‘Why not?’ Diane says, her eyes still trained on the ceiling. ‘She practically has anyway. I’m a disaster. A disappointment. That’s what she called me, anyway. Before they sent me away to Dallas. And then here.’
Part of me wants to bring up my mother’s slap again in solidarity with Diane. But I know it’s not the same thing. Not even close. I just tell Diane I’m sorry. She shrugs.
‘I’m used to it,’ she says. ‘My whole life all I’ve ever been to her is some sort of doll to parade around in the dollhouse of her life.’ She pauses. Then she brings her voice to a whisper. ‘Evie, I’m scared, though. I don’t care what my mother and father think. But what if the police lock me up for what I did to Preston? What if Johnny gets out and I’m put in?’ She presses her hands up to her face and then rubs at her temples.
‘No, Diane,’ I answer. ‘I won’t let them do it. I won’t! I’ll tell them the truth.’
Diane lowers her hands to her sides and takes a deep, shaky breath. ‘I know you will, Evie. I know. I’m just scared, I guess. It’s so ridiculous what Betty said to me tonight. When she called me unafraid.’ She scoffs at the word.
‘I think Betty’s right,’ I say. ‘I do. It took guts to stand up to Preston. But more than that, Diane … it took courage to fall in love with Johnny when everyone told you it was wrong. And it took courage to keep on living after everything that’s happened to you.’
Diane rolls to her side and looks at me through the soft glow of the candlelight. She manages a smile. I hear her humming softly for a moment, something slow and mournful.
‘Evie, you’re so wise for fifteen,’ she says at last.
I snort. ‘Hardly.’ But a compliment like that from Diane means almost as much as one from Connie. Maybe more.
‘It’s true,’ she protests. ‘But seeing as I’m older, I’m in charge here. And we have to try and go to sleep.’ She licks her thumb and forefinger and presses them to the wick of the candle, and a soft sizzle escapes into the air around us.
‘Good night, Evie,’ she whispers.
‘Night, Diane.’
The next morning is Sunday. We nibble the apples and saltines that Sunny was able to snatch from her house late last night, and I teach Diane how to play Spit with the deck of cards Juanita snagged from her place. In the old composition book she also thought to give us, we doodle and play game after game of MASH and tic-tac-toe. Diane writes out the lyrics to songs by Irma Thomas and the Crystals and Roy Orbison and quizzes me on how well I know them. The two of us sit on the floor, careful to stay out of sight of the windows even though we’re desperate to peer out of them. Connie insisted we couldn’t even take a peek, and I know she’s right.
After our millionth game of Spit, Diane tosses her cards up in the air. ‘I’m going crazy!’ she cries. ‘I can’t believe everything that might be happening out there, and we don’t know a single bit of it.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But the girls will be by here soon. I’m sure of it.’
‘It’s too early for there to be anything in the papers,’ Diane tells me. ‘But maybe they’ll know something anyway.’
Diane’s wristwatch reads almost two o’clock when we hear three light raps on the back door, followed by a pause and three more light raps. Our signal. Diane and I lock eyes. Finally.
‘Hey.’ Juanita’s voice carries from the kitchen. ‘It’s me. Sorry I couldn’t come sooner. I had to make sure the neighbors weren’t out to see me sneaking in.’
She’s carrying a paper sack of food, including two bologna sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. Diane and I unwrap them and bite into them hungrily. Through bites, Diane asks what the news is.
‘Nothing yet,’ Juanita says, and Diane’s face falls. ‘I’m sorry, Diane. It’s just too soon. But I’m sure Betty’s talked to her father by now. I’m sure we’ll hear something any moment.’
Diane nods, then puts the sandwich down in her lap. It seems she’s no longer hungry. She leans back on her hands and stares out at nothing. I know her heart is aching.
‘I guess I do have some news for Evie,’ Juanita says, and I can tell she’s hesitating as she picks her words.
‘What?’ I ask.
She briefly chews her bottom lip. ‘Your mom is really upset. She was over at my house at the crack of dawn this morning, begging me to tell her where you are.’ She pauses, then adds one more detail. ‘She was crying so hard, Evie.’
A wave of nausea rolls through me. I feel the sting of my mother’s slap again. I remember the look of hurt and panic in her eyes as I shoved past her. I hear her begging me to tell her what’s wrong.
‘What did you say?’ I ask.
‘Nothing,’ Juanita answers. ‘I told her nothing. But it wasn’t easy, Evie. You know your mom loves you.’
I can only nod. Juanita and Diane and I sit in silence for a little while longer. My appetite has disappeared, too. After Juanita promises to let us know as soon as news breaks, she sneaks out the back door.
I take a deep breath, trying to bury the guilt I feel over what Juanita has just shared. Then I feel Diane’s gaze on me.
‘You want to play cards or something?’ I ask, able to speak at last.
Her soft voice answers, ‘You know, my parents haven’t visited me once. Not since I moved here. Juanita is right, Evie. Your mother cares.’
I shrug, fighting a lump in my throat.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Diane asks, her voice full of concern.
I light a cigarette. ‘Nope,’ I answer honestly. Talking is the last thing I feel like doing.
‘All right,’ Diane says, and she doesn’t push it. She just reaches out to collect the cards for another mindless game of Spit.
Monday passes a lot like Sunday did, only I have to occasionally wrestle the image of my crying mom out of my head. I wonder if they’ve told Cheryl, who already has so many problems of her own, and my guilt surges. As the sun starts to go down and Diane and I are sure we are going to lose our minds from boredom and wondering and nerves, we suddenly hear our signal at the back door. The pause between the three raps is barely a pause, and before we can register what’s happening, Connie is in the living room, her face beaming, her smile so big you can see her cracked incisor. In her hands is a copy of the Houston Chronicle. She tosses it at us and tackles Diane in a hug, something so un-Connie-like I can’t believe it’s really happening. The two of them practically fall on the floor.
‘Diane,’ she says, pulling back, still grinning. ‘Diane, it worked. Johnny’s getting out!’
Diane, Connie, and I spread the Chronicle out on the wooden floor and sprawl out next to it, our eyes trying to take in everything at once.
‘It’s all over the evening news, too,’ Connie says, breathless. ‘Look! Your pictures are in here and everything.’
Peering up at us in black and white from the front page is my school picture from ninth grade, my eyes traced in dark liner and my mouth barely cracking a smile. I look scary. Scarier than I thought I did, to be honest. The picture of Diane is one of her in pearls flashing a big, perfect grin at the camera. It doesn’t look like a school picture, more like it was taken at some fancy party. Above our photographs is one of the biggest headlines I’ve ever seen.