I guess one of the things that spoiled me was having my own shoes, because Cecil traded all of them to some guy at the bar who forgot to get his kid a birthday present in exchange for a bottle of whiskey. So now I have on his old boots, the dried mud and probably more than a little animal shit tracking all over Felicity’s bedroom carpet. Which, I notice, is new.
April—Felicity’s mom—was weird with me, one hand on my shoulder as she guided me to Felicity’s room, like I didn’t know the way. Then Gretchen had mentioned invitations. I didn’t get one of those. I got a text last night, last minute.
I’m standing here, wearing an old man’s shoes, holding a sleeping bag I’m not supposed to have, staring down a bunch of girls I don’t really like. And despite the weight of Felicity’s arm across my shoulders, something is being made very clear to me.
I don’t belong here.
Chapter 25
Felicity
Sixth Grade
We’re friends again.
It happened slowly, starting with the fact that no one had brought any sleeping bags—breaking the news to Mom that this was now a sleepover had not been awesome—and so we ended up making a pile of blankets on the floor of my room. We’re cuddled in, a bag of Doritos passing between us, wiping cheesy fingers on whatever we can find.
Mom had carried Tress’s boots outside with a wrinkled nose, and I had given her a pair of my pajamas. She’s almost like us, now, with the right clothes on and that scab on her knee covered. Almost. There’s still something about her eyes, and how she’s being too careful, watching Gretchen like she’s waiting for her to attack.
Which she hasn’t done . . . so far.
Brynn’s mom picked her up about an hour ago and me, Gretchen, Maddie, and Tress had torn through a package of cookies and a case of soda that Dad had slipped into my room, with a wink and a thumbs-up. I’m guessing Mom is lying on the couch downstairs, her mouth a thin, flat line as she crosses her fingers and prays I don’t have a seizure in front of everyone. Either that or worrying about the soda rotting my teeth out of my head. She always says my smile is my best feature. I guess if I didn’t have seizures maybe that would be my best feature instead.
It might rot my teeth, but the sugar is helping us all get along. We’ve got the giggles, and Tress has even loosened up a little bit.
“Hey,” she says, bumping me with her elbow. “Do your impression of Mr. Stephens.”
“Oh . . .,” I say, my stomach bottoming out a little bit.
“Do her what?” Gretchen asks.
“She can do Mr. Stephens,” Tress says. “She’s, like, really good at impressions.”
It’s true, I am. But it’s not something I do for just anybody. Last time Mom caught me mimicking our mailman, Dad in a laughing fit on the couch, she told me it wasn’t nice to make fun of people.
“I’m not making fun,” I insisted. “I’m just—”
“Pretending to be a sixty-year-old man?” Mom asked, raising an eyebrow. “That’s weird, Felicity.”
Maybe it is weird, I don’t know. I’d kept my impressions just for Tress since then, but now Maddie and Gretchen are looking at me expectantly.
“All right,” I say, standing up. A cascade of cookie crumbs rolls off my front as I get into position, throwing my shoulders back and making myself big, barrel-chested like Mr. Stephens, our science teacher.
“Volcanoes,” I say, dropping my voice really low and rounding out my vowels. “Are truly a miracle of geology.”
Maddie erupts in a fit of giggles, and Tress claps. Gretchen just looks at me, wide-eyed.
“That was . . . bizarre,” she finally says.
Weird, my mom’s voice echoes in the back of my head, and I falter on my feet, wondering how Gretchen would react if I dropped to the floor right now, foaming at the mouth. Bizarre would just be the beginning.
“Do another one, do another one,” Maddie says. “Do Captain Choir!”
I roll into an impression of Mrs. Adams, our music teacher, smacking the undersides of my arms to make my skin wobble, which totally is making fun of someone. But even Gretchen is laughing now, so I keep going.
“Oh, do Ms. Frampton!” Gretchen says.
That one’s harder. Ms. Frampton is a complete airhead of a substitute that we get sometimes. She’s really young and nice and just seems to want everyone to be happy. Last time we had her she brought homemade cookies, and then lost control of the classroom when Jessica Stanhope had an allergic reaction to the nuts in them. We haven’t seen Ms. Frampton since then.
I screw my eyes shut, trying to remember her. Trying to recall the set of her face, small repeated movements, the lilt of her voice. All the things that make a person unique.
“Hello, class,” I singsong as I breeze through the doorway, pretending like I’ve just arrived. “How are we today? I’ve got cookies for everyone . . . except Jessica.”
“Like Jessica needs any more cookies,” Gretchen says, holding her hands out from her waist. Maddie erupts into giggles, but Tress is frozen in place, her face a tight mask.
I don’t know what happened. It’s not like she’s friends with Jessica or anything, and my impression wasn’t that bad. I hit the high notes of Ms. Frampton’s voice, the cadence of her speech with a little downturn at the end. No . . . wait. That’s not right. I wasn’t doing Ms. Frampton at all; I fell back on mimicking a voice that I’ve heard a million times.
I was doing Annabelle Montor.
And by the look on Tress’s face, I nailed it.
Chapter 26
Tress
Sixth Grade
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
It’s true, but not because I have to pee. I’m going to puke. I’m going to lose Coke and Doritos and Oreos all over these girls who have parents. I push past Felicity, and she reaches for me, her fingers glancing over my arm. It’s just like my mom said when I rolled around on the ground with Dad and Goldie . . . I can hear you, but I can’t see you. I might never see my mom again for as long as I live, but I just heard her voice. And it came out of Felicity Turnado’s mouth.
“Don’t touch me,” I growl, ducking out from under her reach.
I can’t be near her right now. I slam the bathroom door so hard it bounces off the frame, and I know that April might be coming to investigate—loud noises at the Turnado household aren’t a thing—but then I’m over the toilet and losing everything, and I couldn’t care less what April thinks about slamming doors.
I flush it all down and roll over onto my back for a second while I get myself under control. I don’t think Felicity meant to do that, don’t think she had any intention of bringing the image of my mother back to me, full force, right when I was beginning to think I might be the kind of girl who still went to birthday parties. Who still laughed with other girls. Who might even still have friends.
The leg of Felicity’s pajama bottoms is bunched up above my knee, the sliding dive I made to get to the toilet in time giving me a fresh burn right across the kneecap. There will be a scab to match the other leg in a couple days. A tear slips out, and I reach above me, roll out some toilet paper to dab my eyes and the sweat from my forehead. I’ve got to get cleaned up, get myself under control—get my shit together, Cecil would say. I give my nose a good blow and then open the cupboard to throw the wad of paper away. April has all the trash cans in the house tucked away in corners, behind doors, out of sight. I toss the tissue, miss, and have to dig around to find it, knocking over a box of tampons in the process.