Molly pulled Jonie from the sidewalk to the curb. She looked left before jaywalking to the thrift store across the street. It was a Saturday, nearly spring now, though it might take until June for Maine to truly give up on winter. At least the tinsel bells and decorations were gone from the lampposts, months after Christmas, replaced by egg and bunny banners that would likely be up until flag season.
“Today’s the day,” Molly said. She hadn’t told Jonie about her grandfather, how her mom acted like Molly didn’t understand what dying meant. She knew about dying. She could tell them all a thing or two about it if they ever thought to ask.
“Seriously? You have the rest of the money?”
Molly had obsessed over a leather jacket in the window of the thrift store, “visiting” it as if it were a prisoner serving out a sentence. The more times she found reason to pass that window, the more it had become an object of desire. She’d liked the way she could see her own reflection against it, how she could superimpose her life onto another one. She imagined putting it on, wearing the pain that looking at it caused.
The new window display hadn’t changed since the day Molly put the coat on layaway. Pink dresses, pink shoes, pink handbags. A pink sweater with a green alligator.Pretty in Pink. It made Molly want to gag. She stared at it one more time before heading in.
Jonie stifled a guffaw. “I still think that’s hilarious. You’re, like, the opposite of Molly Ringwald, even though you both have red hair.”
Molly jerked. She wanted to punch Jonie but charged into the store instead, stomping her second-hand combat boots on the soft floor. She pulled a five-dollar bill and six quarters out of her pocket along with the layaway ticket and slammed it on the counter. The tiny clerk wore John Lennon glasses and went braless, wheat-colored hair cascading down a tie-dyed T-shirt with the neckband cut out. Her head bobbled like it was on a spring. “And hello to you too.”
Molly moved her hand off the money, chewed off a chipped black hangnail, and spat it on the ground. “Final payment,” she said.
Molly had drained her meager allowance savings and filched in tiny increments from her father, who kept small bills and coins in his pants pockets hanging in the closet. It didn’t make sense to steal dimes and nickels. Stealing it all would get noticed. But stealing only quarters might not. And quarters added up. Molly offered to go into the grocery store for her mom then conveniently forgot the receipt but gave back only most of the change. She stole a ten out of Maeve’s purse, which was pretty daring, considering Maeve was so uptight. She remembered when Maeve used to brag about shoplifting. Now she acted like she was perfect. And their mother was constantly telling Maeve what a good mom she was and praising her for every little thing. There was only one right way to be in their world—cheerful and carefree and clean. Molly never felt clean. She washed her hands obsessively, but they always felt grimy. She painted her fingernails black to match the rest of her.
It served them right. If they cared about money, they’d pay more attention. If they cared about her—well, there were so many things they would do differently if they actually cared about her.
And besides. Everything was chaos. There had been a time, years ago, when everyone stared at her, when they asked how she was but didn’t want to hear the answer, when she got sweets without asking, when Maeve was nice to her, took her to the diner for fries and shakes, and let her sleep with her in her bed. Then Maeve got knocked up and married Sam, and all the attention turned to her. Maeve even moved Sam into her actual bedroom, right next to Molly’s! Then came the baby, Dylan, who was cute, fine. But the crying in the middle of the night, footsteps, loud whispers. How many times had Molly muffled her ears? They all pretended it didn’t wake the whole house, but of course it did. Everything revolved around Maeve and Maeve’s kid and Maeve’s this and Maeve’s that. It was like Maeve forgot she even had a little sister. This had gone on for over a year until Maeve and Sam found a tiny apartment in town and moved out. Even then, her parents doted on Dylan, tried to force him on Molly. The baby sat on her dad’s lap. When Molly tried to do that, he said she was too big, even though she was only twelve at the time.
And then there were the nightmares. Everyone called them “bad dreams” as if the ghost were Casper and not a devil in black leather who sailed backward over the railing, who floated in the open stairwell, who put his finger to his lips and shushed her like her mom and dad did.It’s not real. It was only a dream. Dry your tears. Go back to sleep.
And then, boom. Everyone forgot. The rail got fixed, the rug got replaced, Maeve got married, and Dylan was born. It was like nothing happened. But something did happen.
Now, the only person who paid her any attention was dying. Her grandfather told her stories, read to her from his Irish books, played Go Fish and Crazy Eights with her. He made her tuna fish sandwiches with extra mayonnaise on soft white bread that stuck to the roof of her mouth when she took a bite. Her grandfather taught her to stuff barbecue potato chips into sandwiches for the crunch. They listened to Eddie Albert and Bert Humperdinck and Tom Jones together on the little phonograph in his house, thoughJonie would die if she knew Molly actually liked that music. What she liked most was her grandfather. He’d even let her practice driving long before her parents had given him permission. She felt in charge and trusted when she got behind the wheel and he leaned back against the headrest. But she didn’t want a license anymore.
Once, she’d gotten her period at the cove house and bled through the sheets onto the mattress. She’d scrubbed but couldn’t get it out, and she couldn’t exactly throw out a mattress like a bloodstained rug. Her grandfather had found her crying on the floor, and when she told him what happened, he flipped over the mattress. “Problem solved,” he said. Her grandfather was the only person who didn’t make a big deal out of everything. But he never told her to stop crying either, never told her to save her tears, as if some greater tragedy would befall her someday and she’d need them all then.
Yoko Ono brought the black jacket out on a hanger and gave Molly the layaway ticket. “Here you go. Paid in full.” Molly put her nose to the tough leather. Asphalt and oil and a patch of dead grass. No magic carpet, this. No. This was a getaway car.
She dropped her own jacket on the floor and kicked it under the rack. She felt the heft of leather square on her shoulders, hugged it around her body, and stuffed the layaway slip into the pocket. Outside the store, she stared at her black reflection in the pink window display. The collar was stiff at her ears, the sleeves long beyond her wrists and fingertips. She swam in it. One tough cookie. “I love it.”
She and Jonie made one more stop.
The guy at the pharmacy held up the bottle. “You know this is permanent, right?”
“Nothing’s permanent,” Molly said. “Ring it up.”
Jonie giggled next to her. “Your parents are going to flip out.”
“Let them.” She put the bottle in her backpack. “No one’s home at my house. We’ll do it there.”
In the bathroom of the farmhouse, Jonie dyed Molly’s hair coal black. Molly considered her features while she smoked her eyes—green like her dad’s—and penciled in her faint eyebrows. Her lipstick was dark and slick as an eggplant and filled out lips that were thin and inconsequential, entirely not kissable. Her skin was ghostly white next to the black hair. A gray shadow of dye smudged her hairline. She licked her fingers and tried to rub it off. Her hair was dry and frizzy, a black cloud where before it was a penny in the sunshine.
Jonie rested her head on Molly’s shoulder and stared at her in the mirror. “Absolutely wild. Wild, wild, wild. I wish I had a camera.”
Molly wrinkled her nose, scrunched her hair in her hands.
“I wish I could stay and watch,” Jonie said. “I mean they’re going to freak, but I told evil stepmother I’d be back for lunch.”
“Go,” Molly said. She touched her bottom lip, drew it down. “I’ll call you tomorrow or see you Monday if I’m not grounded for eternity.” She put the leather coat on and walked Jonie out to the ancient station wagon in the driveway.
Jonie hugged Molly tight. “It looks amazing.”
Molly raised a punk fist in victory as Jonie drove off.
Back in the house, she stared at her face in the mirror while she scrubbed her hands. She loathed Molly Ringwald, hated when she was teased about their similarities. That Molly was so perfect—pink, desired, pampered, fresh, and creamy. This Molly looked on the outside how she felt on the inside. A killer freak. She dried her hands, then spread her fingers against her cheeks, skewing her features. No one wanted to know what went on inside the head of a killer freak. No one wanted to love a killer freak. Now they wouldn’t have to fake it anymore. When she heard the front door unlatch, she braced.Showtime.She stepped into the hallway, looked over the railing like she’d done a hundred times, and there was Maeve. Jeans, purple sweater, some sort of ugly clogs. She looked up, and Molly reveled in her shock.
