I Was Here(56)

                          x x x

             One day, on the way home from the library, I see Sue driving out of the parking lot of the fried chicken fast-food restaurant. My impulse is to duck out of the way.

             “Need a ride?” she asks, pulling up alongside me.

             I peer into the car. There’s no Joe, no Scottie, just a big bag, already seeping with grease. Sue moves the chicken to the backseat and opens the door for me.

             “Where you headed?” she asks, as if there are multiple possible destinations.

             “Home,” I say, which is true. “Tricia’s waiting for me,” I add, which is not, but I’m worried she’s going to invite me over and I can’t face that, especially right now, with the folder full of Final Solution printouts in my hand.

             “We haven’t seen much of you,” Sue says. “I’ve left you some messages.”

             “I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”

             “Don’t be sorry,” she says. “We want you to get on with your life.”

             “I am,” I say. The lies slip off my tongue so easily now, they barely register as untrue.

             “Good. Good.” She looks at the folder, and I start to sweat. I think she’s going to ask about it, but she doesn’t. The silence grows and gapes between us, shimmering like the heat on the empty asphalt.

             It’s not a big town, and within five minutes we are home. I’m relieved to find Tricia’s car in the driveway, if only because it backs up my story.

             “Maybe come for dinner one night next week,” Sue says. She glances toward the bag in the backseat; the deep-fried smell has now settled throughout the car. “If you come, I can make the chili you like. I’m starting to cook again.”

             “Chili would be great,” I say, opening the door. As I shut it, I catch a glimpse of Sue’s face in the side mirror, and I understand that we’re both of us liars now.

                          x x x

             The next day, I clean Mrs. Driggs’s house. It’s one of my easiest jobs because it is usually immaculate. I strip her bed, the sheets smelling like old lady, even though Mrs. Driggs can’t be more than ten years older than Tricia. I scrub the bathtub, self-clean the oven, Windex the windows. I save Jeremy’s room for last. It creeps me out a bit, the ghostliness of it, vacuuming the shag carpet, still bearing the treads from last week’s cleaning.

             I push the vacuum into the corner where Hendrix’s cage once sat. Something clatters in the motor. I switch it off, get down on the floor to inspect what’s inside, and find a bobby pin, the kind Mrs. Driggs uses to pull back her bun. So she haunts this empty room, this empty house. She should get a pet or something, maybe some cats. Much better than a snake, although cats would go after mice too. Still, it wouldn’t be such a rigged game as it was when Jeremy fed Hendrix—the victim and the victor predetermined. Poor fucking mouse.

             I’m sitting there with the bobby pin in my hand when it hits me. How to find All_BS. He’s the snake. To get him, I have to be the mouse.





22

             What makes someone appetizing to someone like All_BS? Why did he choose to help Meg and not, say, Sassafrants, or the guy who always asks about rat poison? And how can I get him to think I’m one of those people?

             I go back through his posts, looking for a pattern. He responds more to girls than to guys—particularly to smart girls. He doesn’t ever reply to the illiterates, or the ranters. He also seems to take an interest in people at the beginning of their journey, the ones who are just starting to think about “catching the bus.” And he likes philosophy—his posts are full of quotes—and seems drawn to those whose posts are philosophical too. No wonder he liked Meg.