It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that out of her snotty mouth. I’ve always been the weird one, out of step with everyone else.
Six months later, at Blair’s sixth birthday party, I gave her a shoulder when no one was looking. She tumbled down the concrete stairs near her pool and broke her leg.
“What did you donow, Nellie?” Blair’s mom, Monica, shrieked, stomping over to us.
I knew I was supposed to feel bad; I didn’t. A searing feeling oozed over me from watching Blair on the ground, wet blond hair sticking to the grass: vindication.
But I faked a fountain of tears. “I am so, so sorry, Mrs. Chambers! It was an accident—”
By then, Mom was by my side, pulling me into her, shooting daggers at her. “It clearly wasn’t on purpose, Monica. GoodGod,” Mom hissed.
Later, on the drive home, in the toasty heat of Mom’s Cadillac, she scolded me. “Youdidn’tbump into her. I saw you. Jesus, Nellie, you don’t know your own strength sometimes. Or maybe youdo. You havegotto learn how to play nice.” She was shaking, fingernails clicking on the steering wheel as she drove, taking corners too fast, her nerves completely shot.
But she taught me then, as she’d taught me even earlier, that she would take my side, smooth things over, come to my rescue. She taught me that I could do whatever the hell I wanted, that she’d cover for me.
It’s not just for my benefit, though, that Mom does that, makes sure I’m still part of the clique. God forbid Charleigh Andersen’s daughter is excluded from anything; Mom’swaytoo much of a social climber to let that happen. It’s really all about how it makesherlook. And her desperate need for approval. From her friends and also from her own child. I have her eating out of my hand.Fetch, Mom, fetch, I’m tempted to say to her sometimes.
So yeah, I’ll just sit here smoking, festering today, wondering about Jane and what she’s doing. Who she’s with.
And this is so pitiful to admit, but Mom’s the only one I can talk to about it since I don’t have any real friends. Not that it made me feel all that great, baring my soul to Mom last night when I got home. I’m well aware you’re not supposed to be best friends with your mom, not when you’re a teenager. But it’s better than talking to the wall. And when she said thatwhoever this little Jane bitch is, I’ll take care of her, well, yeah, that made me feel a tiny bit better. Because I know she means it.
But still, it’s pathetic I have to confide in Mom. I mean, she doesn’t even really know me anymore. How could she? She’s only familiar with the little monster she’s tried to shape and mold and control into something presentable. She’s incapable of understanding me.
She’s simple in her thinking, while I’m complex. And I resent her for it. Even as I cling to her, spill some of my secrets like this bullshit over Jane, I’m repelled by her. And grossed out with myself for confiding in her.
I suck in another drag that burns my throat, then grin as my fog of smoke descends upon them. Taunting Mom to say something. To look up here. Catch me.
She won’t dare.
It’s our sick little game. I know she can smell it, but she acts like she can’t, cutting a wide berth because she doesn’t want to set me off, get into it with me.
She’s weak like that.
Because she’s afraid of what I’m capable of.
I grind the cigarette out in the window seal, leaving thecherry burning, watching it roll in the wind against the screen like a trapped roly-poly. Another dare of mine: seeing if the universe will see fit to burn this whole house down.
6
Jackson
Heat wafts out in waves when Jackson cracks open the door to his blue-green Mercedes. He slides in.
He should’ve left the top down; the little two-seater gets as hot as a smoking pistol, the tan leather like glue against his skin, but the Andersens’ drive is canopied with towering pecan trees that thud their shells, making a big mess.
As he wheels away, he twists around, flicks another wave toward Charleigh.
She looks almost sad, wistful, as she shrinks in his rearview, her perfect figure silhouetted against her monstrously large neocolonial.
Had he known her before she and Alexander had the house built, he would’ve advised her differently. More Frank Lloyd Wright, less V. C. Andrews. But alas, he’s doing all he can now to make the house—at least the inside of it—as tasteful as possible.
The drive meanders down the sloping hill, the tunnel of treesoverhead tossing speckled sunlight across Jackson’s dash. Finally exiting and pulling onto the street, his bumper grates against Charleigh’s too-steep incline as it always does, releasing a gruff, barking sound, no matter how he angles the car.
Whatever.
He’s now free for the day.
Not that visiting Charleigh is some chore.
