Toby halted. It was the spider web with the big beetle in it. The beetle was dried up and dead, its armor still shiny. It wasn’t wrapped. The spider was nowhere to be found, the web in disrepair. The spider had given up and abandoned its web. A breeze that Toby couldn’t feel was swaying the loose filaments about. Toby reached with a stick and destroyed what was left, the beetle carcass dropping to the floor of the woods and getting lost.
Shelby was lying out in the sun. She was on her back patio where she’d spread a few towels and brought out a throw pillow for her head, the telephone, an apple. Very soon, tomorrow maybe, she was going to start eating correctly — healthy foods in decent quantities. Very soon she was going to start reading again, real reading. Not today, but soon. She was going to go on an overseas trip to a strange, cold country. She was going to get a tan first. She would be exotic with her tropical glow. She’d be cupping hot beverages and eating eel and meeting musicians and buying boots that were at once rugged and soft. She’d mingle with faceted Icelandic teenagers, rather than with skateboarders and Baptists. When she returned, she’d gaze upon the burnt yards of Citrus County with forbearance, with neutrality. She’d tell Toby every single thing about her trip, every solitary detail.
It was one in the afternoon. Shelby had left school during her lunch period, cutting psychology and algebra out of her day, and it felt like a sound decision. She felt better off. This was one thing she would make no promises about; she would continue to skip school whenever she felt it would benefit her, whenever she felt school would do her no good. She had her science book on the patio with her, and also an erotic novel, and she planned to switch back and forth chapter for chapter.
Shelby perused the periodic table of elements for fifteen minutes, cooling her mind with rows of letters and numbers, then slid the science book aside and flipped onto her back. She opened The Wild, Warm Winter of Shauna Black. A girl in her twenties, a virgin, went to a bar and picked out a guy and they went to a hotel. The girl was scared, wouldn’t come out of the bathroom. Description of the bathroom. Guy talking his way into the bathroom. Kissing and whispering. Fingers slipping beneath panties. In the space of the next paragraph, the author referred to Shauna’s nether regions a dozen different ways, in painstaking detail, dragging each moment out and piling on the adjectives. And surprisingly, it was effective. It was working on Shelby. At the same time as she felt the tightness and tingle of the sun doing its work on her tummy and thighs, she felt the perk of sex inside her. Shauna was holding herself back, reluctant to give up what she had held dear for so long. Shelby rolled on her side, collecting herself before going further. She was sweating. The man clutched Shauna high on the leg and put her where he wanted her. He unbuttoned her blouse, put his thumb in her mouth. Shelby put her own thumb to her lips. She could hear the sound of bees.
The phone rang and Shelby flinched. She shut the book and flopped her arm behind her, finding first the apple and then wrapping her pinkie around the hot metal antenna. She squeezed the phone in her hands, stifling everything she was feeling in her body, blocking out the sun and blocking out what was happening to Shauna in the hotel room.
She pushed the Talk button and said hello.
The voice on the other end was composed, with the slightest grain to it — a man’s voice. “I’m looking for Mr. Ben Register.”
“You’ve got his secretary.”
“My name is Finch Warren.”
“I’ve never heard of you.”
“Most people haven’t,” Finch said.
“It’s 1:45 in the afternoon. Don’t you think my father might be at work?”
“You’re the older sister,” Finch said.
“Now I’m just a secretary.”
Finch cleared his throat. “I’m a writer. I teach at USF. I wrote a memoir that was short-listed for the Blackburn-Hickey award. I want to write a book about you and your father.” He cleared his throat again.
“I’m still here,” said Shelby. “I haven’t hung up as of yet.”
“I thought we could take a cut of the proceeds and do something for Kaley, like dedicate a scholarship in her name.”
“I’m going to need a scholarship before long,” Shelby said.
“You won’t need a scholarship if this book does what I think it will.”
Shelby opened her science book and looked down at a diagram that explained nuclear energy. She didn’t hear bees anymore. There were drowsy clouds spread evenly across the sky.
“I can get my own scholarship,” Shelby said. “I’m going to start getting back on top of my grades, Finch. Me and my dad are going to start getting on top of things, and I appreciate your interest but I’m afraid we’re not going to have anything to do with your book. I’ve heard you out and given you an answer.”
“I wouldn’t prefer to do the book without you.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Shelby said.
“Maybe you should take a little time to think about it. Talk it over with your dad.”
“It doesn’t take me long to think. I’m fast and accurate when it comes to thinking.”
Shelby picked up the apple. Her limbs were heavy. The phone felt like a brick. She thanked Finch for his time and got off the phone. She knew she ought to feel insulted by someone suggesting that money be made off Kaley’s disappearance, but she didn’t. Finch Warren was doing his job. Everyone in the world, they were just doing whatever they got paid for.
Shelby carried the phone inside and put it on its cradle in the kitchen. She could feel all the shame in her. Not for any specific deed — shame for being able to carry on. She could eat, put on clothes, read trashy books, clean house, make summer plans, worry about things going sour with a boy. Shelby was not a good person. Her mother had hardened a portion of her and her sister another portion and now she wasn’t a good person.
She was still holding the apple. She dropped it in the trash, then stood at the kitchen sink and drank a glass of water. She went to the patio, gathered everything into the blanket and hauled it inside. Shelby picked up the Shauna Black novel and her stomach felt sick, like the water she’d drank had been sour milk. She took the book to the kitchen and rested it in the trash can. After a moment, she pushed it down under the other trash.
On Sunday Mr. Hibma’s girls had dispatched Pasco Middle, the black school, by thirteen points. Though Pasco was in a rebuilding year and three of their starters had been suffering from the flu, this was still something to be proud of for Citrus. All that build-up for Pasco, and then it hadn’t even been a close game. Pasco seemed to concede early in the second half, shorthanded as they were. They didn’t put on a pressure defense. They didn’t take quick shots. When the clock ticked down to all zeroes, the Pasco players absorbed the loss with a dignity that diffused any desire on the part of the Citrus players for a raucous celebration. Even Rosa and Sherrie lined up and shook hands. The win had vaulted Mr. Hibma’s squad into the district semifinals, and he’d given them two days off from practicing, telling them to recharge and get ready to play by Wednesday night. Mr. Hibma tried to enjoy the win, but he found that winning was not what he relished; it was seeing the other guy lose. He loved to see his opponent frustrated, and Pasco hadn’t given him that.
Now it was Wednesday evening, back at the gym, and Mr. Hibma was thrown a nasty curve. An hour prior to the game, with his players straggling in and starting to stretch, a girl wearing a choker walked up to Mr. Hibma and handed him a folded sheet of paper. The girl stared at Mr. Hibma and he stared at her. This girl knew how to deliver bad news. She was a pro. The moment Mr. Hibma looked down at the note and began to unfold it, the girl spun and sashayed out, her heels slapping in her sandals.