Good Neighbors Page 5

  Instead of letting her walk away, Gertie could have followed Rhea that day. Challenged her. But in all her time dealing with hunters, she’d learned a very serious golden rule: never confront. It doesn’t make them stop. It just whets their appetite, like blood in the water.

  No accident.

  Gertie hadn’t wanted to believe that Rhea was a hunter. Even after Rhea’d walked away, Gertie’d tried hard to pretend that they were still great friends. Rhea was distracted, or playing a joke, or heck, had a brain tumor.

  When the sinkhole opened, she’d figured it would put the entire neighborhood on a reset. A real and serious thing had happened, rendering everything before it inconsequential. Rhea couldn’t still be mad after something like that! Probably, she hadn’t been mad to begin with. Gertie was just paranoid. You see enough bad guys in your life, and you start to imagine them. You forget that the world is mostly good.

  That’s the story she’d told herself, anyway.

  But, watching Shelly Schroeder spew vitriol at Julia on that trampoline, the truth came hurtling back. Rhea hadn’t been making a joke, and she hadn’t been confused. She’d been intentionally cruel on the Fourth of July. She’d turned on Gertie, even though they’d shared and confided so much. And now, her daughter Shelly, the leader of the neighborhood Rat Pack, was being cruel to Julia on purpose. Why was this happening? Gertie didn’t know. All she knew was that she felt bad. And something deeper than bad: She felt scared. Full-on panic.

  Stuck in her seat belt, Gertie noticed then that all the kids were looking at her. Julia and Larry and the Rat Pack, and even Shelly from up high. They seemed somber. Overwhelmed by their own emotions the way all kids get overwhelmed when their thoughts are too big for their bodies. I’m the grown-up here. I should say something, she thought. But she didn’t have the words. Had never had the words in moments of confrontation like this. And so, feeling frightened and awful and heartsick, avoiding Julia’s eyes, Gertie punched the gas.

  * * *

  Gertie’s car pulled out. Julia watched it go. Just like that time with the Parliament Lights, her mom had offered her up like a sacrifice. A shield to take the blame. And now the kids knew that no one had her back. They could do anything they wanted.

  The Rat Pack’s eyes were on her, boring through. She didn’t know why they’d started hating her. Only that Shelly had spearheaded it. Shelly, who’d been her best friend since practically day one. They used to prank Dave Harrison, pretending to be sexy Russian hookers. He figured it out, but let them keep doing it because it was so funny. Especially Shelly’s spelling: Chello! I want the rubles for the intercourse!? Jes? They used to stay up nights, talking about God and death and their dreams. Shelly wanted to be a doctor with a practice on Boylston Street, wherever that was. Julia didn’t know her dream yet. Regarding sex, Shelly wanted to wait until college. Julia thought it was okay to do before, but she didn’t know how it would work, because she hadn’t had her period yet and didn’t know how anybody was supposed to find a vagina amidst all that skin down there. Out of boredom one day, they’d discovered that it felt super good to straddle the arms of soft chairs. They also both liked sugar and lemon on their pancakes, not syrup.

  They’d been inseparable. Spent practically a whole school year together. And then spring came. Sleepovers ended. Julia’s texts suddenly went unanswered. Shelly wasn’t ever home when Julia stopped by. One time in June, when Julia’d tried to join the Rat Pack in the park, they’d all run away from her. She’d waited, hoping it was a game. They must have sneaked behind the houses to avoid her, because pretty soon, she heard them all playing Deathcraft in the Ottomanellis’ den.

  After that, it was over. Shelly pointed and called Loser when she saw Julia. Everybody went along with it. If she caught Dave Harrison or Charlie Walsh on their own, they might give her a wave, but otherwise, nothing.

  The most upsetting part wasn’t getting dumped. It was the way Shelly turned evil. She used to be this really nice person who could read people easy as tarot cards. It was a kind of superpower. Julia’d be thinking about Larry, or about the possibility that the world was going to end before she ever even had the chance to vote. There’d be famine and war and girls would get bought and sold like sandwiches. She’d be all worried about stuff like that, and Shelly’d feel it. Relax, she’d say. And then, as a joke, We’ll always have Maple Street. In the old days, she’d defended kids like Larry. Told the whole school bus that if anybody imitated him, she’d reach down their mouths and pull out their stomachs. Back then, she’d only used her powers for the forces of good.

  It was different now. She ruled the Rat Pack with an iron fist. Once, Julia heard her screaming at them out her window. She’d yelled so much her face turned red. The freaky part: it looked the same as crying. The older kids had walked away, but Lainee Hestia and Sam Singh had stuck around for it, covering their ears and balling themselves small. It’s wrong to do that; to go after the weak.

  Julia never told her parents what happened. She was afraid that if she did, her mom would ask uptight Rhea about it, and Rhea’d know exactly what to say: Julia’s not good enough at spelling. She doesn’t take seat belts seriously. Remember how she smoked? She’s a bad influence. And then Gertie would go crazy. She’d love Julia even less than she already did.

  Julia wanted to run home right now. Hide in the hot kitchen with Larry until her dad woke, like she’d been doing all summer. But there was a breeze out here. The trampoline looked fun. A Slip ’N Slide would be even better. Bathing suits and cold water. Laughter and ice pops. She had a right to those things, even if she wasn’t good or pretty or going someplace important like the rest of them. Even if she was just Julia.

  * * *

  All eyes were on her. She didn’t know what else to do. She stood her ground.

  “How much does your mom’s car cost? Think I can buy it for a Snickers?” Shelly asked from the center of the trampoline. The rest of the Rat Pack sat on the edges or else stood just outside.

  “It’s a car. It’s doesn’t have to be pretty. It just has to work,” Julia answered. “I don’t know why you’re so mean. I never did anything to you.”

  “I’m not mean. You’re just a loser. And losers aren’t allowed,” Shelly answered. She was wearing a Free People plaid linen jumpsuit and matching long-sleeve linen blouse underneath, Free People socks, probably even day-of-the-week Free People underpants, too. For the heat, it was a lot of clothes.

  “That’s not even your trampoline. It’s the Markles’s,” Julia said, tugging on her Hawaiian shirt.

  “So?” Shelly asked as she started to bounce. She looked angrier than usual, which was saying something. Her elaborately braided hair rippled in dyssynchronous arcs like each one was alive. The kids sitting around her bobbed like buoys.

  “So, you guys wouldn’t even be allowed out here if it wasn’t for my mom’s Slip ’N Slide. She’s the one who chilled your uptight parents out,” Julia called out across the Ottomanellis’ perfectly green lawn.

  “We’re still not allowed. Shelly sneaked so I sneaked,” little Ella announced.

  “Shut up,” Shelly answered as she started jumping: Plat! Plat! Plat! It echoed, that sound, and reminded Julia of all the stuff kids around here bragged about, like memberships to the town pool, season ski-lift tickets, and buttered popcorn with M&M’s mixed in at the movies. That trampoline was money.

  “Go home!” Shelly shouted from the air. “The whole reason we have that stupid sinkhole is because your parents don’t pay taxes!”

  “Just go home,” one of the Ottomanelli twins added. She thought it was Michael, the mean one, until the other one added, “No food line feet allowed, you dirty Wildes!” So, probably, that one was Michael. They were dressed in identical Islanders jerseys, only today Michael wore glasses and Mark had on blue-tinted contacts. Nobody in the Rat Pack could tell them apart, so they just got called Markle.

  “Go home!” Lainee Hestia chimed, which hurt the most, because Lainee was a t
otal weenie. We’re talking dressing-up-like-Rey-from-Star-Wars-for-class-photos, bringing-a-light-saber-to-field-trips, owning-over-a-hundred-action-figure-erasers–level weeniedom.

  “I’m not on your property. My parents bought our house and it’s ours and I have a right to stand on this sidewalk like anybody else,” Julia said.

  Shelly jumped harder. The springs screamed. Sound-sensitive Larry covered his ears. The kids sitting around the edges—the Markles, Ella Schroeder, and Lainee Hestia—maneuvered toward the platform’s edge and clung to its circular rail while the rest of the Rat Pack—Sam Singh, Dave Harrison, and Charlie Walsh—huddled with wary expressions a few yards away.

  Plat! Shelly hit the tramp, then flew back up again: “GO! AWAY!” Plat! She landed. Then up again, her jumpsuit big as a sail: “GO AWAY!” Her voice was high-pitched and happy and sad all rolled into one.

  Plat!

  Up again. Julia saw something bright and red and wrong between Shelly’s spread legs.

  “GO!”

  Plat!

  “THE FUCK!”

  Plat!

  “AWAY!”

  Plat!

  Shelly came down hard that last time, catapulting her little sister right out of the trampoline. Ella landed on her hands and knees. “I’m telling!” she wailed.

  “Don’t you dare—” Shelly started.

  “—I’m telling Mom you came out here even though you’re not allowed and you made me come, too, and now I’m hurt and she’ll be so mad at you!” Ella screeched with fake tears.

  Shelly’s chest puffed out. So did the veins on her neck. Between her spread legs was a thin red stain. Julia looked away because it was too embarrassing. Maybe that was why no one else pointed it out, either.

  “Why is Shelly bad now, Julia?” Larry asked without whispering or even lowering his voice. His green turtleneck was tight, his face blotchy red from heat.

  Shelly shined her fury in Larry’s direction, and vented it. “Aspy,” she hissed.

  Larry squinted, which was his way of showing hurt feelings.

  “My mom said he’s gonna get kicked out of normal school,” said Shelly. “He’s draining all the resources.”

  “I’m leaving school?” Larry asked.

  “Call him Robot Brother. That’s his nickname. And he’s not aspy. He just hates you, because you super-suck a bag’a dead dicks,” Julia said.

  Shelly flipped off the tramp and ran, stopping just short of knocking Julia down. Tiny veins throbbed across her eyes like blood mites. “Face or body?”

  “Shelly, stop,” Dave Harrison called.

  “The eight of us took a vote,” Shelly answered without taking her eyes off Julia. “We all agreed. Nobody talks to the Wildes… So, which is it, Julia?” she asked, like they were strangers. Like they’d never promised during sleepovers, while their drunk moms had guzzled wine on the porch under fake tiki torches, that they’d be best friends forever.

  “Our air-conditioning’s gone to shit,” Julia panted. “We have to be out here. I don’t want to fight and I don’t want to be in a place nobody wants me but it’s too hot. Whatever your problem is, get over it.” She pointed at the deflated yellow mat on her dried-up lawn. “We could all Slip ’N Slide. You could, too, Shelly. Plus my mom went grocery shopping and there’s Eggo pancakes.”

  Shelly’s frown eased.

  “We won’t tell your mom. She’ll never even know you came outside,” Julia said. “It’s totally early. She’s sleeping for another hour at least.” Hungover, Julia meant, but she didn’t say it.

  Shelly let out a long sigh, and Julia knew she was winning. Please, please, please let this turn out okay, she silently prayed. Let Shelly act like a human being again, and let the neighborhood kids not tease anymore, and let the Slip ’N Slide be awesome, so I can have just ONE GOOD DAY.

  But then Larry opened his big mouth. “Shelly can’t be on our Slip ’N Slide, Julia. Robot Boy says no bullies in school.”

  Shelly spun. In three strides, she was toe to toe with Larry. “Face or body?”

  Larry’s eyes engaged a point just over Shelly’s left shoulder. “You are a bad person,” he said in monotone and without contractions, which meant he was terrified.

  “Okay, I’ll pick for you,” Shelly answered as she flicked her index finger at his nose, then his small chest, then his nose, and back to his chest again, singsonging: “My-mother-punched-your-mother-right-in-the-nose…

  “What-color-was-the-blood?” Shelly continued, nose-chest-nose-chest. It was so weird. What thirteen-year-old plays It? All the other kids watched. Except for the mean Markle, their faces registered discomfort.

  “R-E-D spells red and you are it!” Shelly finished, pointing at Larry’s nose. Then she smiled. “Face! I’ll break your nose.”

  Rocking, Larry reached into his pants and yanked his willie. Which meant he was about a breath away from a full-on meltdown—the kind that lasted for hours, and ruined all the weeks of progress and energy Julia had put into him, trying to get him normal.

  Shelly grinned, teeth bright and fancy black hair shining.

  Stuff went out of focus for Julia. She stopped hearing the morning heat-song of the cicadas, and the soft, uncomfortable shuffles of the rest of the Rat Pack. She bent low and rammed, headfirst, into Shelly’s skinny belly.

  “Uumph!” both girls cried.

  Julia’s neck made a crack! It hurt so much it felt like it was broken, and when she stood right again, her throat swelled.

  Shelly staggered. Tears of pain welled in her giant blue eyes. “You slut! You don’t hit me! Nobody ever hits me!”

  “You don’t touch other people’s brothers,” Julia rasped through her hurt throat. “Every dumb fuck with a brain cell knows that in East New York. He’s mine to beat up, not yours.”

  By now the rest of the Rat Pack had surrounded them.

  “Girl fight! Girl fight!” the Markles chanted.

  Charlie Walsh, Sam Singh, and Dave Harrison were watching, too. Larry stayed where he’d been, rocking and afraid. But at least he’d taken his hand out of his pants.

  “Stop,” Julia panted. But Shelly didn’t stop. She came at Julia, grabbing her shoulders in front, shoving a foot behind, and trip-pushing her down. Then she straddled her. Julia wriggled but couldn’t get out from under. Shelly’s fist slammed down, smashing Julia’s cheekbone so hard she saw white sparks.

  “You do it with your daddy. You’re his ghetto girlfriend!” Shelly screamed.

  Another meaty punch! Julia jolted to swelling, impossible pain. “Help!” she begged.

  At last, Dave Harrison broke away from the group. He wrapped his arms around Shelly’s waist. Chubby Charlie got her by the arms. They held her while Julia scrambled out from underneath.

  Stronger than both boys put together, Shelly broke away. She was crying and screaming, and even laughing. “He looks at me!” she shouted, the red plainly visible now. It etched a fibrous, marker-like caterpillar along the loose linen seam of her crotch. “I know because at sleepovers, he was always looking at me!”

  “Time-out,” Julia rasped, staggering. “You’re lying. It’s too far.”

  Shelly charged.

  Julia only had a second, and for true, she was scared another blow from Shelly would break her neck. “Perfect hair. Perfect Free People. But you’re all messed up inside. Your period’s bleeding through,” she croaked in a whisper you had to listen for to hear.

  The words sank in. Shelly’s fists unclenched. Julia kept going, saying all the bad thoughts she’d never voiced. All the things you think when you’re alone and you’re mad, and you fantasize about telling somebody off. The things you’ll never really say, because they’re way too mean.

  “My dad doesn’t look at anybody but my mom. You’re just jealous because I have a dad. Yours is just some ghost who sleeps in your house. Your mom treats you like you’re crippled. She doesn’t hear and she doesn’t see. You’re not a person to her. Just a doll she dresses up and shows off.
You could be made of maggots on the inside and she wouldn’t care so long as your hair’s brushed.”

  Shelly paled. Her under-eyes, by contrast, got more purple.

  “Shelly, what is that? Are you hurt again?” Ella asked, pointing at Shelly’s low-slung linen jumpsuit. The stain. Now that Julia had named it, everyone could see it for what it was.

  “It’s her crimson tide,” a Markle answered.

  Shelly’s mouth wrenched open as if to gag, but no sound came out. It was a grisly thing to see, like invisible fingers were strangling her. Then, croaking words, soft and hideous: “It’s not a period. Your daddy did me.”

  “Liar,” Julia answered, mad and shaking and sick to her stomach, because she’d never been in a fight so mean. So low.

  To hide the red, Shelly fanned her hands in front of her, and then behind. And then one hand in front and the other behind. But her jumpsuit hung too loose. You could still see.

  Someone laughed. And then somebody else. And then even Shelly’s own sister Ella was laughing. The laughter got louder. It wasn’t fun-laughing. It was scared, pressure-release-laughing, like the soulless sound a filled balloon makes when you let it go and it zings across a room. The whole Rat Pack, in hysterics. Everybody but the Wilde kids, who were horrified.

  From Interviews from the Edge: A Maple Street Story, by Maggie Fitzsimmons,

  Soma Institute Press, © 2036

  “It started long before that child fell down the sinkhole… The Wildes were strange. I never liked them. No one did, except for Rhea. Which is ironic.” —Jill Ponti, Sterling Park