Nothing Bad Is Going to Happen (10 page)

He slaps me on the ass so hard I yelp.

“What're you doing here, Crazy Kippy?” he asks in a low voice that I'm sure he thinks is sexy.

I rub my stinging butt cheek and shoot Libby a look of betrayal. “Just, uh, wanted to see you,” I manage to say.

“Dan,” Libby says, like she's about to share the biggest secret. “The truth is that Kippy is dying to see your trophy collection.”

“Right,” I mutter. The burning in my ass has subsided. “I would very much like to see your sports awards.”

Dollar Dan smiles goofily, staring straight at my boobs.

“Baby, Kippy, baby,” he says, in this low gorilla voice, and so rapidly it's like he can't really control the words coming out. He may have had quite a few head injuries, come to think of it. “C'mere,” he adds, reaching for my hand. “Trophy time.”

I let him hold it. His fingers are sweaty and he smells like hot pennies. It reminds me of blood, and for a second I zone out a little.

“Kippy will be thrilled,” I hear Libby say. “Look at how thrilled she is—well, that's just her face, but believe me, she's so excited.”

Dan opens a door. Stairs leading to a dark basement.

“NO THANK YOU PLEASE,” I yell, yanking my hand away. I blink at Dan and Libby, who are both staring at me, and shake my head. The dog barks sharply at the TV, and I think I smell blood again—grass stains, too. When Ralph was dragging me inside, there was so much blood. My blood. He stuffed grass in my mouth and pulled my broken body up his back steps—thump, thump, thump—and when he saw the bone had pierced
my pants he knelt down to play with it. Davey came before he could drag me into the darkness of that cellar, but if he hadn't, I would have died underground, in the dank underbelly of Ralph's creepy house. I can still remember the pain of lying there, waiting for the basement to happen, for life to end. The pain was like lightning.

I wince, rubbing my thigh. “No basements.”

“Come on,” Libby hisses at me. “If you faint, I'll catch you.”

“I'm not going to faint,” I snap. “It's not, like, all I do.”

“C'mere, baby,” Dan says, pulling me forward. And for a second his grip is so strong yet gentle on my elbow that I forget why we came here and just follow him. It feels nice to be touched. If I shut my eyes I can pretend it's Davey's hand there, guiding me. I don't untangle myself from Dollar Dan until we reach the last step. I'm a terrible girlfriend, probably. I deserve whatever's waiting for me down here.

Downstairs, metal shelves run floor to ceiling, displaying Dollar Dan's various trophies and medals—except for one wall, which has been reserved for mounted animal heads. Reclining otters and electrocuted-looking
squirrels are displayed alongside startled does and ten-point bucks. A pair of antlers hangs next to some medals. There's a whole basket of loose antlers on the ground.

“Whose necklaces are these?” Libby asks, running fingers along the gold trinkets strung around the neck of a mounted fox head. They all clink together like a grotesque wind chime.

“That's where I hang my chains,” he says proudly. “My chains are for the ladies. But the ladies aren't here, in my house—” He looks at me and laughs. “Not usually. So when I'm at home I hang my chains on the animals.” He thumps his chest. “I'm an animal, too, when it comes to the ladies.”

“Ooh la la,” I say. It comes out way too loud.

“Right,” Libby says, crossing her arms. “So, Dollar Dan, where were you Friday?”

“How come you don't sound nice anymore?” he snaps.

She raises her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“You pushed me at school and now you're being a bitch. I don't know if I like you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Dan, come on. Where were you on Friday?”

“Who cares?” he snaps, crossing the room to root around in the antler basket.

Libby glares at him, then leans in close to me and whispers in my hair, “I'm gonna go snoop for evidence. You said a Chewbacca head, right? Keep him talking.”

Before I can choke out, “No, don't leave me,” she's disappeared up the stairs.

I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, pretending to admire the trophies. What will I say when Dollar Dan returns from his weird bone basket?
Nice bones
? I just hope he doesn't try to kiss me. I have a history of not doing the right thing when people other than my boyfriend try to kiss me. (I mean, it only happened once, but still.) When Colt was in jail and I went to question him, he had some sort of feral-animal thing going on—he'd grown a beard and probably hadn't hooked up with anyone in weeks, which for him is like starvation. He yanked me against the cold bars, shoving his tongue in my mouth, and even though I felt nothing, I let it happen because part of me was like,
Huh. So this is what that's like
.

Something pokes me hard in the chest. I shake myself out of my memory-lane reverie and look down to see Dan stroking my left breast with an antler.

“Stop,” I tell him.

“What? It doesn't count as my hand.” He laughs. “Plus,
what do you care? You're just a dumb slut, right?” He pokes me so hard in the chest that it hurts. I take a few steps back, dumbfounded, frozen. “I know you want me,” he says.

“Libby?” I call.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, grabbing me by the front of my shirt. He yanks me in so close that his chin touches my forehead. He wraps one arm tight around my waist and I can feel the antler, still held in his other hand, digging into my spine. I slap at his chest, trying to remember that move Miss Rosa taught me—the one where you kill a man with a single blow—how did that go? Something about the nose bone . . . But I can't lean back far enough to slap his face. I feel the antler start to creep up between my legs.

“Dan,” I stammer. “Don't.”

I shove hard on his shoulder, but he shushes me.

I try to pinch my legs together but it hurts so I spread them apart again, and he shoves it up even harder.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, his voice low.

I shake my head, blinking away tears. I can't even talk. The swallowing feeling in my chest has teeth now. I'm starting to sink. I can hear a dog bark.

At Davey's house the dogs are barking, and I go in and I see him there above the counter and it's like—

“Fuck you, bitch,” Dollar Dan says.

I am showing up at Mrs. Klich's house to talk to her about Ruth, and she is spinning dead above—

I am crouched in Ralph's closet listening to his footfalls on the stairs—

Dan is screaming. The antlers thud against the carpet.

“Fuck!” Dan shrieks, falling to his knees.

His hands are off me. I'm free. I kick away the antlers and scramble away from his writhing body. Why is he writhing?

“Are you okay?” someone asks.

I spin around to see Albus standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“No,” I whisper, shutting my eyes.

When I open them, it's Libby.

“Are you okay?” she asks again. Her hands are shaking.

It takes me a second to connect Dollar Dan's pain with the sight of her. But then I see the knife sticking out of his butt. The one Miss Rosa gave her.

“I stabbed him,” she confirms, nodding quickly. “I threw the knife at him and now it's in his butt so we should probably go.”

“What the fuck, you cunt!” he yells. He is trying to reach behind himself for the knife but can't bring himself to touch it. I press my back against the wall, as far away
from him as possible, and edge toward Libby. “Yeah, let's go,” I say quietly.

But she pushes me away when I try to take her arm.

“That's my knife,” she says, striding toward Dollar Dan and yanking the blade. He screams, and she screams. Blood spurts onto the carpet. The smell of it is everywhere. And then I'm screaming, too.

“What the heck were
you thinking, Libby?” We're careening down Route 45—the only stretch of road in Friendship where you can legally go over thirty-five miles per hour. (“I need to drive fast,” she kept saying as we scrambled through Dollar Dan's snowy yard to her car.)

“That stuff's been going on since I was twelve,” Libby says. “Boys touching me like that's what I was born for.”

“You mean like . . .” I trail off.

“No! Not like molestation. Not everything is an emergency. Jesus.” She tosses her hair, glancing at the ceiling. “Sorry, Gah.”

“I don't get it,” I stutter.

“Yes, you do, Kippy,” she says. “You do. You were standing there, and he was trying to tickle your hoo hah
with some old animal bone, and he thought it was sexy or funny, and how did you feel?”

“Scared.”

“Exactly. I've been trying to look good ever since I first knew I looked good. I love makeup, and I love my body. Gah gave it to me. I gotta keep it hot. But you know what every single man who's ever met me since I was still a child thinks about it?”

I shake my head, glancing nervously at the speedometer.

“They think I do it for them,” she says, one eye twitching slightly. “They think I wear a skirt because I wanna get hugged. Colt thinks I curl my hair so he can rake his fingers through it—do you know how long it takes to get a good curl? Teachers stare at me, my dad's friends have made jokes about me turning eighteen since I was thirteen, I've had a reputation for being a slut before a boy even tried to kiss me. Seeing Dollar Dan slap your butt in the hallways makes me remember every single time he's done that to me starting in middle school, when I first grew tits. And when I saw you crying just now while he tried to . . . Well, I'll be darned if I didn't know then how sick of it I was.” She takes a deep breath. “I'm sorry I told you to flirt with him—not like that's what caused it. Gah, certain boys will come at you with antlers raised no matter what you do.”

“Uh-huh.” She's sort of rambling but I get the gist. Misogyny has ruled her life and Dollar Dan is certifiably nuts.

“Do you think it could have been Dollar Dan that night—going after Davey to get to me?”

“Maybe.”

I root around in my backpack for the list.

But who was the second figure? Who would be dumb enough to help an idiot like Dollar Dan? The speedometer climbs from fifty to fifty-five to sixty-five. I try to double-check the speed postings on Route 45. They're
always changing based on the deer population—if there are too many deer, the speed limits drop to reduce human fatalities—but Libby's going even faster now and we're whizzing by the signs too fast for me to read them.

“Libby, slow down.”

“Why? It's not like the police are ever—”

As if on cue, sirens scream behind us.

She groans. In the rearview mirror I can just make out the large yellow smiley face stamped on the hood of every Friendship squad car. It's got its lights on and it's headed right toward us.

“Uggggh,” she says, pulling over onto the shoulder. “Well, that was fun while it lasted.”

“Are you okay?” I ask, turning around in my seat, trying to see which cop it is. But it's getting dark outside, and the neon lights swirling atop the cop car are getting in my eyes. In the strobe-lit blackness, I think I make out a little girl.

Albus?

I swallow and turn back around. I'm seeing Albus more and more lately. The more stressed out I am, the more she's there, it seems like. “You were getting pretty worked up before, talking about boys—Libby, are you sure you're—”

“What?” She arches an eyebrow at me. “So you're the
only one allowed to have meltdowns now?”

“That's fair.” I shrug. “I accept that.”

I hear the police radio crackle through the window and put my head in my hands. “Ugh. Please don't let it be Staake,” I mumble.

“Correction,” Libby says, reaching into her purse. She seems surprisingly calm for someone who just stabbed a guy and is probably about to get a speeding ticket. “Let's pray it's Staake.”

“God, Libby—”

“Gah,” she warns, slathering her mouth in lipstick.

“What if Dan called the police?”

“Shh,” she hisses, struggling out of her down coat. “Hold this.” She chucks it at me. I hug it to my chest, watching her wrestle out of her heavy wool sweater. She chucks that at me, too, and starts rearranging her boobs under her camisole. Cleavage on the front lines.

Behind us, a car door slams.

“Whoever it is, he's wearing a balaclava,” I whisper, twisting in my seat. “A camouflage one—Jesus, it's unsettling—I can't see his face.” There's also a gigantic key hanging from his belt. It's Staake.

My stomach lurches and spots start swelling in front of my eyes. “It's happening,” I hear myself whine. “We're going to jail. I can't do this again.”

“I am
so
over your fainting,” Libby says, still reaching into her camisole to hoist her boobs together. “I can't deal with you messing up my routine. Just pretend to be asleep or something.”

Somehow closing my eyes and holding still makes me feel less dizzy. I'll have to remember this trick for next time.

Staake knocks on the glass, and icy air pours into the car as Libby cranks open the window.

“Well, hello, Libby Quinn,” I hear Sheriff Staake say. “Aren't you a pretty peach this evening. Per usual.”

I feel my face scrunch up. He never talks to me that way.

“Why if it isn't Mr. Sheriff Staake!” she exclaims.

“I'm gonna keep on my balaclava—that is, if you don't mind,” he continues. “Blood vessels keep bursting all over my face from this dang cold.”

“I sure hope you're having a blessed day, Sheriff Staake!” Libby chirps, sounding like a high society lady in one of those Southern films. “It was a pity we didn't get to talk more yesterday afternoon, when you swung by the Frieds'.” Her voice is about ten octaves higher than her normal grumbly tenor.

“A real shame—say, is that Kippy Bushman over beside you?”

“Yessir. I took that poor thing for an afternoon drive and she fell straight asleep. You know”—she lowers her voice—“I think it might have something to do with all those pills her psychiatrist is giving her.”

“Oh, it's mighty sad,” he says.

“Mighty sad,” she echoes.

“You two staying warm?”

“Yessir.”

The truth is that it's freezing in here and I wish Libby would hurry up with whatever flirt maneuver she's doing because I'm having trouble holding still. My body wants to shiver. I can't even imagine how cold she is, sitting there in only a camisole.

“It's good that you're nice to her, Libby Quinn,” he says. “Heck, I know it isn't easy for popular go-getters like you to be seen with the likes of that. I mean holy bajeezus, would you look at her. Skinny like a dying deer. Hair unbrushed and crazy—like some kind of cotton-candy mayhem.”

Libby does some verbal nodding.

“Skin like slush,” he continues.

Okay, this is getting ridiculous.

“That girl needs a tan,” he goes, grunting softly. “My Lisa takes a lot of care with her tans.”

“You're right, Sheriff Staake,” she says, “and you know
TanGlo over on Main Street is very good—I go there myself.”

“As do I. Just because we're northerners doesn't mean we can't look healthy. It's not good to be, hmmph . . . Well, no offense, but your friend there . . .”

“I'll talk to her about TanGlo.”

“You do that. Now listen.” I hear the sound of paper rustling. He's probably bringing out his superofficial sheriff's notebook. “I noticed you were speeding—about twenty miles per hour over, Libby Quinn, and you know we're cracking down on speeding ever since that big collision yesterday.”

“I'm sorry,” she says, sounding about ten years old.

“Well, it's fine, I guess—but you know, I also got a call from Daniel Shully, over on Amity Street.”

“You did?” Libby squeaks.

I keep my eyes squeezed shut. Now would be a bad time to get caught fake sleeping.

“I did. Now I'm sure there's been some kind of miscommunication, but do you wanna tell me your side?”

“Well, I showed up at his place unannounced—which was rude, I know that.” She sighs. “But Kippy here has had such a big crush on Dollar Dan ever since he started playing football—you know how young girls are—”

“Oh, do I ever. I hear you girls call him Dollar Dan because of his nipples,” Staake says, chuckling. “Looks like she didn't take long to get over Mr. Coma.”

Libby laughs uncomfortably.

I grit my teeth.

“Well, anyway,” she says. “We went over there and Dollar Dan was just going to show us his trophies, and what have you, which was real nice. But then we found out that his parents weren't home and . . . Well, I don't know about you, Sheriff Staake, but my father has a strict rule about parents always being there. Adult supervision is a must wherever I go.”

“Oh, of course,” Staake mumbles.

“So the minute we found out it was just Dollar Dan and us,” Libby continues, “I told Dollar Dan we had to leave. I said we'd come by again when his parents were around, but I just couldn't stay without them there. My father would kill me. And then . . . well . . . Sheriff Staake . . . apparently Dollar Dan's had some kind of crush on me forever, and he thought that Kippy and me and him . . . Well, he thought . . .”

Staake grunts. “He thought it was going to be one of those threesome dealies, didn't he?”

“Yes,” Libby blurts out, obviously relieved that he's telling the story for her. “That's exactly what he wanted.
I'd never even heard of them before. And when I said no, he had some sort of tantrum. He grabbed a hunting knife and threatened to stab himself if we wouldn't!”

“Oh my.”

“I've never seen anything like it. It scared us so bad we ran away.” She exhales. “Did he really do it? Stab himself, I mean?”

“What is going on with people around here?” Staake roars. “Everyone's heads are all mixed up. We used to be good Christian people.”

“Tell me about it,” Libby says. Her teeth are chattering from the window being open. “Honestly, sir, I just figured that what I learned tonight is Dollar Dan's own business. My parents always taught me that if someone isn't right in the head, it's not your beeswax, and I didn't want to go embarrassing anybody.”

“Well, it sounds like you have the right idea—but next time someone tries to force one of those threesomes on you without your permission, you give me a call. Here's my card. A woman always has the right to say no, Libby, you remember that.

“Now my booty's freezing out here, and you look mighty, uh, chilly, too. So I think I'll let you ladies head out. I'll check in on Dollar Dan, and you keep an eye on Kippy Bushman. She means well.” I listen as he walks
away, and Libby quickly rolls up the window and turns the heat up higher.

“That's what a double D's worth of cleavage gets you,” she hisses in my ear as Staake honks past us. I smile, reaching for my list.

“You're a real pro, Libby.”

While she's focused on getting her coat back on I write:

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I reach for it, hoping it's not another weird message from someone wanting to talk about suicide.

“Oh, Colt texted,” I mutter, reading the alert. I programmed him into my phone so that I could have a backup number for my night with Davey.

“What'd he say?” Libby asks, sounding excited.

“Let's see,” I mumble, opening the text. Probably some more fake sympathy about Davey. Colt never contacts me.

“What is it?” Libby asks, pulling off the shoulder. “Read it to me.”

“It was a mistake.” I stuff the phone in my pocket. “It's nothing—”

“Kippy.” She says it the same way she said
That's my knife
after stabbing Dollar Dan. “Is something going on with you and Colt?”

“No!”

“Then show me!” She jams her hand in my pocket, reaching for the phone, and nearly drives us into a ditch.

“Jesus,” I snap, handing it to her. “Fine, take a look. It's the only text he's ever sent me, and it wasn't even intended for me.”

She reads it over and over again. I grab the wheel a few times so we won't go off the road.

“Libby?” I ask finally. I expect her to hit the accelerator again—to drive us straight to McKetta's ranch house and run through the front door with Rosa's knife held aloft. Instead she looks crumpled in the front seat, weak and tired.