“I’ll text y’all after and let you know how it went,” I say.
“Or you’ll do what you’ve been doing and forget to text us entirely.” Jemma sticks out her lower lip, her secret pouty weapon since she was a baby.
“If I’m not answering texts promptly, it’s only because there’s so much going on. And you know what? It’s nice, having things going on. It’s been a long time since I’ve had anything interesting in my life outside of makeups and breakups with Billy. So…sorry not sorry, I guess.”
My sisters gape at me for a minute, and then Cait bursts out laughing.
“That might be the first time you’ve ever stood up for yourself in your entire life, Rhea.”
I raise my chin. “Yeah, well, it won’t be the last. Just remember, whatever good comes of this place, y’all will benefit. Now, I’m off. A bushel and a peck—”
“And a hug around the neck!” they call.
Once the screen goes dark, I check my lipstick one more time and look around for Maggie. She’s fluffed up in the corner, glaring at me resentfully.
“I just want to see my granddaughters,” she mutters.
“Then ask nicely. I’m always happy to show off a well-behaved cockatoo. I might even kiss your fluffy pink head. Now, what do I need to know about this meeting?”
I hold out the backpack, and Maggie flutters in and settles on the perch. If I knew she was going to behave, I might just carry her on my shoulder like a normal parrot, but it’s almost like sometimes she forgets she’s not human and that even if I can hear her talking, other people only hear squawks and see a pink-and-gray football flying right at them.
“Okay. The Chamber. Well, you’ve met Colonel and Shelbyand both of the boys from the inn. There are the Coves—nobody likes them—and Edie. Farrah’s usually there, plus Rocco from the pizzeria, Lindy and Marla from the lunch places, Tim from the oyster bar, Harry the potter—don’t bring up the books!—Alex from the brewery, Joelle from the crystal shop, Don from the general store, and Gabrielle from the dog store—which, a dog store? Honestly? Barb owns the boutique, and Irene manages the clothing shop where the young people go. Smokey, who owns the candy store, has been boycotting the Chamber for decades. We sometimes get the mayor or the head of the police when there’s something of general importance. Considering we have someone new, you’ll most likely see a big crowd.”
It takes me a minute to realize that I am the someone new and that these locals might show up just to take my measure. I’m glad I’ll have friends there—or allies, at least. When I think about what it would be like to be real, actual friends with Shelby and Nick and Nathan; to go to Craft Night and chat over the clicking of needles; or, I don’t know, just go have coffee on a random Monday morning without a boss to stare at his wristwatch the moment I walk in the door, it’s like my whole body relaxes a little. I never dreamed big—I don’t need millions of dollars and boats and a house in the Hamptons, whatever a Hampton is—I just want a little breathing room from the daily anxieties that have hounded me since I was a kid. I want a lunch date with a girlfriend, enough money to give a nice birthday gift, the opportunity to pick out a couch that doesn’t come with someone else’s butt indentation.
Which only adds to the pressure of this meeting. I’ve committed to staying here, at least for a while, and I’m going to need all the help and goodwill I can get.
I pick up the bird backpack, plus another tote with the two bigcups of boiled peanuts I’ve been ordered to bring along, and head down to the alley. It’s well-lit back here, at least. I look up and down both ways, and Maggie chides, “It’s safe, you goose.”
“Tell that to the turkeys,” I mutter, holding a key between my knuckles like bootleg Wolverine.
I quick-walk toward the main street, and as I approach the dumpster, something bangs against the metal. I stumble back, reaching into my tote for the pepper spray that’s somewhere under five pounds of salty nuts.
“Hey!” Maggie barks when I set down her backpack a little too roughly.
“There’s something in the dumpster,” I tell her. I grab the cool metal cylinder and pull it out, my thumb instinctively going to the lever, like Billy taught me.
“It’s just raccoons.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely do know that. Go on over and look in. There are usually two. Big John and Buttercup.”
Holding my key in one hand and my pepper spray in the other, I approach the dumpster, which I was bound to pass anyway. I tell myself that a murderer wouldn’t hide inside a dumpster or make an obvious thumping noise before they jumped out to hatchet-murder me, but my body tells me that Jason Voorhees is in there with a machete.
Another clank makes me jump, and I hear a noise that can only be described as a light skittering. A chubby raccoon appears on the dumpster’s edge, staring at me like I’m interrupting something important.
“That’s Big John. He’s a rascal,” Maggie informs me. When a second inquisitive head pops up, she adds, “And that’sButtercup. She’s looking pretty chunky. We might get some babies this year.”
“Kits.”
She snorts in my head. “Those are clearly not cats.”
“I know that, GamGam. Baby raccoons are called kits. I guess I need to buy some cat food for ’em, huh? If they’re going to have babies back here.”
“You’re worried about baby raccoons in the dumpster? That’s a new one.”
I put the pepper spray back in the tote, shoulder my backpack, and continue walking as the raccoon-sparked adrenaline ebbs away.
