Page 21 of Miss Behaved
“It’s okay, dear,” Nadine laughs. “We’re a couple of old birds and we know it. It’s a compliment if you’ve been reading our work that long.”
Monica’s face fills with a relieved smile as Agnes hands her a mini bottle of rum. These women are going to empty my mini bar.
“Sit.” Agnes points to my chair, and Monica takes it. “How does a lovely young thing such as yourself know our boy Carson?”
There’s a pause, and I find myself nervous about what Monica might say. To Agnes, it was an innocent enough question, but it was actually a live grenade. Now it’s on the table and threatening to blow us all up.
“We were childhood friends,” Monica says finally. “Lived next door to each other from elementary to high school. Before he moved away.”
Her eyes avoid me even though I wish they wouldn’t.
“That’s a long time,” Agnes says, and I can feel the wheels turning in her head.
“A long time” doesn’t even begin to tap into the depth of it. It’s years of memories, children growing into teenagers and figuring out what that new skin feels like. It’s a boy and a girl on the edge of growing up and not knowing how to navigate it, much less their feelings for each other. It’s the past, carefully tucked away for a decade, slowly making its way back out.
My chest tightens, and I realize all three of them are staring at me.
“I’m going to go get changed,” I tell them, grabbing the shirt Agnes threw on the bed and ducking into the bathroom.
I’m not sure if I decided to actually go to dinner or if they just made it my only option, but right now I’m thankful for the closed-off space that is my bathroom. As I button up my dress shirt, I hear mumbled voices through the door. But I can’t make them out, and maybe that’s for the best.
I splash water on my face and hold on to the sink as the droplets pebble over my skin. Three men in the mirror blur in and out. Separating and coming together.
I’m starting to feel like I’m knee-deep in a zombie novel, one where you start off the book by grieving the dead. Tucking them away, laying them to rest. And just when you think maybe you can move on and leave your pain six feet under, they reach up and knock you off of your feet.
But instead of begging for an escape, I see Monica coming to life again in front of me. And I can’t help but wonder which one of us will pull the other under first.
9
Monica
Twelve Years Earlier
Tap.Tap.Tap.
My eyes flutter open, and it takes me a minute to get my bearings. My room is still dark. It’s the middle of the night. But I’m shaken from my dream with a terrible feeling.
Tap. Tap.
The familiar sound again. I sit up and scan the darkness. Moonlight casts shadows off the trees rustling in the breeze. Branches dance like ghostly limbs on my walls.
Tap.
Something plinks against glass.
Tap.
Again.
I walk over to the window and open it, the cool night reaching out and sending goose bumps along my skin. Looking down, I spot Carson standing a story below in sweats and a T-shirt, hands tucked into his pockets.
At a distance, I hear yelling. It carries along the wind between our yards. Like his parents’ fight followed him over here. Something crashes, and even though it’s dark I spot the downturn of Carson’s lips, so I wave him up.
It’s been a while since he has snuck over here in the middle of the night. What used to be weekly occurrences have dwindled off. I figured his dad sobered up. Either that or I thought he would head to his girlfriend’s house when it happened.
But here he is, climbing the tree outside my window. Knowing exactly which branches to place his weight on and which ones to avoid. Snaking the all-too-familiar pattern up the side of my house.
“Hey, Mon,” he says, climbing in with a forced smile.
