Bleed. Part 12

"Tell me who this is or I'm gonna hang up."

"No you won't."

"Why won't I?"

"Because I know stuff that you'll want to know."

It's church-quiet on the other end, like maybe he's deciding. "Like what?" he finally says.

"Not so fast. Before we go any further, I want you to know that we may have seen each other before, but we've never actually spoken. In other words, there's no point in your trying to guess who I am."

"Why don't you just tell me who you are?"

"First answer my questions. You're Kelly Pickerel's boyfriend, right?"

"Yeah."

Yes!

"So, have you been a good boy while she's been away in California?"

"Who is this?"

"Is that a yes or a no?

"Who the h.e.l.l is this?"

"Not quite the response a faithful boyfriend would give." The phone falls quiet again, but I'm feeling good about the way the conversation's going. I know I hold the winning hand, and I think he's starting to know it, too.

"Tell me what you're talking about or I'm going to hang up."

"I told you already, I know stuff. About you. About her. Do you want to know if Kelly's been a good girl?"

"I already know the answer to that."

I smile, hearing him fold. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"So you know about Robby, then."

"Who?"

And as soon as the name shoots out my mouth, I peek back at a sc.r.a.pbook page, at the boy's name glaring from an article heading, and make the connection. Robby Mardonia. So freaking good!

"What do you think of murderers?" I ask.

"Murderers?"

"Yeah, you know, guys who off their girlfriends."

"What are you talking about?"

"We need to talk in person." I lean back against Kelly's puffy watermelon comforter and flip my legs in the air so that the skirt of the dress jumps up around my hips. Perfect dancing attire. "There's stuff I need to show you," I say. "Stuff you'll want to see."

"Either tell me over the phone or I'm hanging up now."

"I told you, Sean. There's stuff I know about you too, so don't even pretend you have a choice here." I flip over onto my belly and feel a s.h.i.+ft beneath the comforter. It's another one of Kelly's feel-good books, License to Cry. I flip a couple pages, the corners folded over to bookmark her place-a chapter on isolation; stuff about dark days and even darker nights.

I mumble to Sean to meet me in an hour at the Dunkin' Donuts on Derby Street, hang up, and continue reading. But then my cell phone starts ringing. It's Cheryl. She wants to know how it's going, and so I tell her. She couldn't be more impressed; she just keeps screaming "OhmyG.o.d! OhmyG.o.d! OhmyG.o.d!" into the phone.

There isn't anyone who wouldn't just love to see Kelly Pickerel go down.

But then, as soon as I tell Cheryl about our little field trip to Double D's, she gets all nerdy on me, "I can't go out," she says. "My mom wants me to stay in tonight. She thinks I need to catch up on my summer reading."

"That's such bulls.h.i.+t," I say, tossing the book toward my bag.

"I'll try to sneak out and meet you there," she promises.

"Try hard," I say, and hang up. Sometimes Cheryl can be so lame.

I take a last peek at myself in the mirror, finally decide the dress is b.u.t.t-ugly, and grab another-a short black spandex one that dips low in the front. Mega-s.l.u.t material. I can just picture Kelly in it at some cheesy-a.s.s club, dancing that stupid side-to-side-and-clap shuffle that people who have no rhythm resort to, having to yank the skirt part down every other second 'cause her fat a.s.s rides it up.

I bet it would fit me just fine. I stuff it into my bag along with the License to Cry book and change back into my wet shorts and T-s.h.i.+rt.

Now what?

Mrs. Pickerel will probably be home in less than half an hour. I need to take advantage of every moment. I grab a couple Suzy Q's from the cupboard and stash them in my bag for later, along with two snack-size cans of potato stix. Then I scavenge my way through Kelly's closet a bit more.

She's got a bunch of cool shoes. Prada and Kenneth Cole. I recognize a pair of black platform pumps in the corner. She wore them last Valentine's Day with a pair of navy blue kneesocks, a short plaid schoolgirl skirt, and a chest-hugging baby tee that showed off her gut. She thought she was so great. I pause a moment, wondering how that outfit would look on me, if I would look like just as much of a ho as her, or if it actually might be kind of cute. But then decide it would be way too warm for a day like today. There's a pair of creamy leather slingbacks that have my name all over them. They have a thick wedge heel and gold-lined strapping that winds around the ankle. They're a full size too big, but I fasten them on anyway and walk around the room. Not too bad, especially if I'm outside in this heat and my feet are swollen. I toss them in my bag and decide to browse around for a matching purse.

She's got about a hundred of them. They're on a shelf above the clothes. I go to pull a couple down, when I notice an old jewelry box sitting toward the back. I grab it, noticing how Kelly's name is imprinted on the top in sparkly gold cursive. I flip the latch, open the box up, and music starts playing-that "When You Wish Upon a Star" song from Pinocchio ... the one Jiminy Cricket sings. There's a headless ballerina dancing in circles to the tune. I pick the head up from the bracelet compartment, noticing how she looks like a plastic version of Kelly-except the face and hair have been scribbled over with black Magic Marker.

There's a sticker pasted up over the faux diamond-encrusted mirror at the back of the box. It's one of those pro-vegetarian don't-harm-the-animals ones-a frowning chicken holding a big fat drumstick. It says COWS HAVE FEELINGS, TOO. Below it, there's a poem written on the floor of the box in black marker: I close the box back up and return it to the shelf, wondering how old Kelly was when she did all this. The whole idea of it weirds me out, like maybe I should clean up and go check on Emily.

Before tucking the sc.r.a.pbook back in the closet, I flip it open, extract a short article from a page that looks pretty full without it, and jam it into the side pocket of my backpack. Then I head out into the family room. Emily's still got her nose pressed practically up against the TV screen.

"Hey, Emily," I say, sprawling out on the sofa, "wanna play Candy Land?" But she ignores me, completely mesmerized by Spanish-speaking Dora and her lame-a.s.s, boot-wearing monkey.

About ten minutes later, Mrs. Pickerel arrives on cue. She hands me my thirty bucks, and I call my mother to come pick me up and drive me to Double D's. But my mother is frantic. She can't find Sadie anywhere; no, I cannot go to Dunkin' Donuts tonight; and can I please ask Mrs. Pickerel to drive me home. Great.

I ignore her attempt to try and box me up indoors, and instead decide to haul a.s.s to Double D's myself.

I arrive, and there are just a couple people-an old crusty guy in the corner slumped over a couple of marble crullers and the funny pages, and two hospital workers-I can tell from their frugly green scrubs and dark under-eye circles.

Where is Cheryl?

I go up to the counter for the bathroom key, then take out my cell phone and call her. "I told you I didn't know if I'd be able to get out," she whines.

"I can't even believe you're not gonna bother showing up," I say. "You're so missing out."

"I'm sorry, Ginger," she whispers into the phone. "My mother keeps checking up on me, like she expects me to bolt. Just promise you'll call me as soon as you get home, to let me know what happened."

I hang up.

Why aren't there more kids here? Sean's gonna know right away that it's me who called. Maybe I should just leave. The hag behind the counter clears the phlegm from her throat to get my attention; she must have been dangling that bathroom key in front of my face for a while. What is wrong with me? I return her b.i.t.c.hy look, s.n.a.t.c.h the key, and head into the bathroom to change.

I don't know how Kelly can cram that fat a.s.s of hers into this dress. It's like it was made for me. Except that balloon mark on my chest looks even redder than ever.

I look down at the slingbacks as I make my way across the dirty clay floor, trying hard to keep my ankles from wobbling. I wonder if Sean will recognize the clothes, if he'll notice how much better they look on me.

A car pulls into the lot-an old, grandma-looking, flesh-colored Volvo-and like a reflex, I wobble up to the counter to order a small Coolatta and a jelly doughnut, so at least it looks like I'm here for legitimate reasons. I take my wax paper-bagged treat and turn around to find a place to sit.

Sean comes in and looks around. His face is sweaty, like he's in a hurry or nervous or sick or something. He goes up to the counter, orders an iced coffee, and turns around to look at me.

I choke back a nervous giggle and look away, pretend to be preoccupied with licking the sugar sprinkles jelly-glued to my thumbs. I poke my fingers into the side pocket of my backpack, wis.h.i.+ng I had borrowed one of Kelly's designer totes. The touch of the article clipping helps to ease me a bit, helps to release the tight little knot I feel tied up in my chest. I'm able to let out a breath, remind myself that this is for fun, to pay Kelly back for being such a whoring little b.i.t.c.h.

Sean takes a seat at the table next to mine, and he's just ... staring. He's sipping his coffee, but he's looking right at me. I lick the jelly globules off the nubs of my fingers and savor every moment, trying my best not to laugh out loud. Two more bites in, and I decide I might like another snack. I scoot out from the table and make my way across the floor, bending slightly over the counter, like I can't see all the doughnut selections from where I'm standing. "I'll have a jelly cruller," I say, hoping Sean's taking a good look.

I don't even bother with a bag this time. I tell the counter hag she can keep it, and instead lick at the tip of the cruller as I swing my hips pendulum-style back to the table. Sean's looking. He's watching the way my mouth fits around the doughnut stem, the way my a.s.s sits just right in this dress.

I slide back into the seat, and Sean gets up, plunks himself down into the chair across from me at my table, and just keeps on staring.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi." He looks a bit different than he does in Kelly's winter ball picture-taller, thinner, a lot more tan.

"Do you have something to say to me?" he asks.

"No." I let out a nervous giggle and then bite down on the skin of my tongue to stifle the full-fledged laugh I feel pus.h.i.+ng in my chest.

"I think you do," he says.

"Nope." I bite down fully on the cruller tip and smile at him as I chew it down.

He leans forward on his elbows and he's really kind of cute-soft brown eyes with dapples of tawny yellow; wavy brown hair painted over with golden sun streaks; modest muscle bulk.

Way too good for Kelly Pickerel.

I hold the cruller stem out to him. "Wanna bite?"

"Tell me what you gotta tell me," he says, "or I'm leaving."

"Well, aren't you a lousy sport?" I spoon up a globule of jelly with my finger and poke it into my mouth.

"I don't play games," he says.

"Not what I hear," I sing.

"Oh, yeah? What do you hear?"

"Stuff."

"What, is this fun for you?"

"Kind of." I giggle. "But I know a way we can have much more fun." I poke the now-four-inch cruller into my mouth and almost choke on some crumbs. I've stuck it in too far.

"How did you get my cell phone number?"

"Are you serious?" I ask between coughs. "That was so easy." My eyes are watering now. I take a sip of my Coolatta to ease the tickle in my throat, but almost end up spitting it all out. It's way too bitter.

"So what do you have to tell me about Kelly?"

"Wouldn't you rather talk about something more interesting?" I lean in closer and imagine venturing my fingers across his forearm. "Like, what we'll be doing later?"

He yanks his arm away. "I'm not doing anything with you."

"Why not? Don't you like girls?" I poke my finger into the jelly filling and suck at the tip.

"I'm outta here," he says.

"Okay, fine. I'll tell you." I rip open a sugar packet, add it into my Coolatta, and stir it all up with a straw. "So I know some stuff about Kelly."

"Like what?"

"Like, that she's cheating on you with another guy, some murderer from California." Proof positive that she's a backstabbing b.i.t.c.h. I take another sip of the Coolatta and add two more packets of sugar.

"How do you know that?"

I end up showing him the article clipping and telling him all about the sc.r.a.pbook at the back of her closet. I tell him about the girl who called, the diner, and how Kelly left her cell phone there this morning. I even throw in the rumors I've heard about her-blowing Mr. Vargas and her gang bang with the guys on the lacrosse team. And at the end of all of it, instead of being rips.h.i.+t like any other normal guy, Sean wants to know what I have on him, what I meant when I said he didn't seem faithful.

And suddenly, I think, Holy s.h.i.+t, this guy's been scam-ming, too.

"I guess I heard you've been cheating on Kelly," I say, flipping my hair back the way Kelly did in the courtyard that day; leaning back in the seat so he can admire the dress, how it looks so much better on me.

"How? From who? Who told you that?"

So completely pathetic. "You know what?" I say. "I gotta go. You're way too lame-a.s.s to be seen with me. No wonder Kelly's cheating on you." I frown at another sip of my Coolatta. "I have a real man to see tonight."

"Not until you tell me who you heard that from."

I look over at the crusty guy, still reading his funny papers, and say, "My papergirl told me, all right?"

"Your papergirl?"

"Yeah, I don't know, she said she was delivering the papers and saw you in action. I don't know how."

At that, Sean dissolves into a slushy, dirty ma.s.s, like I could flush him down with the push of a finger. I almost feel bad for him. Except my cell phone is ringing and I have to answer it. "This is probably one of my boyfriends now," I say, plucking the phone from my bag, suspecting that it's really my mother, that she's going to be p.i.s.sed I haven't come home yet-since she's already misplaced one daughter today.