbage day. But I didn’t complain about it before, so I can’t complain about it now.
I pull the bag out of the kitchen pail and carry it at arm’s length through the back door and out to the big can by the gate. Then I have to drag that monster can down to the end of the alley. That might not sound too bad, but it’s never fun. The alley behind our house is barely wide enough for a car, and every house on our row backs up to it, as do the backs of the houses on Henry Street. It’s pretty much a claustrophobic tunnel, a space that has only gotten smaller since the day I found my cat Snowball splayed out in two pieces in a rusty ring of blood-soaked sand. It’s been seven years since that happened, but I still don’t look at that spot if I can help it. Carly used to say the alley was haunted, that she had seen Snowball’s ghost running along the fence. As if that weren’t enough to give me a wiggins, the honeysuckle and wisteria intertwine and brush your face like it’s swallowing you whole, and I always get back inside with cobwebs in
“I told you,” I say, trying to get the engine to turn over in thecold. “I’m looking for Carly, and I’ll do anything to find her, even go to creepy bars.”
He takes a deep breath and turns to face me.
“Dovey, it’s easy to find Carly. She’s buried on the hill in Bonaventure Cemetery. She’s gone. Have you talked to your therapist about this? Or told your parents?”
The engine finally sputters to life, and I reverse onto the street with a squeal. I gun the car through downtown, running a few yellow lights and cornering on two wheels to keep from having to stop and acknowledge what my supposed friend just said. We turn onto Truman Parkway, and I push the old Buick as fast as she’ll go, daring Baker to say a single word and risk splitting my attention. One tiny shift of the steering wheel could send us crashing through the divider or plummeting to our death in the forest far below. The lonely highway surges on and on in the dark, and I can barely see the lines, and it feels like an old map on a flat world, like we might just be near the end of everything. Like we might fall off the edge.
“Your ‘Check Engine’ light is on,” he says quietly.
In response I press harder on the gas.
When I screech to a stop in front of his house, he pauses and looks at me like it’s my turn to say something, but I look straight ahead, chin up.
“I’m sorry you’re angry,” he says. “But someone has to be honest with you. That’s what friends do.”
I turn slowly, jaw clenched, and meet his gaze.
“Friends never give up,” I say.
“That’s what I said.”
He turns, shoulders slumped, and walks to his front door. I can see the silhouettes of his younger sisters mobbing him like puppies, but I don’t let myself smile.
What he said, and what I said? Not the same thing.
10
BACK AT MY HOUSE, I’VE never been so glad that my mom is working late. I’m starving, so I heat up a Hot Pocket and gulp it down as soon as it’s cool. It sits in my stomach like a cannonball as I consider how complicated things have gotten. I can’t believe that Baker would dismiss me so easily. I may be dramatic and I may be pushy, but I’ve never been a fool. Baker was always the most cautious of our trio growing up—the one who reminded Carly and me of the possibility of getting spanked or grounded, when we were already halfway over the fence. But his mischievous side always won out in the end. Either that or Carly and I were simply unstoppable when we were together. Maybe I just need more evidence to convince him. Maybe I just need more time to get my head clear.
I look on the big wipe-off calendar my mom started keeping when I went on the meds and got forgetful, and it remindsme that tomorrow is garbage day. I hate garbage day. But I didn’t complain about it before, so I can’t complain about it now.
I pull the bag out of the kitchen pail and carry it at arm’s length through the back door and out to the big can by the gate. Then I have to drag that monster can down to the end of the alley. That might not sound too bad, but it’s never fun. The alley behind our house is barely wide enough for a car, and every house on our row backs up to it, as do the backs of the houses on Henry Street. It’s pretty much a claustrophobic tunnel, a space that has only gotten smaller since the day I found my cat Snowball splayed out in two pieces in a rusty ring of blood-soaked sand. It’s been seven years since that happened, but I still don’t look at that spot if I can help it. Carly used to say the alley was haunted, that she had seen Snowball’s ghost running along the fence. As if that weren’t enough to give me a wiggins, the honeysuckle and wisteria intertwine and brush your face like it’s swallowing you whole, and I always get back inside with cobwebs in
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