But what do I even do? Because honestly I don’t even know what I’m after or up against here. I mean, the cops won’t listen and everyone else has their heads inside their butts trying to be polite. Not to mention, Friendship is actually way less boring but maybe also much more weird and creepy than I thought it was, and nobody really prepared me for that.
I guess the real question is: How would a professional handle this? I know that if I were Diane Sawyer, I’d be serious and focused and composed and beautiful and perfect—wait, I’m getting off track. The point is that I’ve got to handle it correctly. Because who knows? Maybe if I do this right, and get to the bottom of things, it could be the sort of masterpiece that might even make Diane Sawyer cock her head and say, “Hey there, who the heck is that?”
SINGLE SHOOTER
Part of me wants to go straight from Mrs. Klitch’s to Davey’s and apologize—only we’re not exactly on a drop-by basis, I guess. Plus, last time I was there I yelled at him, so he probably doesn’t want to see me. I watch Mrs. Klitch’s concrete monsters dwindle in my rearview mirror, and decide to do what I do every time I’m not sure what to do. I head to Ralph’s.
I’ve never been very good at being alone. When I was little, I’d wake up in the quiet morning thinking Dom had left me. I’d collapse at the top of the stairs bawling, unable to go down to the kitchen and confirm my fears that the house was empty. He’d hear me crying and come running up the steps, lift me off the ground, and squeeze me until I believed with my whole body he was there again. Looking back, I think it had something to do with Mom being gone—but after a while you’re supposed to get used to that sort of thing, and the truth is that, for me, the fear of people disappearing never went away.
Probably the most hurtful thing Ruth ever said to me, actually, was that she preferred to be alone sometimes—which is weird, because there were moments when she straight up called me a snob or a prude or a know-it-all, and you’d think that would hurt more. I guess I was jealous of her ability to just be by herself and like it. Even though now I know that she had this whole secret life to comfort herself with. I never had anyone but her and Dom and Ralph, like, ever.
And recently, like, in the past year or so, it was mostly only her. In part because Ralph got really into video games I didn’t know how to play—there were always like a million button combinations for shooting all the different kinds of guns—and also because it’d started to feel weird talking to Dom. I could sense him getting nervous about me getting older, or maybe it had to do with me being a girl in the first place or something, I don’t know. There’s a lot I can’t put into words. And I guess in a way I looked to Ruth to fill the space, to be my everything, and probably that wasn’t okay. I never wanted to kiss her like she sometimes joked about. But in a way it was like we were two girls clinging to each other, trying not to drown. No wonder she sometimes got annoyed with me.
Anyway, all I’m saying is that doing things on my own has always been hard, because if there isn’t someone there to watch me, then how do I exist? Even if I’m doing my homework by myself, there’s that want for a person near me, just for the body heat, just for breathing the same air.
“No matter how lonely you get, you will never be alone,” Dom told me once, picking up on my inner workings with that ESP he has sometimes, though he has it less and less often these days. I think I ignored him when he said it. It can hurt to have someone pick up exactly what you’re feeling, especially when part of you knows it’s sort of narcissistic or dumb.
And that’s something Ralph’s the best for, come to think of it—a way for company and privacy simultaneously. Someone to just be around, someone who knows a lot, and knows me, and likes me anyway. Plus, Ralph can keep a secret. I mean let’s be serious, who would he tell? Plus, he’s always half-preoccupied—playing Total Escape 3 or Enemy of Death 5, or whatever—and not having his full attention makes it easier to work through your feelings out loud without getting embarrassed that technically someone else is listening.
The Johnston’s house is an olive-green bungalow. I’ve always been jealous of the redbrick walkway (ours is concrete) and how the only upstairs window has a green-and-white striped awning. The house faces the street like a friendly Cyclops with a half-shut eye, its red brick tongue unfurled to the sidewalk.
I’m standing on Ralph’s front porch kicking at his front door because my hands are busy warming up in my pockets. The doorbell stopped working a little while after his parents died and he hasn’t gotten it fixed yet.
“You should tell your boyfriend to paint the house a nonpuke color,” Ruth said once. “If the guy spent some money on remodeling instead of buying all that Star Trek shit, he could have a right little bachelor pad.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I told her, in this pleading voice that I hated.
“I know.” She smiled and linked her arm through mine. “But doesn’t that word sound great, boyfriend?” She ruffled my hair. “We’ll get you one at some point.” She really did want that for me—a boyfriend. I think part of her felt bad about my singleness when she started dating Colt.
Ralph answers his door holding a Star Trek mug of what I’m guessing is hot chocolate. He’s put so many marshmallows on top that they’re falling off the sides.
“Jesus, Kippy!” he says, one eye pointing behind me at the darkening sky, the other at my face. “Would you come in already? You’ll catch your death.”
Ralph’s living room is warm and well lit, with peach-colored carpeting and two fake leather Barcaloungers facing a roaring fireplace. In the corner, there’s a TV attached to a video game console and a nest of cords. Shelves line the walls and are piled with stacks of trading cards and shopping bags. In the middle of the room is a TV dinner tray with a laptop on it.
Ralph sold most of his parents’ stuff in garage sales after the funeral. I don’t like going any farther than the front room because of how crowded the back hallways are with the stuff he’s bought since they died. I even keep my eyes half-shut whenever I have to use the bathroom because that way I can barely see all the boxes and bags and stuff back there. I can’t even imagine what he’s got upstairs. And I don’t like to think about it. The good thing is that according to the internet, Ralph doesn’t qualify as a hoarder because (1) the hallways are walkable, (2) the front room is pretty uncrowded, and (3) there aren’t any fire hazards in the kitchen or anything. They have a checklist for that kind of thing.
“It’s great you’re here, Kippy. Is it all right that I’m enjoying my cocoa in front of you?” Ralph asks. I’m sitting in one of the Barcaloungers and he’s standing over me, slurping at his mug. “I would offer you some except I used all the marshmallows. It’s been a long day.”
I smile at him. “I’m fine.” My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from Dom:
Dom (Mobile) Received @ 5:15 PM:
EVERYTHINGOKAYCOMEHOMESOONOKAY
For a while, Dom wouldn’t text at all, so I finally had to stop answering his calls in an effort to drag him into the twenty-first century. Now he sends messages without any spaces. Baby steps.
Dom (Mobile) Received @ 5:15 PM:
ICANSEEYOU
I look out Ralph’s window and glimpse Dom waving maniacally at me from our kitchen.
To: Dom. (Mobile):
Calm down/I’ll be home soon
I got a text from an unknown number earlier that turned out to be Libby, saying, “Hey honey, here’s my # call anytime! G’bless. —L.” I’m not sure why she’s being so nice but then again Libby’s moods fluctuate pretty rapidly. Once when we were in kindergarten, the teacher fell asleep during naptime and Libby cut off another girl’s braids and glued them to the class bunny’s head. She kept screaming, “More pretty! More pretty!” but of course everyone forgot about that little episode once she grew D cups. And now she’s the most popular girl in school.