The Shore Girl by Fran Kimmel

jammed against the curved end of my boot, calves aching. If only we could sit on the milk-white stones.
    â€œDid your uncle have a good time with you?” she twisted her head backward, still marching on.
    What had I said? Something about the barn cellar.
    â€œProbably sweet-talked the whole time. Sticky little sentences. You’re my best girl, aren’t you, Miss Bel?”
    I had one good burst left in me. I ran, six steps, seven, hit her hard from behind, pushing her against cold bark and pinning her there. She folded her arms around the sleeping aspen, forehead pressed against the tree trunk’s rippling skin. I dug my boots into the mushing decay and wrapped my arms around her so our bodies draped that tree.
    â€œYour uncle, not mine,” I whispered, my mouth close to her ear. I could feel her jagged breath, the sting in her lungs. I held her pinned to the frozen tree, but I was afraid to let go, afraid of myself, those feelings.
    â€œI don’t have an uncle,” she said against the rough bark. She said it matter-of-factly, as though being held prisoner was expected, nothing more than she deserved.
    I wanted to tell her of that summer. That there was goodness in this world and it sparked when you found it.
    â€œHe wasn’t like that,” were the words I managed.
    â€œAnd it’s a perfect world, Belinda.”
    Belinda. She said my name. We untangled from each other, from the sturdy trunk that had been shoring us up, and as she turned to me her sadness turned with her like a coat made of stone.
    â€œGo, then. Go north. Stop wasting my time.” She shoved me backwards with the tips of her fingers, a push compared to my violence. Her forehead was red and swelling, three jagged scrapes, pinpricks of blood.
    â€œI’ve hurt you,” I said.
    â€œGo. You don’t belong here.”
    * * *
    I am trying. Trying to do this right.
    I phoned Mrs. Bagot this morning. “I’m not cut out for the classroom. You were right, Mrs. Bagot, I have too much to learn.” I think she’s relieved to see me leave with no fight. Vanessa’s mother caught me pacing the streets when I was supposed to be on my deathbed. I waved several times as she slowed down her van. I even blew a kiss. She and the other bannock mothers must be whispering madly, beating down Mrs. Bagot’s door.
    Delta was harder. I spent much of last night trying to write her a letter. Page after page of false starts. Left hand, right hand, I never could get my pen to work. So this morning I picked up a single red rose and one of those blank Winter Lake cards she likes, and I simply wrote, “Goodbye, Delta. I won’t forget.” I placed the card and the rose on her kitchen table, along with my key. Then I waited for Buttercup to round her next corner, predictably, not like a chicken. I stopped her with my knees, scooped her up quickly and twisted her neck. I did this so quickly she couldn’t have felt a thing. After she went still, I held her in my arms like a baby for the longest time. Then I filled her water dish and food bowl, gathered her little toys, mopped up her urine, and placed her lifeless body gently on the embroidered pillow I took from Delta’s couch. I arranged all the toys around the pillow, then curled her into a ball to make her look as though she’d found peace and had chosen her moment to stop chasing her tail.
    I know I’m not right in the head. I get confused about what’s real. But there was a time when I was a little girl and my heart was pure. Elizabeth was pure once too, I’m sure of it. If she had the uncle with the wandering eye, her loveliness would light the entire sky.
    Rebee’s still could. She told me once, “Monsters aren’t real, Miss Bel.” Ever since bannock day, I’ve thought about how fiercely she fought against the other wolves. “This is me,” her actions shouted. “I won’t let you make me