didn’t want to have anything to do with them any more. But I knew I wouldn’t. “Coward!” Margaret shouted. “Craven!” Cotton Mather sneered, and they were right. I was a yellow-belly, standing back, doing nothing, and I suddenly realized that it wasn’t Ginger’s forgiveness I wanted—she’d forget all about it in two days—but my own forgiveness, which I would never give to myself. I was horrible and weak,vile, the kind of person who could close her eyes and let a world be destroyed and then when it was over, open them wide in disbelief and say, “How could this have happened? I didn’t see a thing!”
But that was last year and now it was as if nothing had happened. Ginger had long since made it up with Cindy and her gang and at Cindy’s pyjama party it was Karen Harmon who got attacked, with Ginger joining right in, holding down Karen’s arms while the other girls pulled open her pyjama top.
I didn’t understand it, even though it was perfectly clear. Cindy was cruel to Ginger; Ginger attacked Karen and Karen would undoubtedly take out her rage on someone else. Once it was done, once the rage was set free, it was over and everything was supposed to go back to normal. But for me, it never did. I couldn’t forget. I would always see the look of horror on Ginger’s face when Karen was holding her arms and Cindy was coming at her with those snow breasts, and even though what they did wasn’t the worst thing in the world, I didn’t think that mattered. What mattered was the terror Ginger felt when she was being attacked, not knowing what was coming, not knowing what they’d do, and when they just smacked those stupid snowballs on her it must have been a relief and it was easy for her to forgive them because it hadn’t been as bad as it could have been.
I was always secretly grateful that it wasn’t happening to me, but I knew that someday I’d get mine; someday it would be my turn to have them come at me like a bunch of banshees and no one would help because why should they? I’d take it; I’d see that slitty look in their eyes and I’d know it was coming and I’d quickly turn myself off, make myself fly away and then they could do whatever they wanted to my body.
“Let’s get Maggie,” they’d say. That was always how it started, “Let’s get Ginger or Karen or Pauline.” There didn’t need to be a reason; it was usually a whim, and who knew how it started? There was no way to protect yourself from it because it could be anything—I could show up at school in a dress Karen had coveted and she’d run to Cindy and say, “Let’s get Maggie,” and they’d attack me, drag me into the woods and rip holes in the dress and Karen would be happy, free, and the next day she’d invite me over to her house for ice cream. And I would go, because that was the way it worked. I’d go to her house and eat her ice cream and it would be as if nothing had happened. No apologies, no accusations, no discussions, just a bowl of Neapolitan with a glass of milk.
G INGER Moore had been crying.
“What’s the matter?” I asked but she wouldn’t say; she just wiped her nose and got up off her porch step and followed Goober and me into the woods.
Ginger was always crying and that was because her mother was crazy. She’d waltz around the neighborhood in nothing but a mink coat, “visiting” people, sprawling out on the living-room davenports, holding the mink tightly against her chest with one hand while easing the other along the back of the davenport like a furry snake. “Ah’m nekkid,” she’d drawl and Mother would stare at her in dismay while Daddy blushed and I’d shriek with laughter. I always thought it was some kind of joke, that she really did have some thing, her bathing suit perhaps, on underneath.
Mrs. Moore was the whitest woman on earth, whiter than white; if she were any whiter she’d be invisible. She stayed in the house all day, being pale and fragile, and never came down
But that was last year and now it was as if nothing had happened. Ginger had long since made it up with Cindy and her gang and at Cindy’s pyjama party it was Karen Harmon who got attacked, with Ginger joining right in, holding down Karen’s arms while the other girls pulled open her pyjama top.
I didn’t understand it, even though it was perfectly clear. Cindy was cruel to Ginger; Ginger attacked Karen and Karen would undoubtedly take out her rage on someone else. Once it was done, once the rage was set free, it was over and everything was supposed to go back to normal. But for me, it never did. I couldn’t forget. I would always see the look of horror on Ginger’s face when Karen was holding her arms and Cindy was coming at her with those snow breasts, and even though what they did wasn’t the worst thing in the world, I didn’t think that mattered. What mattered was the terror Ginger felt when she was being attacked, not knowing what was coming, not knowing what they’d do, and when they just smacked those stupid snowballs on her it must have been a relief and it was easy for her to forgive them because it hadn’t been as bad as it could have been.
I was always secretly grateful that it wasn’t happening to me, but I knew that someday I’d get mine; someday it would be my turn to have them come at me like a bunch of banshees and no one would help because why should they? I’d take it; I’d see that slitty look in their eyes and I’d know it was coming and I’d quickly turn myself off, make myself fly away and then they could do whatever they wanted to my body.
“Let’s get Maggie,” they’d say. That was always how it started, “Let’s get Ginger or Karen or Pauline.” There didn’t need to be a reason; it was usually a whim, and who knew how it started? There was no way to protect yourself from it because it could be anything—I could show up at school in a dress Karen had coveted and she’d run to Cindy and say, “Let’s get Maggie,” and they’d attack me, drag me into the woods and rip holes in the dress and Karen would be happy, free, and the next day she’d invite me over to her house for ice cream. And I would go, because that was the way it worked. I’d go to her house and eat her ice cream and it would be as if nothing had happened. No apologies, no accusations, no discussions, just a bowl of Neapolitan with a glass of milk.
G INGER Moore had been crying.
“What’s the matter?” I asked but she wouldn’t say; she just wiped her nose and got up off her porch step and followed Goober and me into the woods.
Ginger was always crying and that was because her mother was crazy. She’d waltz around the neighborhood in nothing but a mink coat, “visiting” people, sprawling out on the living-room davenports, holding the mink tightly against her chest with one hand while easing the other along the back of the davenport like a furry snake. “Ah’m nekkid,” she’d drawl and Mother would stare at her in dismay while Daddy blushed and I’d shriek with laughter. I always thought it was some kind of joke, that she really did have some thing, her bathing suit perhaps, on underneath.
Mrs. Moore was the whitest woman on earth, whiter than white; if she were any whiter she’d be invisible. She stayed in the house all day, being pale and fragile, and never came down
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