When the first day of school arrived at last, I was a wreck. I stepped off the bus at the high school—a thousand times bigger than Black Creek’s combined elementary and middle schools—and focused on not getting lost, not falling on my butt, and not doing something randomly embarrassing that would identify me as a backwoods hick.
But Tommy was always in the back of my mind.
I saw him before he saw me. He was in the hall, shooting the breeze with a couple of his football buddies. The sight of his broad shoulders and easy slouch made it hard to breathe, and I thought, Well, and why not just head on to your first class now.
But I didn’t, due to a distraction at the end of the hall. It was Patrick, strolling into the fancy townie high school in his orangish red pants. Surrounded by jeans, jeans, and more jeans, his orange pants were a beacon signifying disaster.
Did he wear those pants on the first day of school for a reason? He must have, because pants like that were a statement. He knew they’d draw attention.
Was it his brazen, goofy way of saying, “Yep, this is me! Hellooooo, high school!” Or was he possibly—oh, it hurt—trying to reach out to me? To remind me that we were friends,as in, Remember how much fun we’d had that day at the Sharing House?
“Holy Mother of Jesus,” Tommy said when he found his voice. His teammates laughed, and he laughed along with them. It was then that he must have felt my stare, or maybe he saw Patrick light up at the sight of me, because he turned, and his eyes met mine, and for a second his cockiness wavered. For a second, my ribs loosened and a small seed of hope took root.
“Cat! Hi!” Patrick said, loping over. The pants were brighter than the flames of a popping, crackling fire. They could have been on fire, they were so bright. Had they been this bright at the Sharing House?
“Patrick,” I said weakly. I sensed Tommy approaching, and in my head I said, Go away, Tommy. There’s nothing here to see. Nothing for you to mess with. I thought of Mama Sweetie, who claimed there was goodness in everything and everyone, and I prayed that was true, because Tommy seemed to be teetering on a taut, slender line, capable of falling in either direction.
Patrick struck a pose, throwing his chin high and flaring his hands out from his body. He was being silly.
“Do I look fabulous?” he asked.
My throat closed. Tommy was right behind him.
“You look like a bonbon,” Tommy drawled, making Patrick jump. “Isn’t that what those candies are called? The ones that come in all different colors and you suck on ‘em?”
Patrick blushed, no doubt from being startled, but also from being caught in a moment of play. Then he recovered, grinning as if Tommy meant no harm. Years of practice had made him a pro at laughing along with the kids who laughed at him.
“Not exactly what I was going for,” Patrick said. “But all right. I can work with that.” He turned to me. “What do you think, Cat? Bonbon?”
I stayed mute, because Patrick and I both knew that a bonbon was a chocolate, and not a sour ball or whatever candy Tommy was thinking of. Patrick had turned the joke around, so that the two of us could make fun of Tommy without Tommy realizing it.
My gaze skittered to Tommy. His pupils widened, then contracted, and my stomach dropped.
He knew. Oh God, he knew. Not about the bonbon, but that I was Patrick’s and not his, regardless of how he’d marked me that day in my living room.
If he had been teetering between good and evil, well, he wasn’t anymore.
“Yeah, Cat, what do you think?” Tommy said. His voice chilled me with its river stone smoothness. He leaned closer. “And don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
“Won’t tell what?” Patrick said.
I swayed, and in a flash, Patrick closed ranks, placing his hands firmly on my shoulders. He dropped his everything’s cool posture.
“Cat, what’s Tommy talking about?” he said.
I gave the tiniest shake of my head.
Tommy chuckled. He sauntered back to his buddies, and when he reached them, he said something that made them laugh. Then he glanced back at Patrick and called, “That’s all right, Candypants. You’ll get your turn one day.”
There was mud in my gut, thick and suffocating, and I pulled away from Patrick before he could ask any more questions.
All morning long, Tommy and his butt-faced football friends had fun with Patrick’s new nickname. “Outta the way, Candypants,” they said. And “Stay back, Candypants. My lollipop ain’t yours to suck.” And “Lose the fag pants, Candypants.”
Whenever I was within spitting distance of the hilarity, I caught Tommy watching for my reaction. Maybe he expected me to laugh and worship his cleverness, or at least pretend to. But I couldn’t. Fear did that to a person.
So Tommy raised the stakes. He was going to force a response from me no matter what, that was what I now thought. Tommy waited until I was at my locker, which was near the water fountain and the bathrooms, and then he and his friends escorted a protesting Patrick into the boys’ room. Too many minutes later, Tommy and his goons emerged, hooting and triumphant. Patrick was no longer with them, but those pants were.
I never learned exactly what happened in the bathroom, but I knew it was awful. How could it not be, having three guys grunt and struggle as they pulled your pants off? But I never heard the details, because that was the day Patrick and me pretty much stopped being friends.
The candy-colored pants ended up in a Dumpster, way down. That I did know, because I was the one who put them there. In the hall, Tommy tossed Patrick’s pants to me with a wink, and I panicked. I didn’t push through the crowd and return them to Patrick, and I didn’t seek out Beef or Christian, who would have done it for me. Instead, I turned from Patrick’s pain. I fled.
Patrick hid half-naked in the boys’ room for half an hour until a teacher got wind of it and rustled up a pair of gym shorts. He went home early, but he was back the next day. If he knew I’d thrown those pants away, he never said. In fact, he did his best to act as if everything was fine between us, even though it clearly wasn’t.
Now Patrick was in a coma, and I was partly to blame, because by turning a blind eye in high school, I’d said, Go on and hurt him. I don’t care. And by doing that, I’d opened the door to more hurt, because when a person did something wrong and got away with it, he tended to do it again. He upped the stakes. He pushed harder and further, until finally, if no one stopped him . . .
I felt sucker-punched. It wasn’t God’s fault Patrick had been treated worse than dirt, as I’d let myself believe. It was mine.
WHEN THE BUS ROLLED TO MY STOP, I HAD TO peel myself off the seat, and, once standing, I stumbled like a drunk to the door. Outside, I blinked in the bright light. I had a four-block walk ahead of me to get to the library, but that was good. That meant I had to move, and moving would surely clear the roaring from my head.
I’d read that when surfers were felled by a big wave, the water pummeled them until they no longer knew up from down. That was how I felt as I walked along Main Street. I knew I had to fight my way to the surface; it was just that every cell in my body was drowning in self-loathing.
But walking got me there. It got me out of my head, and it got me to the library, sweaty and hot, but back in breathable air. My feet hurt, however, because I made the mistake of wearing my silver plastic flip-flops with little jewels in the straps. The humidity made the straps rub wrong against the soft flesh above my insteps.
If I’d been in Black Creek, I’d have taken off my flip-flops and gone barefoot. But here in Toomsboro, I felt self-conscious enough already, even with shoes on. I worried that people would look at me and see a hick. Or, as the townies said, a hill girl.
But guess what? If I ever had to go up against a tender footed townie in a glass-walking contest, I’d be the one who emerged unscathed.
These were the thoughts I distracted myself with as I stepped into the cool, air-conditioned building. When I grew up, my house was going to have air-conditio
ning, and I was going to crank it down so low I’d have to throw a sweater around my shoulders even in the summer.
Miz Hetty, the librarian, looked up from the reference desk. She was wearing a cute little cardigan over her blouse, and I thought, See? Like that.
“Hey, Miz Hetty,” I said.
“Well, hey there, Cat,” she said. A worry line formed in her brow. “How are you, honey?”
Because of Patrick, she meant. Because he and I were both from Black Creek.
“I don’t know,” I said uncomfortably. “I mean . . . well . . . I sure wish they’d find whoever hurt him.”
“I do, too,” she said. “More than that, I wish he’d come on out of that coma. I’ve been praying for him.”
I drew my thumbnail to my mouth. I appreciated her concern, but I wished she’d go on and finish up.
She must have seen this, because she arranged her features to tuck away her sadness. “You here for a fresh book?”
“Naw,” I said. “Maybe later, but first I think I’ll use the Internet some.”
I claimed a seat at the row of computers. The guy next to me glanced up, frowned as if I smelled bad, and went back to his typing.
My heart beat faster, because this was my constant fear ever since my freshman year of high school: that in town, I’d stand out as the outsider I was. That people would laugh—or frown. But I was almost 100 percent sure that I did not smell bad, because I’d put on deodorant this morning, like I always did.
Discreetly, I sniffed myself. I detected nothing but the baby powder smell of my Suave 24 Hour Protection. Was there something else about me? Something that marked me as less than?
A sidelong glance at the guy next to me didn’t help. He obviously did belong, and he bore the distinction with a disregard I’d never possess. He was wearing a plaid button down over a white T-shirt, the standard attire of college boys. He looked a couple of years older than me, so he probably went to Toomsboro Community College.
He might have even stopped at the Come ‘n’ Go a couple of times. For all I knew, he might have heckled Patrick. He might have heckled Gwennie. He sure seemed comfortable in the role of making others—that would be me—feel inferior.
Whatever. I tried to put him out of my mind. I typed in Patrick’s name and pulled up everything I could, but most of it was old news, and what wasn’t old news was basically nonnews.
The guy beside me, whom I was supposed to be ignoring, made a fist and banged it on the table. He wasn’t having any better luck with what he was doing, apparently. I snuck a second peek at him, and his head whipped toward me.
“What are you staring at?” he said. He reached forward and angled his computer screen so I couldn’t see it, not that I was attempting to.
I focused on my own computer, embarrassment rolling off me in waves. I could feel that I was blushing, and it made the helplessness I’d felt on the bus rise back up. I breathed faster, not thinking about Tommy and not thinking about those pants. Not thinking about them so fiercely that the memories sucked me back under, since that was what happened when you struggled against something as grasping and insubstantial as water.
I blinked at my computer screen. I tried a new search, this time on the term epidural bleeding.
College Boy exhaled. “Shit,” he said, making me flinch.
His presence made me nervous, which, when I thought about it, made me indignant. He was being rude. He was acting like he owned the place, and he was keeping others from doing their work.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath.
Blood rushed so loudly I could hear it in my head. I wasn’t worth less than this spoiled college boy who threw a hissy when he couldn’t make the computer bend to his will. More than that, I couldn’t live my entire life letting guys intimidate me just because they were bastards used to getting their own way. I just couldn’t.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice wavering, “but this is a public library. Could you be a little quieter?”
College Boy’s jaw dropped open. He seemed astounded that I’d dared to go up against him.
“Uh, I could, or you could stay the hell out of my business,” he said. “You don’t even . . . you don’t even . . .” He floundered, but he was clearly worked up.
“I don’t even what?” I said. He didn’t know me from Eve, and yet he was acting like he hated me. Did he have a problem with people in general, or was his problem just with me? “I’m just asking you—nicely—to watch your language.” My voice squeaked despite my best intentions. “Like I said, it’s a public library. It’s for everyone.”
“Screw you,” he said, shoving back his chair and stalking off. I let out my breath, which I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. But then—crap—he turned and came back. He stopped at my side. My heart rate zoomed. I could sense him glaring at me, but I was too afraid to look at him.
“Where do you get off being so self-righteous?” he said. He kept his voice low, but it was laced with scorn. “I’m serious. What makes you think you can go around judging people?”
He thought I was judging him? I mean, maybe I was, but he started it. Now I just wanted it to end, because this whole interaction had taken a strange and very freaky turn.
“I asked you a question,” he said. “Are you going to answer it?”
I kept my eyes on the table. My chest rose and fell.
“Yeah,” he said, as if I’d confirmed something. “I love it when small-minded people can defend their positions. Oh, and I’m sorry you don’t like the words I use, because I have a special one just for you.” He leaned in close and whispered something in my ear that made my blood freeze.
I stayed immobile as he stomped off, terrified someone had heard. Then, with a whoosh, the frozen blood inside me flared to life. I felt hot and cold at the same time.
That college boy—that piss-dumb, psycho college boy—he called me a mountain nigger, a term used in the rare occasions when hill people or white trash wasn’t good enough. He said it to shame me, and it did. It slammed me down on the rough grit of my shortcomings and held me there. I was trash, my heart said, each beat driving me deeper. I was worthless. No good. I’d been put to the test, and I failed, so I deserved to be called bad names.
My eyes welled up, which made things worse, as the jerk had yet to leave the library. He’d just gone over to the periodicals section, where he was reading a magazine. If he glanced my way, he’d think I was crying because of him. Which I was, but I wished I wasn’t, just like I wished he’d get the heck out of my library. Anyway, I knew he wasn’t actually reading that stupid magazine. I knew he was pretending, because he was flipping the pages way too fast to glean any meaning from them.
Fury slid in beside my shame, and I opened myself wide to it. I told myself that College Boy had no idea how good he had it. He probably owned his own computer, or had one at the college he could use. So for real, why was he here? He belonged here less than I did. And just because he didn’t drive a pickup and shoot deer out of season, did that make him better than me? Just because he had a daddy with a job and a mama who was still alive?
I gripped the edge of the table, very much aware of the transformation taking place inside me. My humiliation had turned to rage, and that was good. But it would take longer still for it to shift into something I could control. Something I could fight back with, not for the sake of my own piddling honor, but for something bigger.
I’d been put to the test with those pants, and I failed. But look: I’d been given a second chance. It didn’t matter if it was just symbolic. It didn’t matter that nobody would know but me. A second chance was a second chance, and I wasn’t about to let it get away.
I inhaled through my nose, deliberately searching for a spot above my rage. I knew such a spot existed, because Mama Sweetie had taught Patrick and me about handling bad emotions. If you breathed deep and set your mind to it, you could rise above your anger.
One time, Mama Sweetie drove me and Patrick into Tooms
boro for root beer floats, a treat she splurged on maybe once a summer. On Main Street, a man in a Lexus made a left turn without looking, and he would have taken us out if Mama Sweetie hadn’t slammed on the brakes.
“Sweet Jesus,” she said, breathing hard. “You kids all right?”
We were fine, but the driver who cut us off was fit to be tied. He was the one who screwed up, and yet he laid on his horn, leaned out his window, and yelled, “Learn to drive, you fat bitch!”
To Mama Sweetie, he said this!
Patrick and I were only ten, but it made us fume. “Honk back!” we said. “Go call him a name, or tell the police on him!”
She didn’t. She pulled into a parking space on the side of the road, put her hand to her chest, and sat for a bit. Then she said that the man already knew he was the one in the wrong, and being wrong had embarrassed him. Since he didn’t like feeling that way, he unloaded his bad feelings onto her.
“Huh?” we’d said.
“Yes, that man acted ugly,” she told us in plain English. “But throwing more ugliness back at him ain’t the answer.”
As a ten-year-old, I didn’t get it. “Still think you should tell the police on him,” I’d muttered.
I took something more useful out of Mama Sweetie’s lesson now, even if it wasn’t what she’d set out to teach. If I was patient, if I waited until I’d harnessed my emotions, then I might just manage to shame that college boy even worse than he’d shamed me.
I studied him with the detachment I’d use if I was regarding a pile of deer droppings. He was handsome enough, or would have been if he hadn’t called me what he called me. He was tan, and he had strong forearms under the rolled-up sleeves of his plaid shirt, which he wore unbuttoned over his white T-shirt. His cargo pants fit the right way, and unlike the guys in Black Creek, he didn’t feel the need to let them hang off his butt. Instead of boots or sneakers, he wore flip-flops, which Tommy would have called gay.
I was fairly sure this guy wasn’t, though. Gay.
He caught me staring, and this time I didn’t look away. His mouth twitched nervously.