She looks at her plate of uneaten pizza. Shakes her head. “Nobody. Not even her.”
“You haven’t been to a doctor about it or anything?”
“No. Not really. Not for help.”
He throws his hands in the air. “Why?” His voice is incredulous. And then, suddenly, he knows why.
“Sorry,” he says.
She doesn’t answer. She’s thinking. Thinking hard.
“You know, nobody’s ever gone there with me, like you did.” Her voice is soft, musing. She gives him a sidelong glance. “I don’t understand that part. How did you get there too?”
“I don’t know. All of a sudden it was like I had two different angles to watch from: one of them as an observer, the other as a participant. Like virtual reality picture-in-picture or something.”
“And don’t even tell me you’d believe a word of this if you hadn’t come through it with me.”
He nods soberly. “You’re right, Hannagan.”
It’s 10:21 p.m. when Cabel says good night at the door. He leans against the frame, and Janie kisses him lightly on the lips.
He hops off the step and starts walking home, but turns back in the driveway. “Hey, can I see you tomorrow night? Sometime around nine or ten?”
She nods, smiling. “I’ll be here. Just let yourself in—Carrie always does too. It’s cool.”
TRUTH OR DARE
October 16, 2005, 9:30 p.m.
It’s Sunday. The house is clean. Janie had the day off. She ran out for groceries in the morning, vacuumed, dusted, washed, polished, shined, and steam-cleaned. Now, Janie is asleep on the couch.
Cabel doesn’t come.
Or call.
11:47 p.m.
She sighs, clicks off the lamp, and goes to bed, miserable. October 17, 2005 7:35 a.m.
Janie grabs her backpack and heads out the door. She’s pissed. And hurt. She thinks she knows why he didn’t show up.
On Ethel’s windshield is a note, under the wiper. It’s wet with dew. I’m sorry,
it says.
Cabe.
Yeah, well. Not as sorry as I am, she thinks.
She passes him on the way to school.
He looks up.
And eats her dust.
He’s late for school.
She doesn’t speak to him.
11:19 p.m.
He’s sitting on her front step.
She’s pulling up to the house after work.
She gets out of the car, crunches over the gravel, and stands in front of him.
“Yes?” she says.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
She stands there, tapping her foot. Searching for words. She blurts them out as they come to her. “So, you got freaked out. I’m a lunatic. An X File. I figured it would happen.”
“No—” he stands up.
“It’s cool. No, really.” She runs up the steps, past him, and fiddles for her key in the dark. “Now you
know why I didn’t want to tell anybody.” The keys rattle in her fingers, and she cusses under her breath.
“Least of all, you.”
She drops the keys. “Goddamnit,” she sniffs, picks them up again, and finds the right one.
“And if you tell anybody,” her voice pitches higher as she gets the door open, “you’ll learn a new definition of flagrant foul! You big…fucking…jerk!”
She slams the door.
11:22 p.m.
The phone rings.
“Asshole,” she mutters. She picks it up.
“Will you let me explain?”
“No.” She hangs up.
Waits.
Pours a glass of milk.
Drinks it.
Cusses.
Turns out the kitchen light, and goes to bed.
She is cursed for life. She will never have a boyfriend. Much less get married. Hell, she’ll never be able to sleep with anybody.
She’s a freak.
It’s not fair.
Sobs shake the bed.
October 18, 2005, 7:39 a.m.
Janie calls the school, pretending to be her mother. “She won’t be at school today. She has the flu.”
She calls the nursing home. “I’m sick,” she sniffles. “I can’t come in tonight.”
Everyone is sorry. The secretary. The nursing home director. “Feel better soon, sweetie,” the director says.
But Janie knows there is no “better.” This is it. This is her life. She falls back in bed.
12:10 p.m.
Janie drags her ass out of bed and, sitting on her bedroom floor, does the homework she didn’t do the previous night.
She can’t stand getting behind in school.
She works ahead, even.
Her mother shuffles around the house, oblivious to Janie’s presence. The sleaze-bitch. It’s her fault for giving birth to me, she thinks. She’d blame her father, too, if she knew who he was. Briefly, she thinks of her mother’s kaleidoscope dream. Wonders if the hippie Jesus is her father. Wonders what happened that made her mother give up on absolutely everything. She’ll probably never know. Maybe it’s better this way.
2:55 p.m.
The phone rings. Janie’s mother answers it.
“She’s at school,” she slurs.
Janie didn’t know her mother ever answered the phone.
4:10 p.m.
Janie sits wrapped in a blanket on the couch, a roll of toilet paper next to her, watching The Price Is Right. Carrie lets herself in.
“Hey, bitch,” she says cheerfully. “You missed a good one today. You sick?”