Shine (8 page)

“Beef hates it here,” Gwennie said. “Hates everything. He used to be fun, but now he’s like . . .” She lifted her shoulders. “He’s not the same as he used to be.”

Gwennie stopped rubbing my hand, though she didn’t let it go. “Patrick tried to help him. Tried to remind him of the bright side of things, you know?”

“That’s Patrick,” I agreed.

Her features softened, and I realized she had it bad for Patrick. She
pined
for him—an old-fashioned word, but the right one. It was as if the ache of it pulled her away from me, leaving her . . . where?

Some place as dreamy and flimsy as a cloud.

“He’s such a good person,” she said earnestly. “He was always here at the house, talking to Beef and trying to get him out of his depression. But sometimes? When Beef wasn’t here? Patrick would stay anyway, and me and him would just talk and talk.”

Talk and talk
. I knew about that, although surely it was different when it had been me and Patrick.

“About what?” I said.

“Any old thing. Life. Beef. Me and my new diet.” She squeezed my hand. “Oh, Cat. We had ourselves such a time when it was just the two of us. And he felt the same way.”

I got a twisty feeling, thinking she was being awfully braggy about it.
Too
braggy. I thought of my daddy patting her when she sat at his feet, and the way she looked at me as he did.

She looked at me the same way now, tilting her head and watching me from under her eyelashes. A hank of hair from the messy side of her updo draped the curve of her cheek and kept going, coiling down over her neck like a rope.

“He knows me better than anyone in the world, just the same as I know him,” she stated. Her tone was a private, moist thing. “It’s true, Cat. We’re soul mates.”

Maybe I pressed my lips together. Maybe I pulled away from her, just slightly. Whatever I did, it made her features harden up like that special chocolate sauce you pour on ice cream, where it comes out of the squeeze-bottle velvety smooth and then straight away solidifies into a shell.

She released my hand. “You can’t steal him away from me, neither.”

“Huh?”

“He’s not yours anymore, so you don’t get no say over it.”

“He never was mine,” I said, thinking the exact opposite. He
had
been mine once. I cut that tie, so Gwennie was right that I had no say over him anymore. But there was no way that Gwennie, of all people, could have found the loose thread and latched it to herself.

“You don’t believe me,” she accused.

I didn’t contradict her, and her eyes turned mean.

“You ain’t better than me, Cat,” she said, spitting the words. “You think you are, but you ain’t.”

I rubbed the headache spot on my forehead.

She saw that I was weary of her, and she jutted out her chin. “Remember when Patrick came to school wearing those pants?” she said.

Those pants
. It was a low blow—and not only that, but Gwennie hadn’t even been there. She’d been in middle school still, so anything she knew about
those pants
came to her secondhand.

“You helped him pick them out, didn’t you?” she accused. “Y’all went to the Sharing House together and went shopping, just the two of you.”

Her tone was poison. Was she mad we hadn’t invited her? All these years later, was she jealous of the connection Patrick and I once had?

“I’d hardly call it shopping,” I muttered.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” Just, you couldn’t call it shopping when it was a charity warehouse where every item was free and came from some rich person’s throwaway bag.

“Well,
I
wouldn’t have let him get those faggy pants,” she declared. “I wouldn’t have let him, but you did. I bet you said, ‘Oh, Patrick, those pants are hilarious. You
have
to.’”

The voice she used for me was awful: husky and flirtatious. And the word
faggy
? It was so wrong.

“You shouldn’t say that,” I said.

“Why not? It’s true.”

“No, I meant . . .” My words dribbled off. I stared at the table for a long time.

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m not better than you.”

She launched right in. “Dang straight. If
I’d
been with him, I’d have helped him pick something handsome. You think your poo don’t stink, Cat Robinson, but let me tell
you
—“

She broke off as she replayed my confession. If we were in a cartoon, a fluffy question mark would pop up over her head. She squinted at me. “I’m sorry,
what
?”

“You
are
a good person, Gwennie. Patrick, too. He’s lucky to have you for a friend.”

“O-oh,” she stammered.

I rose from the table. “I should get going. Can I use your bathroom first?”

She nodded, a bobble-head Gwennie doll. “Yeah, sure.
Anything you need.” Color crept from her neck to her face, a darker red than her giddy crush-blush. “And, um, I’m sorry for being nasty.”

“You weren’t. It’s fine.”

“I’m just super stressed,” she said. “The diet . . . and Patrick . . .”

“It’s fine. Back in a sec, ‘kay?”

In the bathroom, which needed cleaning, I peed and washed my hands. Then, leaving the water on, I crouched and opened the cabinet under the sink. I felt around until I found what I was looking for: a box of Tampax Pearl Ultras.

Gwennie got her period when she was eleven, and she made me go with her to buy supplies. If she had something private she wanted to keep safe, like a perfume sample or a pretty stone, she’d hide it among her tampons, knowing Beef and Roy would never find it.

I lifted the cardboard flap of the box. Tampons, tampons, tampons. Rows of little white soldiers. Except—
there
. A slim tube of paper, bound with a pink ponytail holder. Carefully, I slid off the elastic and unrolled the paper.

Good golly
, I thought as I took it in. It was a collage of pictures cut from magazines, all of models so skinny they looked like skeletons. Bony rib cages. Sharp and dangerous collarbones. Thighs the size of my forearm, forearms like straws.

Worse were the personal touches Gwennie had added. She’d filled every bit of white space with words and quotes meant to motivate her, I guess.

Thinspiration
! she’d printed at the top of the page. And then tips, like,
Freeze your food, it makes it take longer to eat
. Or,
Pinch yourself every time you think about ice cream
. Or,
Take a picture of yourself naked and look at it every day, and don’t worry if it makes you throw up. Just be sure to brush your teeth after
.

At the bottom of the page, she’d written,
Think thin. Think Patrick
! And then, in loopy cursive,
Mrs. Patrick’s Wife
.

Carefully, I rolled up her “Thinspiration” sheet and tucked it back among the tampons.

My heart, as I closed the cabinet and rose to my feet, was a small dead creature. If I could bury it in the woods, I would.

ON TUESDAY, I TOOK THE BUS INTO TOOMSBORO so that I could go to the public library. I told myself it was to check for new information on the case, but the truth was that talking to Gwennie had left me shaken. I wasn’t ready to confront anyone else just yet. I wasn’t ready for any more secrets.

The pants Gwennie threw in my face—“candypants,” Tommy dubbed them—
did
come from the Sharing House. Patrick and I had taken this same bus to Toomsboro one afternoon near the end of eighth grade, when Patrick was still my best friend and I still thought life was a sugarcoated delight.

At the Sharing House, Patrick unearthed the pants with a cry of glee, and when I glanced over, I squealed, too. They were
insane. They were
awesome
. We’d giggled trying to imagine who donated them in the first place, because in our neck of the woods, orangish red wasn’t a color guys wore unless it was a vest for hunting season.

But the pants
were
meant for a man. They weren’t ladies’ slacks or anything, and when Patrick tried them on, they fit perfectly.

“Do I look sharp?” he asked, stepping out from the makeshift dressing room. He turned sideways and admired himself in the cracked mirror.

“
So
sharp,” I told him.

“Like someone from L.A.?” He was always dreaming of L.A., where he could cruise around in a convertible and attend movie premieres.

“Totally.” I put my finger to the corner of my mouth and acted confused. “Hold on a cotton-picking minute.
Are
you from L.A.?”

He asked the Sharing House lady to bag the pants up for him, and yes, Gwennie was right. I absolutely encouraged him.

Those pants had nothing to do with what happened to me a few weeks later, however. They were in no way connected to the cruelty I myself experienced at Tommy’s hand, but in my mind they would be forever linked.

Patrick, the pants, Tommy. Patrick, Tommy, the pants. Me, sitting on the sofa, reading. Aunt Tildy in the kitchen, making blackberry jam.

Tommy found me alone and he messed with me. He
knew
I
wanted him to stop. He didn’t, and he was punished. Aunt Tildy made sure of that.

But guess what? I was punished, too. I punished myself every day of my thirteenth summer, slowly shutting down and putting up walls. I quit my chatterbox ways, and I changed the way I dressed, switching out halter tops for the shapeless T-shirts Aunt Tildy hated. And yes, I dodged Patrick’s company, but I dodged everyone. It wasn’t yet deliberate. It just . . . happened.

Patrick didn’t understand. He thought I was avoiding him on purpose, because of something he did.

Not true
. I just didn’t know how to explain what was going on inside me. Finally, after I’d shrugged and toed the ground and made too many excuses for not doing this or that with him, he asked me flat-out what was up. He biked over one day in July and knocked on our door, and when I slipped out back to escape, he came around the house and found me.

“
There
you are,” he said with a strained smile. He tried to act casual, but his muscles were jumpy. “Want to ride into town and get a milkshake?”

In town, there would be people. In town, I could run into Tommy. My mouth went dry, and I said, “Thanks . . . but nah.”

“Why not?” He waggled his eyebrows to be funny. “It’d be my treat.”

“It’s too hot,” I said. “It’s too hot to even move.”

“Ah, but that’s where the milkshake comes in.” He stepped closer, and I took a step backward. I didn’t mean to. I would have done the same no matter who it was.

“Did I do something?” Patrick said. “Whatever I did, just tell me. And . . . I’m sorry, Cat. I swear.”

“Please, just go,” I whispered. I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t bear it that he was apologizing just in case he’d accidentally hurt my feelings. “You didn’t do anything. I’m just tired.”

He stood there. He was a person, and my friend, yet what I saw from under my eyelashes was a dark shadow that only made me feel bad. I wanted that shadow gone.

“You’re just tired,” he repeated.

“Yes, I’m tired.” Irritation crept in, or desperation. “Really tired, and I don’t want to go on a bike ride. Okay?”

I succeeded in wounding him, but he wasn’t one to act needy. That was never his style. “Yeah, whatever,” he said, and he took off. I didn’t see him again until the first day of ninth grade.

With nothing and no one left to distract me, I spent the rest of that miserable summer going from anger to humiliation to wondering if I had it all wrong. What if Tommy liked me, and he’d just been too much of a boy before I was enough of a girl to handle it? What if he ended up being my boyfriend once I learned the rules of how a girl was supposed to be?

I tried to convince myself that things would be better when school started. I’d be a freshman, taking the bus every day to Toomsboro High School. Tommy, as a junior, would never lower himself to taking the bus, not when he could ride his BMW. He called it his crotch rocket, which I thought was gross, but
at least it meant I wouldn’t be trapped with him for twenty minutes every morning.