I sort of can’t believe I got away with being at someone’s house without the parents there. It might be superstitious, but I figure I should do something to make it even. “Sure.”
“Good.” He claps a hand on my shoulder and the two of us walk into the living room. Mother Peanut Butter is situated on our big corduroy couch. She died years ago but we got her taxidermied in what I used to think was a funny pose (saluting). One of the windows is open and letting in that familiar cornfield smell, which is somewhere between wet dog and fresh-mown grass. I feel claustrophobic.
Dom squeezes my shoulder and I jump. “Kippy?”
“What? I’m fine.” As soon as the sun comes up you’ll be able to see the cornfield from pretty much any of our windows. It’s not something you notice at first, like a haircut; the corn was there and now it’s not. I looked at it this afternoon when we got home and it took a few seconds to kick in: how there are just a few stalks sticking up here and there within the stubble. How the whole thing has been reduced to some kind of buzz cut topped with reddish leaves from nearby trees. It should be reassuring, I guess, because it’s all gone and now there’s nowhere to hide, or something. But upstairs from my window you can also see the willow tree where Ruth was hanged. When we came home yesterday to bake the cookies I went up there and sat on my bed for a while. I kept seeing clusters of shriveled-up brown leaves in the branches and thinking it was her hair. “I’m fine,” I repeat. I plop down on the couch and start absentmindedly petting Mother Peanut Butter.
“Honeybuns.” Dom eases in beside me. “It was tough seeing Davey, wasn’t it? You’re a sweet girl but I don’t want your listening skills to get taken advantage of. God bless him for what he gave our country but it’s the last thing you need at this point—honestly I’m not sure he’s equipped to be in the world quite yet, don’tcha know.” He pats my knee. “And you know I’m also not fully certain why exactly he’s reaching out to a teenage girl in his supposed time of crisis—it doesn’t help that you’re so pretty, no sir—”
“Dom!”
“It’s a fact.” He reaches for the remote. “What are kids saying? It’s sketchy. And second of all I don’t like it.”
“You didn’t give a first of all.” I scootch away from him. “And for your information, Davey’s fine, he just doesn’t really like anybody in this town which makes him pretty sane, in my opinion.” Dom grunts, presses play, and some cheesy voice-over starts, narrating a shot of the ocean: “In times of crisis, the urge may be to roll up like an armadillo. But if we are to survive, our task is to unfold like a butterfly, and flock together.”
“They’re getting all their animals confused,” I complain. I bring my feet up underneath me and poke Dom in the ribs. “I want attention.”
He pauses the show, turns, and makes intense eye contact with me. “I’m here.”
There’s this urge to sit on his lap but I’m too old for that. I sigh. “It’s just that not everyone’s as crazy as you think they are.” I cross my arms and lift my chin, indicating that he should turn the stupid show back on. “That’s all I was going to say.”
Ugh, Ruth here. Bad cold today and I’m pretty sure Kippy gave it to me. She’s been walking around like a drippy hose with snot on her face since Wednesday. But knowing her that might just be her style.
Anyway, I told her to get over here and drop me at the drugstore so I can cut this thing off at the knees and feel halfway normal again. She wanted to make it some kind of hangout but I clarified I’d walk home. The truth is, Big Daddy said that if I want to head over to his house after I’m done picking up some cough syrup, he’ll show me exactly how unafraid he is of catching what I’ve got. He made it pretty clear that after we were done fucking I’d have to go into his awful basement again, and check out his new taxidermy project, which is admittedly creepy. Sometimes he says I’m so gorgeous he’d like to mount and stuff me, and I’m like, so mount me, then, Daddy. He’s got a huge dick.
AMBUSH
After Dom went to bed last night I decided to read a little more of Ruth’s diary. It took forever, obviously, because her handwriting is so messy it looks like she wrote everything while jumping up and down on a trampoline. But I was feeling sort of bad about what I’d said to Davey—basically telling him he was crazy, or whatever—and I thought if I slogged through another entry, well, maybe I could find something.
Clearly I scrolled for the next K, looking for my name, and clearly what I found was not uplifting. For starters, I immediately ran into some very mean insinuations about my hygiene—which, even though I sometimes have chocolate around my mouth, is actually just fine, thank you. There was also some more unsettling sex garbage about Jim Steele, so. Ew.
Anyway, the more I think about it, the more I feel like maybe someone should go and talk to Jim Steele. Not me, obviously, but a real officer of the law, which is why I’m bringing Ruth’s diary to the police station. At the very least, getting it off my hands means I won’t read any more of it. Having it around is giving me a stomachache—not to mention a bad self-image. And according to the ten billion or so books that Dom has given me about my body, self-image is very important at this stage in my life.
The police station is on the second floor of the courthouse, right by the railroad tracks. On the way there, Rhonda and I pass the Buck Fleet, Circus Video, and this place called Italian Restaurant—which, like The Pizza Place, is exactly what it says it is. I take a left and drive west toward school, which starts again tomorrow. I can already tell it’s going to be a shit show. Mostly because of what people have started posting on Facebook.
Libby Quinn
COLT WIDDACOMBE IS A MURDERER
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Mara Hale, Carly Schulz, and 37 others like this.
Jessica Easto I knew it was him all along, what else is a tri-sport athlete good for except violence?
Michael Schulz LOL but seriously I hope he rots in hell
Hannah Hughes <3 <3 <3 in Ruth’s memory amen
Andy Harnish PUT HIM IN THE ELECTRIC CHAIR
Dan Paul honeycomb sux
I went and disabled Ruth’s profile late last night. People who’d never even talked to her were posting all sorts of weird stuff on it like, “RIP babe, gonna miss you in science class.” I didn’t have her password but I emailed Facebook pretending to be her mom, and included a link to an article about her murder, and they shut it down pretty quickly.
I turn up the radio and roll down the windows, letting in a blast of cool air, which reeks of dead leaves and an impending chill. The flag outside the high school is at half-mast, and someone’s put a giant wreath around the neck of the great white shark sculpture, which stands in the middle of the front lawn. Our mascot is the shark. The Friendship Sharks. Also, I guess there was some kind of candlelit-vigil thing I wasn’t invited to because there’re flowers and banners and things tied to the fence along the sidewalk. Teddy bears stapled to poster board—right through the paws, like stigmata—with messages like WE LOVED YOU R.F. and THE ANGELS CARRIED HER HOME TO ISRAEL, which actually seems kind of offensive. I mean, Ruth was Jewish, not Israeli. She was born here. Her parents grew up in Milwaukee. It’s not like her family was playing Schindler’s List all the time or planning to be buried in the hallowed homeland. Geeze.
Anyway I’ve never really understood the whole candlelit-vigil thing. Some of the seniors put a few together after the school shootings down south, and from what I can gather it’s usually just a bunch of girls crying with all their might on purpose. The whole idea of people, like, weeping while holding fire seems irresponsible to me. Whenever I imagine vigils, I think of a hundred ponytails bursting into flames.