anyone in the world, just the same as I know him,” she stated. Her tone was a private, moist thing. “It’s true, Cat. We’re soul mates.”
Maybe I pressed my lips together. Maybe I pulled away from her, just slightly. Whatever I did, it made her features harden up like that special chocolate sauce you pour on ice cream, where it comes out of the squeeze-bottle velvety smooth and then straight away solidifies into a shell.
She released my hand. “You can’t steal him away from me, neither.”
“Huh?”
“He’s not yours anymore, so you don’t get no say over it.”
“He never was mine,” I said, thinking the exact opposite. He
had
been mine once. I cut that tie, so Gwennie was right that I had no say over him anymore. But there was no way that Gwennie, of all people, could have found the loose thread and latched it to herself.
“You don’t believe me,” she accused.
I didn’t contradict her, and her eyes turned mean.
“You ain’t better than me, Cat,” she said, spitting the words. “You think you are, but you ain’t.”
I rubbed the headache spot on my forehead.
She saw that I was weary of her, and she jutted out her chin. “Remember when Patrick came to school wearing those pants?” she said.
Those pants
. It was a low blow—and not only that, but Gwennie hadn’t even been there. She’d been in middle school still, so anything she knew about
those pants
came to her secondhand.
“You helped him pick them out, didn’t you?” she accused. “Y’all went to the Sharing House together and went shopping, just the two of you.”
Her tone was poison. Was she mad we hadn’t invited her? All these years later, was she jealous of the connection Patrick and I once had?
“I’d hardly call it shopping,” I muttered.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.” Just, you couldn’t call it shopping when it was a charity warehouse where every item was free and came from some rich person’s throwaway bag.
“Well,
I
wouldn’t have let him get those faggy pants,” she declared. “I wouldn’t have let him, but you did. I bet you said, ‘Oh, Patrick, those pants are hilarious. You
have
to.’”
The voice she used for me was awful: husky and flirtatious. And the word
faggy
? It was so wrong.
“You shouldn’t say that,” I said.
“Why not? It’s true.”
“No, I meant . . .” My words dribbled off. I stared at the table for a long time.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m not better than you.”
She launched right in. “Dang straight. If
I’d
been with him, I’d have helped him pick something handsome. You think your poo don’t stink, Cat Robinson, but let me tell
you
—“
She broke off as she replayed my confession. If we were in a cartoon, a fluffy question mark would pop up over her head. She squinted at me. “I’m sorry,
what
?”
“You
are
a good person, Gwennie. Patrick, too. He’s lucky to have you for a friend.”
“O-oh,” she stammered.
I rose from the table. “I should get going. Can I use your bathroom first?”
She nodded, a bobble-head Gwennie doll. “Yeah, sure.Anything you need.” Color crept from her neck to her face, a darker red than her giddy crush-blush. “And, um, I’m sorry for being nasty.”
“You weren’t. It’s fine.”
“I’m just super stressed,” she said. “The diet . . . and Patrick . . .”
“It’s fine. Back in a sec, ‘kay?”
In the bathroom, which needed cleaning, I peed and washed my hands. Then, leaving the water on, I crouched and opened the cabinet under the sink. I felt around until I found what I was looking for: a box of Tampax Pearl Ultras.
Gwennie got her period when she was eleven, and she made me go with her to buy supplies. If she had something private she wanted to keep safe, like a perfume sample or a pretty stone, she’d hide it among her tampons, knowing Beef and Roy would never find it.
I lifted the cardboard flap of the box. Tampons, tampons, tampons. Rows of little white soldiers.
Maybe I pressed my lips together. Maybe I pulled away from her, just slightly. Whatever I did, it made her features harden up like that special chocolate sauce you pour on ice cream, where it comes out of the squeeze-bottle velvety smooth and then straight away solidifies into a shell.
She released my hand. “You can’t steal him away from me, neither.”
“Huh?”
“He’s not yours anymore, so you don’t get no say over it.”
“He never was mine,” I said, thinking the exact opposite. He
had
been mine once. I cut that tie, so Gwennie was right that I had no say over him anymore. But there was no way that Gwennie, of all people, could have found the loose thread and latched it to herself.
“You don’t believe me,” she accused.
I didn’t contradict her, and her eyes turned mean.
“You ain’t better than me, Cat,” she said, spitting the words. “You think you are, but you ain’t.”
I rubbed the headache spot on my forehead.
She saw that I was weary of her, and she jutted out her chin. “Remember when Patrick came to school wearing those pants?” she said.
Those pants
. It was a low blow—and not only that, but Gwennie hadn’t even been there. She’d been in middle school still, so anything she knew about
those pants
came to her secondhand.
“You helped him pick them out, didn’t you?” she accused. “Y’all went to the Sharing House together and went shopping, just the two of you.”
Her tone was poison. Was she mad we hadn’t invited her? All these years later, was she jealous of the connection Patrick and I once had?
“I’d hardly call it shopping,” I muttered.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.” Just, you couldn’t call it shopping when it was a charity warehouse where every item was free and came from some rich person’s throwaway bag.
“Well,
I
wouldn’t have let him get those faggy pants,” she declared. “I wouldn’t have let him, but you did. I bet you said, ‘Oh, Patrick, those pants are hilarious. You
have
to.’”
The voice she used for me was awful: husky and flirtatious. And the word
faggy
? It was so wrong.
“You shouldn’t say that,” I said.
“Why not? It’s true.”
“No, I meant . . .” My words dribbled off. I stared at the table for a long time.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m not better than you.”
She launched right in. “Dang straight. If
I’d
been with him, I’d have helped him pick something handsome. You think your poo don’t stink, Cat Robinson, but let me tell
you
—“
She broke off as she replayed my confession. If we were in a cartoon, a fluffy question mark would pop up over her head. She squinted at me. “I’m sorry,
what
?”
“You
are
a good person, Gwennie. Patrick, too. He’s lucky to have you for a friend.”
“O-oh,” she stammered.
I rose from the table. “I should get going. Can I use your bathroom first?”
She nodded, a bobble-head Gwennie doll. “Yeah, sure.Anything you need.” Color crept from her neck to her face, a darker red than her giddy crush-blush. “And, um, I’m sorry for being nasty.”
“You weren’t. It’s fine.”
“I’m just super stressed,” she said. “The diet . . . and Patrick . . .”
“It’s fine. Back in a sec, ‘kay?”
In the bathroom, which needed cleaning, I peed and washed my hands. Then, leaving the water on, I crouched and opened the cabinet under the sink. I felt around until I found what I was looking for: a box of Tampax Pearl Ultras.
Gwennie got her period when she was eleven, and she made me go with her to buy supplies. If she had something private she wanted to keep safe, like a perfume sample or a pretty stone, she’d hide it among her tampons, knowing Beef and Roy would never find it.
I lifted the cardboard flap of the box. Tampons, tampons, tampons. Rows of little white soldiers.
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