Trinkets (13 page)

“Thanks, Shawn. Your insight is super profound,” Moe says as she heads upstairs, gesturing for us to follow.

Moe’s room is surprisingly nice: a queen-size bed with a purple bedspread, and starry wallpaper, and a few framed photos on the dresser. One of them must be of her parents, who have big smiles on their faces as they stand with two
little kids in front of a house. When Elodie asks her, she says, “They died when I was seven.”

“My mom’s dead,” Elodie says.

“Really?” Moe looks at her, surprised.

“Two years ago. It sucks. My dad got remarried.”

“Is she cool?” Moe asks.

“My stepmom, you mean?” Elodie says.

Moe nods and Elodie shrugs. “She’s okay. She’s really into being healthy. It’s kind of annoying.”

“What, did you want your dad marrying someone who’s
un
healthy?” I say. “That seems weird.”

“It’s like she wants to rub it in my face that my mom had cancer. Like she’s saying, ‘I’ll never have cancer because I’m the poster girl for health.’ ”

“I think you might be overthinking it,” I say.

“Or,” Moe adds, “maybe your stepmom’s trying to take care of herself so her dad won’t lose another wife.”

“She’s twenty-nine,” Elodie says. “It’s not like she’s going to suddenly die of leukemia.”

“Just sayin’,” Moe says with a shrug. “Cut the bitch a break.”

Elodie rolls her eyes. “I just have no idea why my dad would go from her to
that
.”

“Well, maybe he didn’t want an exact replica,” Moe says. “And that would be fucked up if he did, right?”

Elodie looks away, conceding.

“Besides,” Moe adds, “you didn’t want the guy to be alone forever, did you?”

I’m impressed at Moe’s powers of intuition. I pick up
the photo to look at Moe’s parents, and as I reach for it, Elodie points at my triceps.

“What happened to your arm?”

“Yikes. Nasty,” Moe says.

They stare at the dark blue bruise on my arm. For a second I consider lying about it. Then I realize I’m enrolled in a rehab program, where telling the truth will help you curb your bad habits.

“I got into a thing with Brady.”

They stare at me for a minute before Elodie realizes. “He did that to you?”

“It was just a pinch. An accident.”

“I knew that guy was a fucking dick,” Moe says.

“How’d you know that?” I retort. “We don’t even have any of the same friends.”

Moe looks away and shrugs. “I know people.”

“Has he done that before?” Elodie asks, coming over and touching my arm. I don’t want to answer her, but I remember at the Homecoming Dance in the fall, Brady got hammered and accused me of flirting with Greg Devorian. I’d been talking to Greg about some rock-climbing trip in Wyoming he went on the year before. I’d been rock climbing once in Colorado with my family about six years ago, and it was one of the few times we’d all gotten along really well. My brother, Jake, would tell me ghost stories every night, and we’d do relay races on the hill outside our hotel. My mom and dad cuddled in the hotel room, and my dad taught Jake and me to fish. For once we were far away from everything, doing “family stuff,” and it was nice.

When Brady came out of the bathroom, he saw me talking to Greg and he walked up and yanked me away. He’d been jealous of Greg ever since the guys on the lacrosse team started calling Greg “Horse” for reasons involving anatomical size and scope. Boys and their fragile, fragile egos. For a second, I’d had a naive hope that Horse might step forward to defend me or something, but he quickly backed away, disappearing into the crowd of dancing students. That’s when the toxic heft of my reputation became clear. I was Brady’s girlfriend, and he could do whatever he wanted to me, even if it meant twisting my arm at a dance in front of half the school. Greg Devorian may have had a big dick, but at that moment his balls were nonexistent.

“That’s, like, abuse,” Elodie says softly after I tell them the story.

For once Moe is silent, appraising me with her big brown eyes encased in black liquid eyeliner. She abruptly leans over to her desk and fidgets with her iPod.

“I know what’s gonna cheer you up,” she says. The sound of a Katy Perry song suddenly comes blasting out of the speakers on her desk.

“Are you serious?” Elodie laughs.

“Why, yes, I am,” Moe says. She starts dancing, bumping and grinding in a hilariously rhythm-free manner, her cherry-red hair flying all over the place.

“Katy Perry sucks,” I offer.

“I beg your pardon?” Moe speaks with mock offense.

Elodie nods in agreement with me. “She’s pretty bubblegum.”

“What’s wrong with bubblegum?” Moe asks.

“Aren’t you friends with stoners and goths?” I ask. “I thought you guys listened to death punk or speed metal or grindcore.”

“Well,
they
do, but I love my pop music,” Moe says. “Can you blame me when you hear this jam?” She does another little shimmy. “C’mon! Dance!”

I look at Elodie, who shrugs and stands up, giving Moe a hip bump. And suddenly Moe and Elodie are dancing to bubblegum as it blasts around us.

We bounce down the stairs, still singing that Katy Perry song. Without the music, Moe sounds more like a dying goat, but she doesn’t seem to care. It’s kind of amazing how she’s able to act like an idiot and be totally comfortable with it. I’ve been so caught up with needing my privacy that I felt like I couldn’t be myself. I had to be what everyone expected me to be. But here I don’t need privacy at all.

As I’m putting on my boots, Moe stops me.

“Wait. This is for you,” Moe says, handing me a CD. “I burned it for you while we were listening to it. You need your own copy.”

I look at the CD, which says
BUBBLEGUM JAMS
. It’s the first time anyone’s made me anything in a while. As a kid I had a rocking horse in my room that my dad made me, but I
always had the sneaking suspicion he just bought it at a toy store. Maybe my mom said he made it to make me feel better. But I’m probably just paranoid.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Don’t let anyone hear you listening to it, because they might think you have no taste.”

“Who cares?” I say. And it’s the truth.