Betsy Wickwire's Dirty Secret (12 page)

D
olores was still singing when I went downstairs an hour or so later. She was sitting on Murdoch's shoulders, wiping down an old ceiling fixture with a wet cloth. He had his hands clamped over her knees and was doing his best to blow the dust away before it went up his nose or into his eyes.

“Oh, hey. You done?” Dolores said. She spurred Murdoch with her heel. He trotted over to me and I knew I was right to think something was going on between these guys.

“Yeah. I think. Everything except washing the floors. You don't know where the mop is, do you?”

“I thought you had it … Damn. I've been through all the closets. I bet Sarah didn't leave a mop …” She tapped Murdoch on the head. He rolled his eyes as if he knew he shouldn't take that type of abuse but reached up and lifted her down anyway.

World's Biggest Hillbilly meets the Funky Toddler
. Another weird thought.

He saw me looking and yanked his shirt back down where it showed bare skin at the side. He'd evidently forgotten he'd spent the afternoon with us swimming in his underwear. It made me laugh. He looked at me strange.

“What are we going to do?” Dolores said. “I promised her the place would be spotless. My exact word.
Spotless.”
She checked the time on her cell. “The stores are closed.” She pinched her lips shut with two fingers and closed one eye.

“Maybe we could use something else,” I said. “A cloth or something.”

Dolores wagged her head back and forth. “I guess. Though I don't exactly relish cleaning this entire house on my hands and knees.”

“How about this, then?”

Dolores and I both turned and looked at Murdoch. He didn't seem like the type of guy to make suggestions.

“Lie on your stomach,” he said. Dolores looked at him funny but she did it.

He dunked the cloth into a bucket of soapy water, then plopped it on the floor beside her. “Put your hands on top of this … Good … Stretch your arms out in front of you … Yeah. Like that.” He used his foot to nudge the rag out a little farther from her face.

She was laughing by this point. “What are you up to?”

“You'll see …” He grabbed her by the ankles and lifted her legs. “Now hold on,” he said, and started running around the room, pushing Dolores in front of him like a human Swiffer. She screeched with laughter.

I plunked myself down on the stairs and laughed too. They looked so ridiculous together—Murdoch all hunched over like Quasimodo on a cleaning spree, Dolores with her baggy majorette shorts sagging down over her little thighs, her green pigtails flapping, her glasses slipping down the end of her nose. I wished I had someone to tell about it.

Dolores screamed, “Stop! Stop!” then crumpled to the floor. “My back is killing me.” She rolled over and her shoulders bounced off the wood as she laughed. “That was one of the worst ideas anyone ever had. Seriously. Funny—but very, very bad.”

She let out a whistle of air. “Okay. Your turn now, Betsy.”

“My turn?” I could feel my neck sink into my shoulders.

“Yes.”

“No.” I meant it.

“No? What are you talking about? Everyone has to help out. Right, Murdoch?”

He seemed to shrink too. “Ah. Well. I don't know …”

Dolores's eyes bulged. “What do you mean, you don't know?”

He scratched his forehead. “I'm just sort of thinking maybe you were right. Somebody could get hurt.”

“Oh, yeah.
Now
you're worried.” Dolores lifted herself up onto her elbows and stuck out her bottom jaw. “Talk about a bunch of party poopers! You're no fun at all.”

She biffed the cloth at me and flopped back on the floor with a
phht
.

No fun
.

Party pooper
.

In all my life, nobody had ever called me a party pooper.

I used to
be
the party.

I was the one who always called people, got them organized, talked them into going out on Halloween or crashing the Comedy Festival or tobogganing down Gorsebrook Hill on garbage can lids at two in the morning.

That was all stupid stuff. I knew that now. None of it mattered or made a difference or meant you actually had a boyfriend who loved you. But that didn't change this basic fact. I was not a party pooper. Dolores shouldn't have said that.

I got up, grabbed the bucket and hurled the water across the living room floor. Dolores screamed and scrambled out of the way. Murdoch jumped. I dove onto
the floor like it was a giant water slide, the word
FUN
written across my brain in bright yellow letters.

It didn't work as well as I'd hoped and it sort of hurt but I still managed to get a bit of a slide going. I shot across the floor on my belly until I banged into the wall. I was laughing really hard—probably harder than this deserved. It wasn't really that funny. It was just the surprise. I'd surprised myself. I rubbed the sore spot on my head and sat up.

Dolores was looking at me with her mouth wide open and her hands stretched over the sides of her head like that guy in the painting.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” My voice sounded like something I'd heard in a movie. “Come on in. The water's fine!”

I was talking to Dolores but it was Murdoch who answered. He splashed another bucket of water on the floor, then slid in ass-first, like an overturned beetle.

Dolores leaned against the wall and let out a squawk. “Oh my god. I can't believe you guys. It's like I'm trapped in a Dr. Seuss book with Thing One and Thing Two.”

I was already up and filling my bucket again. “Oh, right. Like the Cat in the Hat is all shocked by our bad behaviour.” I hurled more water across the floor. “Now jump in before I throw you in. Seriously.”

M
urdoch and Dolores dropped me off at my house at three in the morning. I was sopping wet. My rib cage was sore, my elbows were bruised and I had a rash on my thighs from the Mop & Glo. It had been a great night.

I stood on the front lawn with my arms dangling and my head back and breathed in the cool clean air. It felt almost liquid against my sticky skin. I was suddenly aware of my face and my eyebrows and the baby-fine hair on my lower arms.

I was suddenly aware, period. It was like I was picking up signals from the outside world again. It felt good.

I looked up at the stars and noticed, with a shock, that my parents' light was on. I was suddenly aware of clocks, curfews, and unbridled parental rage too. I winced: 3:00 a.m. Mom was going to be wild.

I opened the door and tiptoed up the stairs. The third one squeaked like a dog's chew-toy.

“Betsy.”

My eyes slammed shut. Stay calm. I opened my eyes and whispered, “Oh, hi.”

Mom was waiting on the landing with her face stiff and her arms crossed. Her white nightshirt kind of glowed in the moonlight. I really didn't need the eerie special effects right then.

“Sorry, Mom. Sorry. I should have called. We got this last-minute job to clean someone's house and the money was good so we just, like, took it. It had to be done by morning because they got divorced. I mean, they're moving because they got divorced and …” It all sounded so lame. “Sorry. I should have called.”

Mom didn't say anything. A bad sign. It usually meant she didn't believe me, and half the time she'd have been right not to—but this was different.

I looked up and tried to smile in a sincere, apologetic kind of way. Mom lifted one eyebrow. She let me squirm for a few moments, then gave a short speech about consideration and safety and the rules she expects people to follow as long as they're living under her roof.

I'd heard it all before, of course, but there was something different this time. Something in the tone. I got the sense Mom's heart wasn't really in it.

Why wasn't she madder? Where were the blotches on
her throat and the little lines that spread out from her lips? What was going on?

“Understood?” Mom said. She glared at me but there was a jokiness to the look on her face. It was like she was playing Angry Parent in the high school musical.

Yeah, it hit me, I understood. We were both trying not to smile now.

Mom thought I'd been out having fun, maybe even getting in trouble—and that, I realized, made her happy. Her kid was finally back to normal. I could practically hear her “complaining” to her running partners the next morning about how tired she was after staying up half the night, worried sick about that rotten daughter of hers who bounced in at 3:00 a.m., soaking wet, with some flimsy story about—ha, ha, get this—a midnight cleaning job. They'd exchange knowing glances. They'd shake their heads and mutter “Teenagers!” They'd do their stretches.

“Okay, well, fine. As long as we're both on the same page.” Mom flicked her hand at me. “Now go to bed, sweetie. You look exhausted.”

I kissed her good-night. Her cheek smelled reassuringly of Estée Lauder. I put my arms around her and squeezed. She squeezed back and, for the first time in ages, I couldn't detect any desperation in her hug. She didn't even complain about getting wet. I realized this
whole thing must have been torture for her. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry, that I hadn't meant to drag her into this, but we just looked at each other for a couple of seconds without saying anything—that seemed to be enough—then headed off to our rooms.

I was halfway down the hall when the exhaustion hit. My legs felt heavy and not-quite-mine. I staggered to my door and there, at last, was my big bed with its cool sheets and perfect pillows and tranquilizing smell. I swallowed. I could taste sleep.

I plunked myself down on the edge of the mattress and yanked off a sneaker. The flick of my head flashed in the mirror like a loud noise. I looked up.

Sports medals, necklaces and name tags hung off the side of the mirror. I looked across the room and saw my dresser with its half-open drawers spewing clothes. I looked at my desk piled up with unread cards and notes and candy-grams that people I used to know had sent me a long, long time ago. I looked at the closet.

My heart gave three dull thuds.
All the skin cells of all the people I'd ever been close to
. I rubbed my hands over my face a few times. It was going to be hard to sleep here now.

I'd never be able to sleep here now. I got up and tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding that third one from the bottom. I found some garbage bags,
some blue bags and a couple of J Cloths. I went back upstairs.

I started in the closet. I pushed aside my dance stuff and gym gear and found the T-shirt I'd hidden underneath. I held it against my face. I took in one long, last breath of Nick, then threw it in the garbage bag. It didn't hurt. Maybe I was just tired but it wasn't even all that emotional either. It wasn't a whole lot worse than checking to see if one of my own T-shirts needed a wash.

I moved on to the dresser. I swept my arm across the top and knocked everything into the bag. I'd never know what those cards said now. Didn't matter. It would be like reading someone else's mail. I threw out all the nail polish and earrings and key rings and hair stuff too. They didn't seem to belong to me either.

Clothes were next. I pulled out a sweater that had been jammed in the top drawer since school ended. It was one of my favourites. There was something about the dark stripes and where they landed on my body that was flattering. I remembered the day I bought it. I'd been at the Sweet Pea, helping Carly find something to wear to the grad dinner.

I threw it in the garbage bag. I pulled another shirt out of the drawer—one that Nick had said matched my eyes—and trashed that too.

At first, I agonized over every T-shirt, every sweater,
every pair of socks. Some stuff was too big. Some stuff was out of style. Most stuff reminded me of things I'd rather forget. It was as if instead of saying
Juicy
or
Nike
, the labels read
Sucker
or
Naive
or
How could I have been so stupid?

After a while, I just stopped making such a big deal out of it all. I decided to save some underwear, a couple of pairs of shorts, and a few T-shirts. The rest I dumped. I even gave away my prom dress. They were only clothes. They were only memories. I thought about Dolores sitting on Murdoch's shoulders while she cleaned the chandelier and realized I could make more memories. No use getting all sentimental about them.

I only cried once—when I went through the piles of photographs in my desk drawer.

Who was that smiling person holding hands with Nick at the skating rink … posing with Carly on the class trip … crammed into a photo booth with friends from the yearbook … lip-synching in the talent show? It was like I barely recognized myself.

I pulled the drawer all the way out. It squealed like an angry cat. I took a breath, then dumped everything into the garbage bag. Tears ran down my face. I knew I was being ridiculous. They were only pictures and they were digital pictures at that so it's not as if I couldn't print new ones whenever I wanted. That wasn't the point. This was purely symbolic.

That part of my life was through. My relationship with Nick (both real and imaginary) was over. I was moving on.

By the time the sky had turned the colour of moon-mist ice cream, I had six bags for the Salvation Army, three for recycling and one for garbage. I waited until I heard Mom head out for her run before I turned on the vacuum cleaner. Skin cells were next.

H
ank poked his head in the door and woke me up at two the next afternoon. He didn't say anything about the state of my room. He just went, “Excuse the disruption, but there are a couple of mutants waiting downstairs for you.”

I chucked a pillow at him and told him he was an ignorant pig, but I kind of laughed too. Murdoch and Dolores
were
from a different planet than Hank. For this I was truly thankful.

I yelled, “Be right there,” then found a clean pair of shorts and a tank top to put on. It's a lot easier finding something to wear when your drawers are almost empty. Bonus, I thought.

I tried to brush my hair but it was tangled and kinky from the night before. I braided it instead. I leaned in close to the mirror and flicked the sleep out of the corners of my eyes. I put on a pair of silver hoops that I'd kept
even though Carly had given them to me. I stood back, checked myself over, then ran downstairs.

Dolores looked me up and down as if I'd just sashayed out on the catwalk. “What's the occasion? A royal wedding? The Rapture? What?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on. Betsy Wickwire in clean shorts? I barely recognized you.”

“Ha, ha.” I turned to Murdoch. “What's she bullied you into doing today?”

He did that silent laugh of his. “I'm still awaiting instructions.”

Dolores was pasting a spit-curl to her cheek with a wet finger. She addressed my reflection in the hall mirror. “We're on a mission. Murdoch had a fashion emergency this morning.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Yes, you did. You couldn't find a T-shirt I approved of—remember? Why do you think we're going to Value Village?”

“I didn't know we were.”

Dolores hoisted herself up on to the hall table. She didn't seem the least bit concerned that it was an antique. I decided not to worry about it either.

“After that, we'll have a quick nutrition stop at the greasy spoon of my choice, then motor out to Quarry
Lake just in time for a late-afternoon swim and complimentary bullshit session. Wanna come?”

“Yeah. I do. Just let me get my bathing suit.” I ran upstairs, two steps at a time.

The Rebel was hot and reeked of old sneakers, but we turned up the music really loud and nobody cared. Murdoch drove with his elbow out the window because that's the way his grandfather always drove. That got us talking about our grandparents (me and Murdoch anyway) and irritating things people did in cars (Dolores), which then morphed into an argument of sorts about whether sticking your elbow out the window while you drove was irritating and why, if it was, it should be and whether anyone had the right to complain about where someone chose to put their arm as long as their driving was more or less safe. I leaned up into the front seat so I could get my two cents in.

The Value Village parking lot was packed. Dolores groaned. “They're not even shopping. That's what bugs me the most. They're just there for the air conditioning. If you're hot, people, get a fan. Don't be blocking up the aisles when I've got work to do. Seriously.” She put her feet up on the dashboard and tightened her orange hightops. “Well. Let's get this done, then. And remember. Keep your elbows up. These guys can be vicious when they want something.”

The store was huge. Racks and racks of culottes, floral overalls, mauve bridesmaids' dresses. Metal shelves crammed with popcorn makers, Santa candlesticks, bent shoes. Giant blue teddy bears with faces that frankly said psycho to me. I held back and let Murdoch and Dolores go on ahead. I felt weirdly shy.

Other than at Halloween, I'd never shopped at Value Village before. I'd always found second-hand stores kind of intimidating. How do you know what to buy? How do you know what's tacky in a cool way and what's just plain tacky? Shopping seemed so risky here.

I walked down an aisle, running my hand along the hangers as if I was actually looking for something. After a while, I pulled one out at random. I held up a blue plaid skirt.

I liked the colour, at least I thought I did. I turned it over. The pleats looked sort of peculiar to me. Were they supposed to stick out like that? Or had the last person done something to them?

Funny. I realized somebody else used to own this skirt. She'd chosen it, worn it, and then, one day, just decided to throw it out. Why?

The weird pleats?

The zipper?

I thought of that striped sweater of mine. A breakup?

It dawned on me that in a couple of days a thrift shopper somewhere could be pulling my striped sweater off a rack, checking it for stains, wondering if it was worth a buck seventy-nine, taking it home, giving it a new life.

Something about that reminded me of
The Velveteen Rabbit
. And something about
The Velveteen Rabbit
reminded me of Murdoch the Spider.

I looked across the store. Dolores was so short she'd practically disappeared in the racks but I could see Murdoch pushing the shopping cart along behind her.

The Big Nervous Spider Goes Shopping.

I put the skirt back and began to click through the clothes looking for something else.

It's hard for a spider to find something to wear, especially a giant spider. All the other bugs make fun of him because … because …

I was surprised to see another hanger in my hand.

Maybe the dock spider idea is better—without the killer fish, that is.

I could see Dolores forcing an old-fashioned yellow golf cap on to Murdoch. I could tell by the bend of his neck that he didn't like it. He saw me looking and called out, “Help me! Help me!” in a squeaky voice. I laughed.

Murdoch the Spider is big but he has a little voice.

Dolores slapped him on the arm, then held a purple checked shirt up to his chest.

Maybe Murdoch could help with the book. I could write the words. He could do the pictures. It might be fun.

I looked at the piece of clothing in my hand. It was yellow, pink and orange. Sort of a paisley pattern. I wasn't sure what it was. A dress? A tunic? I checked the label.
Mary Quant
. That sounded familiar. I smoothed it down over my body. Something about it appealed to me.

There was only one change room free. I moved fast and got there before a big red-haired lady with white roots and a cart full of sparkly evening jackets could beat me to it.

I peeled off my clothes and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had purple bruises all over my arms. There was still a rash on my thighs. I had a pimple brewing by my nose. I leaned in closer to the mirror and stretched my lips to the side for a better look. It was only a red bump now but it had the potential to get nasty.

“Just try them on, Murdoch. How do you know they won't fit if you haven't even tried them on?”

Poor Murdoch.

I sort of chuckled and my breath steamed up the mirror. My face and the pimple disappeared. That seemed to be a message. Maybe it was time to leave myself alone.

I stepped back and slipped into the dress. It had long bell-sleeves, a deep slit at the neck, and came to about
halfway up my thighs. I'd never worn anything like this before. I'd never even wanted to wear anything like this before. I turned to the side and twisted my foot up on to my toe.
Groovy
was the word that came to mind.

I stepped out of the fitting room. Dolores was slumped in a plastic chair waiting for Murdoch. She saw me and her head started trembling like an old man's.

“Oh my god. That's a Mary Quant!” I should have known Dolores would recognize the name. “That's like totally ‘60s gold! That's like, seriously, what every Value Village aficionado dreams of finding one day … Wait there. Don't. Move. Don't let anyone see what you snagged.” She backed away until she got to the edge of the ladies' wear section, then she turned around and bolted.

I looked in the mirror again. I had a little flash of myself all ready for the prom. I remembered how proud and happy I'd felt then and how ashamed and sad I'd felt later—but I just let that part kind of drift away. This was me now—I turned so I could get a look at the back—and I kind of liked it. I had to laugh.

“Something funny?”

I jumped. Murdoch had come out of another dressing room. He was wearing a suit that was several centimetres too short in the leg and sleeve.

“Uh … Your suit?”

“I'm humouring Dolores,” he said, his eyes all basset-houndy.

“You're a good sport.”

“Yeah, well. It's not like I had much choice.”

We both laughed at that.

“The shirt's kind of nice,” I said.

Murdoch didn't check it out in the mirror. He looked down at the shirt from above. It was such a guy thing to do. Like he was going to know how it looked from that angle? I put my hands on my hips and shook my head. He was pretty cute. That little smile and those big hands. I could totally see why Dolores liked him.

“Nice dress too,” he said, and turned away. His neck went red.

“I got the goods!” Dolores barged through the racks with her arms full of stuff. She stopped, looked at Murdoch, then turned up her nose as if something smelled bad.

“Okay. Suit's a bit on the short side. But you wouldn't have known that until you tried it on …”

Murdoch raised one hand. “I did know it. That's what I said. I …”

Dolores waved at him like
yeah, whatever
, and turned her attention to me. “Put this on. No. Not like that. Like this … You guys! Hopeless … There. Now the shoes … You can so get them on. They're not that small … See? What I tell ya? Good.”

I could see Murdoch taking pictures of us. My scalp prickled. I liked knowing he might be taking me home to draw.

Dolores stepped away and I saw myself in the mirror again. The earrings. The bangles. The clunky sandals. I got up close and examined my reflection like a doctor studying an x-ray. I felt myself fill up with air and blood and pure happiness.

“Wow. This is, like, amazing! You should be a professional stylist.” I reached out and hugged Dolores.

She pushed me away. “Should be? I am. You owe me five hundred bucks for my time and six dollars for the dress. Now go in and change. Both of you. You're way too much work. I'm seriously starving and I haven't even had a chance to buy myself anything.”