Shine - Lauren Myracle [11]
“So, um, you know Patrick, right?” I said. “Tommy’s friend? Who got beat up a week ago?”
She didn’t respond.
“He’s still in the hospital, and . . . I was wondering if maybe we could send flowers.”
Mrs. Larson’s expression remained impassive. I fought not to fidget.
“Or a balloon bouquet?” I tried again. The Buy-Low sold shiny silver message balloons that said things like THINKING OF YOU and GET WELL SOON! “Maybe we could pass around a card for everyone to sign?”
“I suppose you want me to pay for them,” Mrs. Larson said.
“We could take up a collection,” I said. She was trying to make me feel small, and she was succeeding. But I wasn’t going to let her make me retreat back into my shell.
She sipped her coffee and grimaced.
“It’s just so horrible, what happened to him,” I pressed on. “Is there any new information, do you know?”
“Well, it obviously had to do with his . . . lifestyle,” she said.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
“I don’t want the boy to die,” she went on, as if she were speaking of a mutt that uglied up the neighborhood. “But he might just up and do it anyway.”
“What have you heard? Has Sheriff Doyle learned anything? Has he discovered any, you know, clues?”
“Grandmother, there you are,” Tommy said from behind us. My chest tightened because I’d recognize his voice anywhere. “I put everything we need into your car. I’ll set it up this afternoon.”
My instincts said bolt, but I was rooted to the floor.
Mrs. Lawson’s face brightened. “Tommy,” she said. “Now why in the world aren’t you wearing that new dress shirt I bought you?”
She smiled at me for the first time. “You know my grandson, don’t you? My precious Tommy?”
TOMMY WAS A SNAKE—IN EVERY SENSE OF THE word. A snake and a jerk and a gay-bashing redneck, meaning he made jokes about how Patrick better not hit on him, how Patrick ran like a fag, how a man’s a-hole was for “exit only.” Tommy wasn’t alone in making jokes like that, of course. Black Creek was no haven for a boy who was “light in his loafers,” as Aunt Tildy put it.
And yet, Tommy was Patrick’s friend. That needed saying, too. Patrick was part of Tommy’s posse, though I wondered how much of a part. I suspected Tommy kept him around for sport. Tommy preyed on the weak, as I knew.
Seeing him in the fellowship hall made me want to curl up like a roly-poly. He was none too happy to see me, either. I read it in his face. First there was puzzlement, like why was I making nice with his highfalutin grandmother? Then a flicker of what almost resembled shame, though no doubt I interpreted it wrong. He had every reason to be ashamed, and then some, but more likely he was just embarrassed to be seen as his grandmother’s little helper.
“Cat,” he said.
I didn’t reply. I stared at his cut-down army boots and hugged my ribs.
“Cat thinks we should send flowers to the hospital,” old Mrs. Lawson said. “To your friend. Patrick.”
Her lips pursed, and I figured there must be a bit of a struggle going on inside her. Jesus said love the sinner, hate the sin, and while I knew old Mrs. Lawson was incapable of loving Patrick, surely she didn’t hate him, did she? A bangedup boy nearly the same age as her precious Tommy, lying in a coma with no one to stand up for him?
Tommy said nothing. I lifted my gaze, because I had to see what battle of conscience—if any—was playing out on his features.
“Who do you think hurt him?” I heard myself say. My words were made of stone, as cold and unforgiving as the outcroppings of granite that rose above the banks of the creek our town was named for.
A flush crept up his neck. “How the fuck would I know? And if I did, wouldn’t I say?”
“Tommy,” old Mrs. Lawson scolded.
I watched him. He was good looking, the snake, even in oil-stained jeans and a stupid shirt that said 4 stroke, whatever that meant.
But Tommy didn’t look good right now, not with his face twisted up.
“Sorry, Grandmother,” he said gruffly.
“You’re