A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters (8 page)

“He just comes in your room while your mom’s gone, right?” That was important, though I couldn’t say just why. “Is she . . . acting weird? I mean, weirder than normal?”

“She’s tired a lot.” Kate hunched her shoulders. “He’s got money, says she doesn’t have to work. She’s about ready to agree. Her shifts are pretty long.”

“Yeah.” I sucked on her straw thoughtfully, making a weird bubbling noise. “But if she’s home more often . . .”

“She’s so
tired
.” Kate’s eyes came up, and she stared significantly at me. “You know?”

As tired as Kate looked, probably. Dark circles under her eyes. Worn out.

Drained.

The sunshine was hot, but it didn’t touch the ice inside my stomach. “Okay,” I said again. The exact same way I said it every time Kate had a problem. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out.”

 

School was out, but the sharks were still swimming. I walked on the road side of the pavement, as usual, and as soon as I heard the engine behind us I knew it was trouble. They were driving too slow, whoever it was.

Kate cast a quick glance over her shoulder, fine golden curls drying and unraveling at her temples. “Asshole alert,” she muttered. “Great.”

The car slowed down with a brief squeal of brakes. I had a quick vision of the brake cable snapping, failing somehow, and the whole merry crew of them driving off a cliff.

“
Leeeeeeezz
-bians!!” It was Nathan Bardsmore. “Look at the
leeeeeezzzzzzzz
-bians!”

A familiar ball of red- hot anger settled right behind my breastbone. You’d think summer vacation would turn out better than this.

“God.” Kate’s flipflops made snapping sounds as she stepped. They were only a block from home and safety. “I wish he’d just die.”

I stopped. Lifted my head and stared at the red Ford Escort. Bardsmore was hanging out of the passenger window, waggling his tongue like a four-year-old. Only he was doing it between a V made of his left-hand fingers, and troll- like laughter poured from the other rolled-down windows along with a throbbing beat of rap music.

Nathan was one of the rich-jock set. Big, blond, broad-shouldered, and with an allowance that was probably more than most people’s parents made. He was just a symptom, really. The whole world was rotten.

The heat crawled up from my chest, made a lump in my throat, and stung my eyes. It was a familiar feeling, ever since the first day of middle school. Kate’s fingers touched my wrist. It was warm and comforting, and before I knew it I’d grabbed her hand.

We thought we were being so careful, but everyone knew.

“Go fuck yourself!”
The yell bolted free of my lips, and more troll-like laughter echoed in response. Kate’s fingers were sweating, and stuck to mine. But she didn’t pull away, and the Escort sped up and bumped down the street. It made a hard right down near old man McAllister’s house, and the heartbeat of rap bass faded.

“He’ll be back.” Kate sounded tired all over again. “You should just ignore him, Becks.”

The idea burst inside my skull, along with the hate and the anger. My stomach turned over hard, and I wondered if I was getting heatstroke. “Let’s get inside. I want some lemonade.”

“You’re so lucky.” But Kate didn’t sound like she thought it was lucky at all. She just sounded sad. “Your mom’s home all the time.”

The pool bag bumped against my back as I shrugged. “She’s probably getting her hair done. But there’s lemonade and we can watch Judge Judy. You want to stay over tonight?”

The hopeful smile breaking over Kate’s face made the anger simmer down. “You sure? I mean . . . yeah.”

“Of course I’m sure.” I took a tentative step forward. Swung our linked hands together, like we’d done in private a million times before. “I’ve got an idea.”

“What kind of idea?”

“About your problem.”

“Okay.” We walked on, the liquid shade of an elm tree swallowing us whole. “So . . . what?”

I stopped again. Our hands stayed linked. My bikini was already dry under the sarong; the heat was that fierce. Scarves of pollen on the breeze were as golden as Kate’s hair. I thought it over one more time, making sure it was all clear in my head, and spent the next couple minutes laying it out.

Kate chewed her lower lip for a little while. “You believe me?” Like she hadn’t realized I would.

“I believe you.” What I didn’t tell her was, well, I kind of didn’t. But those marks on her wrist were awfully persuasive. And the circles under her eyes. And how she’d lost a bunch of weight since school let out. Her hipbones stuck out, and so did her ribs.

And how her stepfather, Edgar, made me feel, like I’d swallowed a sack of greasy snakes.

“We’ll get caught,” she whispered, her eyes big, blue, and round.

The urge to put my arms around her and kiss the soft hot part where her shoulder met her neck almost made me shake. “No we won’t. Not if we’re careful.”

I had Mom call Kate’s mom and make the invitations, figuring that was the best way to make it impossible for Ms. Cooke to refuse. The ploy worked, since Mom’s one of those saccharine-polite people that you absolutely, positively cannot say no to without feeling like a total asshole. I would hate her for it, but then, that’s the only way she can deal with Dad. It’s the only way anyone can.

“Keep a lookout,” I whispered, and left Kate at the top of the stairs. She stood there, rubbing the top of one bare monkey-toed foot against the other, holding onto the railing. Mom’s voice floated up from the kitchen—
how nice for you! Congratulations! . . . Well, Kate is always such a pleasure, so well-behaved
. . .

So on, so on, so forth.

I stepped carefully into their bedroom. Breathed in the talcum powder and Tabu, the French cologne Dad wore, the close still scent of them in the same room. Two twin beds, their floral coverlets pristine and military-tight. Mom made their beds every morning, probably to cover up the fact that Dad slept more often on the huge overstuffed couch in front of the TV, turned down all the way and glowing like a fourth alien member of the family.

I was in luck. Dad’s closet door was open. I knelt down on blue carpet, vacuumed religiously every two days, and felt around. His suits, ranked in a neat row, brushed my head. The slice of carpet lifted away, I keyed in the code and braced myself for the heavy safe door.

Folders of important papers, like birth certificates and passports, a stack of hundreds in their neat paper rings, and the thing I was looking for. It was heavy metal, I took it carefully. It wasn’t near the end of the month, so he wouldn’t be opening this up to look at his cash pile soon.

I stared at the money for a long few seconds, the way I did every time. Then I hurried to close it up, because Mom’s voice from downstairs rose in that particular way people have when they’re saying good-bye. I had everything sealed up and the carpet brushed to get rid of the indents of my naked knees by the time Mom said “Cheerio, then!” and dropped the phone back into its charger.

“I think she said yes,” Kate whispered as I beckoned her toward my room.

My heart was banging against my ribs, and my red bikini was damp again. “Of course she did.” We made it to the safety of my room, and I shoved the heavy metal as far back as I could reach under my own pink-fluffed, curtained daybed. I was taking my sarong off in the bathroom when Mom tapped at the door and peeked in, her careful brassy-blond coiffure lacquered in place.

“Your mother says it’s all right, Catherine.” She has a wide toothy grin, my mother, behind carmine lips. “My goodness, you look tired! It’s so dreadfully hot out there. Would you like a snack before dinner? Some cookies and lemonade?”

“That’d be great, Mrs. Robins.” Kate gave her a winsome smile and I imagined my mother melting. The bathroom door hid Mom, but I could see Kate lounging on the bed, in what she called her come-hither pose. A black one-piece swimsuit, a rhinestone buckle between her shallow breasts, against all that pink. She was unbraiding her hair and it sprang back in tame waves against her paleness.

I was pretty sure Mom wished I’d been born blonde to match the room she kept decorating for me.

“I’ll be back up with a tray. Did you girls have a good time?”

“Superlative,” I drawled through the bathroom door. “What’s for dinner, Mumzers?”

She trilled her brittle little laugh. “Oh, very simple—chicken breasts with lemon, angelhair pasta, some vegetables. I just have no
time
for anything fancy. I’m sure Catherine doesn’t mind, do you, dear? You’re one of the
family
by now.”

“It’s always good, Mrs. Robins.” Kate’s smile stretched and I was pretty sure she was thinking of something to whisper to me as soon as Mom was out of earshot. “Thanks.”

But Mom lingered. “Is your mother not feeling well? She sounded . . . not quite herself.”

I half-closed the door and wriggled out of the bikini.

“I think she has a summer cold. And she’s working really hard.” Kate kicked at the poolbag, discarded on the Pepto-Bismol rug.

I stepped into jeans, yanked a T-shirt down. “Mom, can I take the car after dinner and go pick up Kate’s stuff?”

“Oh, certainly, sweetheart. Cookies and lemonade coming up!” She bustled away down the hall, staggering slightly on her heels.

Gin at three in the afternoon. If it was any more of a cliché she’d be wearing pearls while she scrubbed the spotless oven.

“Is she okay?” Kate’s forehead creased.

“Just kind of drunk.” I stepped out. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

“We don’t have to go to my house. I can just—”

“We’ll just be there for a couple minutes to pick up your stuff and take a look at things. Okay? It’s part of the plan.”

She nodded, chewing at her lower lip, and I wanted to kiss her. But I put my hands behind my back as she heaved herself up from my bed and slid past me. All my nerve endings felt her, like the weight of sunshine on already-burned skin. She stopped right in front of me. “Becks?”

“Yeah?” My fingers knotted together. The pink bed pulsed with a secret under it. The first time we’d made out in the middle of the night had been on that bed.

She pressed her lips to mine. Sunscreen, chlorine, fresh air, and the faint biscuit odor she carried everywhere, all around me. We melted into each other for a long time until my mother’s footsteps sounded in the hall again. Kate untangled her fingers from my damp hair, I let go of the sweet curve of her waist. She vanished into the bathroom while Mom brought in a crimson lacquered tray piled with cucumber sandwiches, sugar cookies, and a pitcher of lemonade.

I knew Mom wouldn’t see how I was blushing. She just gave me a swift booze- fogged glance, checking for loose threads or zits, and breezed right on out.

 

The Cooke house was a small brown ranch number three streets over, where the neighborhood went from genteel to shabby. The yard wasn’t mowed, and the juniper hedges were straggling. Both grass and bushes were turning a weird yellow. We had the windows down, and her mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway.

Edgar’s maroon Lincoln Continental crouched there instead, its pristine paint job shimmering under golden evening light. Its windshield was a blind, dark-tinted eye.

I set the parking brake and we both eyed the house. Kate let out a nervous, jagged little laugh. “He’s here.”

“You knew he would be.” I blew out between my teeth. Sweat sprang out all over me. Even for just a few streets with all the windows down, Mom’s black Volvo was a furnace inside. There was no breeze. “It’s daylight, remember? We’ll be okay.”

“Sometimes he’s up during the day. And it’s late.”

“But he’s always half-asleep and slow, right? You just go in, get your stuff. I’ll talk to him.” I kept my fingers away from my throat with an effort. The little gold Communion cross I hadn’t worn since I was twelve felt unfamiliar. “Don’t
worry
so much, Kate. It’ll be okay.”

All the blinds were pulled. She let us in with the key, yelled, “I’m here to get my stuff!” and bolted down the hall to the left. I peeked around the wall to my right, into the dark frowsty cave of the living room.

The television was on but muted, a baseball game going on. Edgar lay on the ratty brown couch, his slick black pompadour almost crushed under the weight of a meaty arm flung across his eyes. “Hello, Mr. Black,” I chirped.

He grunted. So he
was
awake. The sunshine coming in through the front door didn’t do much to penetrate the living room, but I was suddenly sure he hadn’t been watching the game before we pulled up. Just what he’d been doing was anyone’s guess, but I would bet money he hadn’t been on that couch.

The idea of just walking into the room and yanking one of the ancient curtains aside did occur to me. But Kate came flying back down the hall. “Bye!” she yelled over her shoulder, and I watched Edgar twitch. His skin was an unhealthy pasty color, like a mushroom left in the cellar. There was a faint sour odor, too. A sharp breath of rotten potatoes, when they start weeping that weird fluid and fuzzing up with white.