How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [80]
She moves a little but says nothing.
Okay, I think. We don’t have to talk. At least I have found her and she isn’t in the clutches of a bear or hawk. Cindy will be able to carry on with being a waitress tonight.
“They laughed at me.” Charlotte’s voice is muffled, yet it doesn’t sound like she’s been crying. “When I did the charade, they thought I was stupid.”
“They laugh at everyone.” They laughed at me as I tried to act out Little Bo Peep. Bobby was literally rolling on the ground, pine needles sticking to his jeans and jacket. I played the game. I could have refused like Joy did. She said she was too tired and then threw in her feelings about the game. When she used the word hate, Zack asked her to come up with a different word.
“I don’t know any other word,” she pouted.
“Try dislike or don’t care for.”
She frowned and said, “The game stinks.”
He wouldn’t let her get away with that, even though Bubba and Dougy were insisting we get the game started.
She gave in. “I don’t care for charades.”
Zack told her that was an improvement, and then we began the game.
“You played, at least,” I tell Charlotte now. “That’s what counts.” It isn’t whether you win or lose, but if you play. The words come to me with a bold profundity, and I wonder if they’re stitched on Regena Lorraine’s tote bag.
Shivering, I rub my hands over my arms and shake my legs to get the blood circulating. I’m tempted to get up and head back to my jacket and make Charlotte come with me. Take it easy. The words to one of Jonas’s favorite songs ring in my mind.
I let my body relax just when Charlotte pleads, “You will never leave me, will you, Miss Livingston?”
What does she mean? Leave her alone at this picnic table? Leave The Center? Leave town?
“You’re nice.” She reaches out and strokes my arm, her fingers evenly gliding over my scars. “I think you’re an angel.”
“Well, most people don’t feel that way,” I say. Like Darren.
“You never know about people. People are good at pretending.”
“Pretending what?”
She stops touching my arm and flips her legs around so that she has her back to the table. “Showing how they really feel. You know, what’s inside. The part only God sees.”
I feel a warmth slither over me like a big quilt tucking me in at every side. The air is not so cold anymore.
“Have you noticed the stars?” I ask, because I don’t know what else to say.
We lift our heads to see the wide sky of flickering lights. The moon has risen—round but not yet full, and tinted with a yellow glossy glow—just over the treetops. “
I like to think that all those stars are my prayers,” whispers Charlotte. “God thinks they are so pretty he chooses to string them in the sky.”
I consider her words. “That’s beautiful, Charlotte.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, don’t tell Rainy or anyone that I said that.”
“Why not?”
“They’ll laugh at me some more.”
I take her hand between my fingers and gently squeeze it. “You are beautiful,” I say.
Quickly, she says, “No, I’m not.”
“Oh yes, you are. Don’t tell anyone, but when I first came to The Center, I thought you were the most gorgeous. And I mean on the outside and the inside.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I even wrote about you in my journal.”
She takes a long look at me, and even in the darkness I see her eyes dance. “I have a journal, too.”
“That’s great.”
“It’s the only place I can be myself.”
I know all about that, I think as I picture my own journal with the apple pie cover. Me, the one who hated my writing class; me, becoming close friends with a journal and a pen!
“You can talk to me,” I say. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”
Her eyes peer into mine as though she wants to believe me. And I want her to.
We sit for a few silent moments, and then I convince Charlotte that together we can go back to the group and face whatever awaits. My confidence surprises Charlotte and makes me jumpy in my own skin.
Back at the campsite, Charlotte sits close to me by the fire. Earlier, Bubba and Bobby found sturdy logs and stones to place around the