hold of both my arms, like she could squash them. "Tony's gotta pull this? Just because someone called him a queen? What's wrong with him?"
"I don't know, Macy." I just listened as she kept babbling, knowing her two worst problems had backed into each other. She hated times when she wasn't in charge, and these chicken games were some honor thing with the guys that had nothing to do with her. Second, if she couldn't figure out somebody's behavior, then she couldn't control that, either. Not that Tony could ever be figured out. I didn't think he needed motives.
"Macy, they're acting like a bunch of retards. But your boyfriend will not drown. You see those people down there? Their lives are perfect. You guys just don't have bad luck."
I heard a much bigger splash over my shoulder. Macy started reciting curse after curse as I turned and saw the net had gone under. In the spotlight, the normally green surface of the water was a mass of white bubbles. I watched, trying to decide how they would tell which were Phil's air bubbles and which came from the net. One of Mrs. Whitehall's lectures backed up on me. She was the only mom of our crowd that gave lectures worth hearing ...
You kids, you get hurt because you never think of the details!
Eli, Myra, and Geneva were missing the details, screaming and throwing themselves on shoulders of guys who acted like they couldn't care less, but you knew differently.
Macy ran for the boat. She couldn't take the suspense anymore, and this was a scary enough chicken to let Tony watch her scream. I walked toward Vince's car because I didn't need to watch their good luck. Phil would surface, while I, on the other hand...
I slammed the back door of the Impala and threw my aching head back, thinking the silence would have been great. But I hated my own pity party so much that I wished I had stayed down there. The types of questions I most hated started backing up on me.
Can a trauma like falling out of a moving car bring on a relapse? If a relapse is already happening, can head trauma speed it up?
I sat there with my eyes shut.
Bad luck.
I couldn't ignore how things had actually gone that night. Any girl in that car would have loved to be the one with her head out the window, getting all that attention. It just so happens, it's me.
I
end up with my scalp hanging open.
They
end up partying and laughing. Phil could get thrown into a tangled fishing net and not drown, then I'd be minding my own business and wind up sick.
I searched my head for something not so self-pitying. The only thing to surface was a recent nightmare, and lyrics that started to form, almost out of nowhere.
Tracy's staring at the mirror...
Parts her hair with Daddy's razor...
I thrashed forward, reaching for Vince's MP3 player, which sat on the dash.
Empty.
After feeling for the glove box and finding it locked, I flopped back again and thought to amuse myself by counting stars out the window. But the Hackett night fog had come on Indian-summer thick, and I couldn't see much of anything except twirling ghosts. I shut my eyes again. As much as I was horrified by the stuff I dreamed about and wrote about, I was also drawn to it ... drawn to the shock of what would fly through my head if I just let go.
Parts her hair with Daddy's razor.
Opens up a dark red river.
Combing blond and blood together
Never ceases to amaze her.
"Claire, you are out to fucking lunch," I said. I laughed and wished I hadn't, because it sounded evil. "You deserve your bad luck."
I heard shouting from the dock. Then footsteps with louder screams and shouts. I couldn't see them at first because of the fog. Nine people started coming clear almost all at once, about thirty feet from the car. I lurched up as I saw Macy being carried in somebody's arms. Her blond hair hung down, and drops of water were falling off of it.
Message from God: Don't wish for good luck.
I froze in terror, and some thought shot up to the heavens that I hadn't meant anyone should
"I don't know, Macy." I just listened as she kept babbling, knowing her two worst problems had backed into each other. She hated times when she wasn't in charge, and these chicken games were some honor thing with the guys that had nothing to do with her. Second, if she couldn't figure out somebody's behavior, then she couldn't control that, either. Not that Tony could ever be figured out. I didn't think he needed motives.
"Macy, they're acting like a bunch of retards. But your boyfriend will not drown. You see those people down there? Their lives are perfect. You guys just don't have bad luck."
I heard a much bigger splash over my shoulder. Macy started reciting curse after curse as I turned and saw the net had gone under. In the spotlight, the normally green surface of the water was a mass of white bubbles. I watched, trying to decide how they would tell which were Phil's air bubbles and which came from the net. One of Mrs. Whitehall's lectures backed up on me. She was the only mom of our crowd that gave lectures worth hearing ...
You kids, you get hurt because you never think of the details!
Eli, Myra, and Geneva were missing the details, screaming and throwing themselves on shoulders of guys who acted like they couldn't care less, but you knew differently.
Macy ran for the boat. She couldn't take the suspense anymore, and this was a scary enough chicken to let Tony watch her scream. I walked toward Vince's car because I didn't need to watch their good luck. Phil would surface, while I, on the other hand...
I slammed the back door of the Impala and threw my aching head back, thinking the silence would have been great. But I hated my own pity party so much that I wished I had stayed down there. The types of questions I most hated started backing up on me.
Can a trauma like falling out of a moving car bring on a relapse? If a relapse is already happening, can head trauma speed it up?
I sat there with my eyes shut.
Bad luck.
I couldn't ignore how things had actually gone that night. Any girl in that car would have loved to be the one with her head out the window, getting all that attention. It just so happens, it's me.
I
end up with my scalp hanging open.
They
end up partying and laughing. Phil could get thrown into a tangled fishing net and not drown, then I'd be minding my own business and wind up sick.
I searched my head for something not so self-pitying. The only thing to surface was a recent nightmare, and lyrics that started to form, almost out of nowhere.
Tracy's staring at the mirror...
Parts her hair with Daddy's razor...
I thrashed forward, reaching for Vince's MP3 player, which sat on the dash.
Empty.
After feeling for the glove box and finding it locked, I flopped back again and thought to amuse myself by counting stars out the window. But the Hackett night fog had come on Indian-summer thick, and I couldn't see much of anything except twirling ghosts. I shut my eyes again. As much as I was horrified by the stuff I dreamed about and wrote about, I was also drawn to it ... drawn to the shock of what would fly through my head if I just let go.
Parts her hair with Daddy's razor.
Opens up a dark red river.
Combing blond and blood together
Never ceases to amaze her.
"Claire, you are out to fucking lunch," I said. I laughed and wished I hadn't, because it sounded evil. "You deserve your bad luck."
I heard shouting from the dock. Then footsteps with louder screams and shouts. I couldn't see them at first because of the fog. Nine people started coming clear almost all at once, about thirty feet from the car. I lurched up as I saw Macy being carried in somebody's arms. Her blond hair hung down, and drops of water were falling off of it.
Message from God: Don't wish for good luck.
I froze in terror, and some thought shot up to the heavens that I hadn't meant anyone should
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