Page 43 of The Initial Insult

“Oh,” Mom says. “That’s too bad.” But she’s not really listening. She’s squinting at something in the distance, a shape on the side of the road. “Is that someone walking?”

We get closer, the wipers clearing the windshield for a single moment when Tress looks up and makes eye contact with me.

“Holy shit!” I say, and Mom gasps.

“Felicity Turnado! Language!”

“That was Tress, Mom! We’ve got to turn around and pick her up, give her a ride.”

Mom doesn’t stop. She doesn’t even slow down.

“Mom?”

She glances over at me, her mouth a thin line. “You say Dr. Gabriella is helping you; I believe it. And I’m not undoing any of that by picking up Tress Montor.”

“But . . .” I spin in my seat, watching Tress disappear into the storm. “It’s raining.”

“Yes,” Mom says, speeding the wipers up a notch. “It is.”

Chapter 34

Tress

Seventh Grade

It’s Lenore Usher who finally picks me up.

“Tress?” My aunt calls, rolling down the passenger-side window.

I climb in, dripping all over. “Sorry,” I say, pulling my wet clothes away from my skin.

“Sorry,” I say again when I notice a huge clod of mud I dragged into the car. Lenore has that effect on people; you just start apologizing to her, even if you don’t know what you did wrong. Because she makes you feel like you definitely did something.

I glance at her, but she’s not looking at me, or the mess I’m making in her car. She’s focused on the road, staring over the wheel as we climb into the hills.

“I missed the bus,” I say, even though she didn’t ask.

“Cecil didn’t notice?”

I shake my head. She doesn’t call him Dad or your grandpa. He’s just Cecil. Feels about right. “No, ma’am, Cecil didn’t notice.”

I don’t call anybody ma’am. Not Mrs. Anho, not my science teacher, not Cindy the pity librarian. But it pops out around Lenore Usher, probably because that’s what Ribbit calls her. Not Mom. Which, if I really think about it, kind of makes sense. He’s been following her around since he could walk, going to council meetings and committee gatherings, where everybody else made damn sure to call her ma’am.

It was probably Ribbit’s first word.

Mine was mama. I know that. It’s written in my baby book, the one I hide under my mattress because I don’t want Cecil to know that I kept it. He calls sentimental things senti-shit-all.

We drive past the Usher house, looming out of the storm, a fresh wound in the side where a rock fell away. Lenore pulls into our driveway, some gravel spinning out from under her tires. She puts the car in park, lets the engine idle. Zee brays his welcome, his upper half sticking out from his barn door. Goldie-Dog runs up to the car, despite the rain, jumping onto the passenger side and leaving a muddy paw smear across the window when she slides off.

“Sorry,” I say to Lenore, but she only nods, and suddenly I’m tired of apologizing to her. I’m tired of pity smiles and being told to try harder. I’m tired of not knowing what the hell happened.

“What happened to my parents?” I ask Lenore.

Goldie jumps again, not understanding why I haven’t gotten out yet, leaving a second smear. I don’t apologize for that one. I sit in my aunt’s car, rain streaming off me.

“What happened to them?” I ask again.

She flexes her jaw, small muscles jumping as she turns to me. Her eyes are bright, little pinpricks of light dancing off the tears that rest there, refusing to fall.