A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters - Martin Harry Greenberg [23]
We thought we were being so careful, but everyone knew.
“Go fuck yourself!” The yell bolted free of my lips, and more troll-like laughter echoed in response. Kate’s fingers were sweating, and stuck to mine. But she didn’t pull away, and the Escort sped up and bumped down the street. It made a hard right down near old man McAllister’s house, and the heartbeat of rap bass faded.
“He’ll be back.” Kate sounded tired all over again. “You should just ignore him, Becks.”
The idea burst inside my skull, along with the hate and the anger. My stomach turned over hard, and I wondered if I was getting heatstroke. “Let’s get inside. I want some lemonade.”
“You’re so lucky.” But Kate didn’t sound like she thought it was lucky at all. She just sounded sad. “Your mom’s home all the time.”
The pool bag bumped against my back as I shrugged. “She’s probably getting her hair done. But there’s lemonade and we can watch Judge Judy. You want to stay over tonight?”
The hopeful smile breaking over Kate’s face made the anger simmer down. “You sure? I mean . . . yeah.”
“Of course I’m sure.” I took a tentative step forward. Swung our linked hands together, like we’d done in private a million times before. “I’ve got an idea.”
“What kind of idea?”
“About your problem.”
“Okay.” We walked on, the liquid shade of an elm tree swallowing us whole. “So . . . what?”
I stopped again. Our hands stayed linked. My bikini was already dry under the sarong; the heat was that fierce. Scarves of pollen on the breeze were as golden as Kate’s hair. I thought it over one more time, making sure it was all clear in my head, and spent the next couple minutes laying it out.
Kate chewed her lower lip for a little while. “You believe me?” Like she hadn’t realized I would.
“I believe you.” What I didn’t tell her was, well, I kind of didn’t. But those marks on her wrist were awfully persuasive. And the circles under her eyes. And how she’d lost a bunch of weight since school let out. Her hipbones stuck out, and so did her ribs.
And how her stepfather, Edgar, made me feel, like I’d swallowed a sack of greasy snakes.
“We’ll get caught,” she whispered, her eyes big, blue, and round.
The urge to put my arms around her and kiss the soft hot part where her shoulder met her neck almost made me shake. “No we won’t. Not if we’re careful.”
I had Mom call Kate’s mom and make the invitations, figuring that was the best way to make it impossible for Ms. Cooke to refuse. The ploy worked, since Mom’s one of those saccharine-polite people that you absolutely, positively cannot say no to without feeling like a total asshole. I would hate her for it, but then, that’s the only way she can deal with Dad. It’s the only way anyone can.
“Keep a lookout,” I whispered, and left Kate at the top of the stairs. She stood there, rubbing the top of one bare monkey-toed foot against the other, holding onto the railing. Mom’s voice floated up from the kitchen—how nice for you! Congratulations! . . . Well, Kate is always such a pleasure, so well-behaved . . .
So on, so on, so forth.
I stepped carefully into their bedroom. Breathed in the talcum powder and Tabu, the French cologne Dad wore, the close still scent of them in the same room. Two twin beds, their floral coverlets pristine and military-tight. Mom made their beds every morning, probably to cover up the fact that Dad slept more often on the huge overstuffed couch in front of the TV, turned down all the way and glowing like a fourth alien member of the family.
I was in luck. Dad’s closet door was open. I knelt down on blue carpet, vacuumed religiously every two days, and felt around. His suits, ranked in a neat row, brushed my head. The slice of carpet lifted away, I keyed in the code and braced myself for the heavy safe door.
Folders of important papers, like birth certificates and passports, a stack of hundreds in their neat paper rings, and the thing I was looking for. It was heavy metal, I took it carefully. It wasn’t near the end of the month, so he wouldn’t be opening