“Why are you driving my car?” I ask David.
“Because you probably shouldn’t be, babe,” he says, his hand wandering over to my knee. I look at it for a second, study the long fingers and the knuckles. I brush it away. I don’t like him. His hand isn’t Hugh’s hand.
“No, I mean, like, why are you driving my car?” I repeat, because he didn’t understand that I’m not asking which of us is more fit right now. I’m asking why he can’t just let me drive my own goddamn car, like Hugh does, putting the passenger seat far back enough to accommodate his bulk.
I had to adjust it when I got in, pulling it forward and smiling, thinking about the next time Hugh gets in and his knees will be up in the vents, his chin resting on them, and we’ll laugh about it, and why isn’t he here right now? And where are we going, anyway?
“Where are we going, anyway?” The last thought escapes my mind, leaks out through my mouth. This happens with the Oxy, sometimes. I should be more careful. Who knows what I could say, what might come out of me. Hugh is usually with me and he takes care of me when I’m this bad off, and why isn’t he here right now?
“White Trash Zoo,” David says in answer to my question, the one I spoke aloud.
“Fucking A,” Gretchen says from the back seat, her words sloppy and slurred against the window. “Tressy Trash Montor.” She tries again, lifting her head this time. “Trashy Tress Montor.”
Shit. That’s right. Hugh didn’t want to come. Didn’t want to do . . . whatever we’re doing. We’re going to do something to Tress. They are. Or I am. I don’t know.
David cuts the lights, and the moon takes us the rest of the way, past the Usher house, like a huge tombstone in the night, the pond in front reflecting the glare of the moon. It’s so bright, too bright, showing us everything, making me see. I don’t know how we got out here. I don’t want to be here, but I am here, and Gretchen has gained a second wind and is almost perky as she hands me something when we get out of the car.
A sack. A grocery sack. A dollar-store sack. The dollar store—the only place Tress can shop now—and why did we go there? Why would Felicity Turnado be in a dollar store?
“‘Thank you,’” I say, reading the sack aloud, but Gretchen thinks I’m talking to her, and she laughs and reaches into the bag and pulls out a can of spray paint and it’s red and she’s shaking it and it makes a click click click because there’s a little ball inside mixing the paint, like there’s one inside my head right now mixing my thoughts and my words are going to come out like the paint, spraying out of my mouth, and I don’t want these people to hear me because I don’t know what I might say.
I don’t know what will come out of me because I don’t know what’s inside me.
There’s a smell, thick and heavy, with a sound, a hiss, and they are doing it, they are doing something bad. Something that will hurt Tress. Tress who was my friend, and these people are not my friends, and I know that but I am here with them now, anyway. And I feel something cold in my hand, and I look down and there is someone I know, an actual friend, looking back at me with a question.
“Goldie-Dog,” I say, dropping to my knees. I wrap my arms around her neck, and she leans into me, and she smells like shit and animals and a dog, but it’s not chemicals and it’s not paint and it’s not bad words. It’s not a bad smell, just a smell, and I want to tell her that but I don’t know how, so I just keep my arms around her and look deep into her eyes and hope she knows, hope she feels that I love her, right now. I loved her then and I love her now, and there’s a flash and someone tells me to look somewhere and I do because I am a follower, and Goldie looks too and there’s another flash.
Gretchen is laughing and she falls into David and her lips are red and the sign is red and now his lips will be red, too, and I don’t want to watch this so I walk away. Goldie follows me, her nose pressing into my palm, then into my neck because I’ve fallen down and there is someone looking at me but it’s not Gretchen or David. It’s a nicer face. I crawl closer and there are hands on me, touching, and it’s not a human. It’s almost human, but not quite human, and that means it’s better because being all human is not always good.
Almost human > Human
Human ≠ Good
And I’m touching it back, and it runs its hands down my arms and touches my hair, and there are bars between us, why are there bars between us? I am the dangerous one who should be inside, should be kept away. Should not be here. Goldie presses against me, and there is warmth from her and warmth from the hands and this is what Tress’s life is like now, all animals no humans, and oh my God I want this for myself.
I want to know Tress now, new Tress, this animal life. I want to share it with her and feel her here in this place, and I’m on my feet and I’m going to the next thing, black and white stripes and big eyes that I’m lost in and wiry hair that I run my fingers through and a tap on my back, and there’s a bird face and it’s ugly and I love it and the wings unfurl and they are beautiful and I show my own arms and we talk like this now. Not words. Not words painted on a sign.
I didn’t come here for that; I came here for this. I came to find Tress again and there’s a path and maybe that’s how I find her because she is also not human anymore she is an animal and she would be here, she would be with them and I will find her again. And I’m following and I’m walking where she has walked and I am running and our feet are the same and we are the same and we are together again and Goldie is tugging on my hand now pulling, because we don’t use words now we do this and—
A snap. A flash.
And pain.
Not a flash of David’s phone and not a snap of a picture being taken and not pain of words on a sign but real pain on my foot because it is not Tress’s foot and we are not the same and I forgot that and now I am in water and I am drowning.
It’s . . . familiar.
Why is that?
These are my thoughts and they are clear and cogent for the first time since forever, and I know that I have forgotten more than Tress. I have forgotten much more, but now there is Goldie and she is with me, and she has her mouth on my arm and she is gentle with not teeth and she is pulling me away from water and toward land but something else has teeth and it is coming and I try to tell her but how we talk now doesn’t work anymore and I don’t have words either and there is a crack.
And there is no more Goldie.
Chapter 68
Tress
“Yeah, that electric fence, it’ll get you,” I hear myself saying, an idiotic response to the story of how my dog died.
“Hurts, right?” I ask, digging into what Felicity just told me, doing the same thing she was, trying to find the scraps of what we still share.
Like being shocked by an electric fence.
Like knowing how something dies.
“I loved that dog,” I say, and it’s another dumb thing to say, but it’s true, and like a lot of true things it’s also incredibly sad.
I’m crying when I lay the next row.
Chapter 69
Felicity
Tress’s hands shake a little as she lays the ninth row of bricks, drops of her blood mixing with the mortar. She doesn’t speak as she does it, and I don’t argue. There’s nothing to say. I might have ranted and raved at her about the junior-class secretary thing, but I deserve the bricks she’s laying right now.