are bargains. And, I always think,
Good! Sell them all.
Everyone’s so stupid. Zabet, she was stupid, too, letting some guy do that to her. I hate everyone, Evie. If I’m being honest, I hate everyone most of the time. Even her. Even you.”
I don’t have any nightmares to tell. The body bag refuses to parade through my dreams, or if it does, it doesn’t leave a print. I sleep right through the night now—ten hours, eleven—without dreams, even though sometimes I wake with the feeling that someone has been standing right over me, breathing. Sleeping isn’t hard. Lying in the dark room, waiting to sleep—that’s the hard part. I call Jefferson Wildlife Control just to hear the voice on the machine, the beep, the silence that comes after.
Chapter TEN
A FEW WEEKS LATER , Hadley and I have dinner with Mr. McCabe again—our fourth dinner in as many weeks. Since our first dinner with Mr. McCabe, Hadley hasn’t mentioned the fact that I lied about being friends with Zabet. In fact, now she covers for me, including my name in stories about things she and Zabet had done together. The first time that she did this, I looked up at her, startled, and she gave me a secret smile as she spoke, like saying,
Yes. This is okay.
And so now I have a whole new history, one that includes late-night calls, home-pierced ears, and summer-break doldrums with Hadley and Zabet. When Hadley tells Mr. McCabe things like, “But it was Evie who said we shouldn’t miss curfew,” I can almost believe it happened that way myself.
Tonight, Mr. McCabe makes the same spaghetti he always does.
“I should expand my repertoire,” he says. “Sorry, girls, I’m one-note.”
“Don’t say that,” Hadley says, twirling up more on her fork. “It’s really good.” To prove her point, she takes a bite.
Mr. McCabe shakes his head, visibly pleased by her words. “You could ask Elizabeth—it’s either this or lasagna or something out of a box. And it’ll be nothing out of a box for you girls.”
“It could be, like, a tradition,” I say.
He sends a finger at me in a swoop. His energy is still frenetic, his gestures and cadences like a hopped-up game-show host’s. I wonder if he’s always this hyper; I get the feeling that it’s just when we’re around.
At the end of dinner, Mr. McCabe holds out his hands, each closed into a fist—one toward Hadley, one toward me. I glance at Hadley, and she’s already extended her hand, palm open, under his. So I do the same. Mr. McCabe leans forward, his shoulders up around his ears, looking like he’s getting ready to bound up onto the table. He opens his hands, and something light and feathery falls into mine.
I examine what I’ve got—a thin, tarnished chain with a glass globe strung on it, a tiny gold seed suspended in the globe’s center. I remember this. I saw it hanging around Zabet’s neck, but I was always too far away to see what was in the globe. Once I saw her tuck her chin under the chain and tip the globe into her mouth, pulling it out shiny with spit. I look over at Hadley. She has a necklace strung between her fingers, too. The chain is gold, and lined up along the center is a row of glass beads. She looks over at what I’ve got, and something moves over her face, running like a tremor through her eyes and cheeks and burying itself at her mouth, which she tightens up, forcing it into a smile.
Mr. McCabe sits back, satisfied. “I thought you girls might like those. They were Elizabeth’s, and well, what would I do with them besides get them out and look at them from time to time?” And . . . though he says this lightly, it sounds like that is what he, in fact, really
does
want to do with the necklaces instead of give them to us. “They should be worn.”
“Thank you,” Hadley and I both say together.
“That’s a mustard seed.” Mr. McCabe tips his chin at me. “Elizabeth’s mother wore that in the seventies. It’s supposed to be good luck.”
“Zabet wore it
Good! Sell them all.
Everyone’s so stupid. Zabet, she was stupid, too, letting some guy do that to her. I hate everyone, Evie. If I’m being honest, I hate everyone most of the time. Even her. Even you.”
I don’t have any nightmares to tell. The body bag refuses to parade through my dreams, or if it does, it doesn’t leave a print. I sleep right through the night now—ten hours, eleven—without dreams, even though sometimes I wake with the feeling that someone has been standing right over me, breathing. Sleeping isn’t hard. Lying in the dark room, waiting to sleep—that’s the hard part. I call Jefferson Wildlife Control just to hear the voice on the machine, the beep, the silence that comes after.
Chapter TEN
A FEW WEEKS LATER , Hadley and I have dinner with Mr. McCabe again—our fourth dinner in as many weeks. Since our first dinner with Mr. McCabe, Hadley hasn’t mentioned the fact that I lied about being friends with Zabet. In fact, now she covers for me, including my name in stories about things she and Zabet had done together. The first time that she did this, I looked up at her, startled, and she gave me a secret smile as she spoke, like saying,
Yes. This is okay.
And so now I have a whole new history, one that includes late-night calls, home-pierced ears, and summer-break doldrums with Hadley and Zabet. When Hadley tells Mr. McCabe things like, “But it was Evie who said we shouldn’t miss curfew,” I can almost believe it happened that way myself.
Tonight, Mr. McCabe makes the same spaghetti he always does.
“I should expand my repertoire,” he says. “Sorry, girls, I’m one-note.”
“Don’t say that,” Hadley says, twirling up more on her fork. “It’s really good.” To prove her point, she takes a bite.
Mr. McCabe shakes his head, visibly pleased by her words. “You could ask Elizabeth—it’s either this or lasagna or something out of a box. And it’ll be nothing out of a box for you girls.”
“It could be, like, a tradition,” I say.
He sends a finger at me in a swoop. His energy is still frenetic, his gestures and cadences like a hopped-up game-show host’s. I wonder if he’s always this hyper; I get the feeling that it’s just when we’re around.
At the end of dinner, Mr. McCabe holds out his hands, each closed into a fist—one toward Hadley, one toward me. I glance at Hadley, and she’s already extended her hand, palm open, under his. So I do the same. Mr. McCabe leans forward, his shoulders up around his ears, looking like he’s getting ready to bound up onto the table. He opens his hands, and something light and feathery falls into mine.
I examine what I’ve got—a thin, tarnished chain with a glass globe strung on it, a tiny gold seed suspended in the globe’s center. I remember this. I saw it hanging around Zabet’s neck, but I was always too far away to see what was in the globe. Once I saw her tuck her chin under the chain and tip the globe into her mouth, pulling it out shiny with spit. I look over at Hadley. She has a necklace strung between her fingers, too. The chain is gold, and lined up along the center is a row of glass beads. She looks over at what I’ve got, and something moves over her face, running like a tremor through her eyes and cheeks and burying itself at her mouth, which she tightens up, forcing it into a smile.
Mr. McCabe sits back, satisfied. “I thought you girls might like those. They were Elizabeth’s, and well, what would I do with them besides get them out and look at them from time to time?” And . . . though he says this lightly, it sounds like that is what he, in fact, really
does
want to do with the necklaces instead of give them to us. “They should be worn.”
“Thank you,” Hadley and I both say together.
“That’s a mustard seed.” Mr. McCabe tips his chin at me. “Elizabeth’s mother wore that in the seventies. It’s supposed to be good luck.”
“Zabet wore it
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