Keeping the Moon (17 page)

"And you're such a bitch," I said back. And I laughed, surprised at how my voice sounded, strong and steady. "I feel sorry for you, Caroline."

"I hate you," she snapped.

"You should get over that," I told her. And I imagined Isabel, eyes closed, saying these same words. "It's unhealthy. Just let it go"

Her mouth fell open.

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I felt someone beside me. "Come on," Isabel said, closing her fingers over mine. "We're going." Caroline looked at her, the way pretty girls do at girls who are much prettier.

"Okay," I said, and I smiled at her. We started to walk off but Josh ran after us.

"Colie," he said, and beyond him I could see Caroline still watching, her friends all around her. She was talking angrily, the words spewing out. I didn't have to wonder what she was saying about me. I'd heard it all before.

"Yeah?"

"I, um, I'm sorry about my cousin," he said. "We're leaving tomorrow night, but maybe I can call you or something?"

Beside me, Isabel shuffled her feet in the sand. I could see Morgan crossing the dunes, the blanket folded neatly in her arms.

"I work at the Last Chance," I told him, as Isabel tugged me away. "You can find me there."

"I," Morgan said as we bumped down the dirt road toward home, "have no idea what happened tonight."

"I'll tell you everything later," Isabel said to her, patting her knee. "But it was very, very cool."

When we pulled into the driveway, the headlights lit up the front porch, where a man was sitting on the steps. He stood up and squinted at us.

"Oh," Morgan said, one hand flying up to her mouth.

"Oh," Isabel groaned. "Great."

"Mark!" Morgan shrieked, hardly even pausing to stop the car before she got out and ran across the grass, up the steps and

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into his arms. We were rolling toward the beach until Isabel reached down and yanked up the e-brake. "I thought you were back in Durham tonight."

"Plans changed," he said. "I wanted to surprise you."

We watched from the car as they kissed, a movie-style kiss that lasted for a long time.

"Great," Isabel grumbled.
"Now
where am I supposed to go?"

"Come over to Mira's."

"Nah. I think I'll just take Frank up on that clambake on the sound side. I can walk from here." She got out of the car and held the seat for me, then reached down and salvaged the last of her beers, tucking one in each pocket of her shorts.

"Hey, Isabel," Mark called to her through the dark.

"What's up, Mark," she replied tonelessly.

"I want you to meet Colie," Morgan said, taking him by the hand, leading him down the steps and over to me. As he got closer, I saw he looked just like his picture. Not everyone does. He was tall and tan, very athletic, with short black hair and white teeth that seemed to glow in the dark. "Colie, this is Mark. Mark, this is Colie."

"Hi," he said. "Morgan's told me a lot about you."

"I'm going," Isabel announced. She was already halfway down the driveway.

"Where?" Morgan called after her, but Isabel didn't answer.

"Some clambake," I explained. "With that guy she met at the fireworks."

"So that's where you were," Mark said, slipping his arm around Morgan's waist. She had the goofiest smile on her face. "I missed everything."

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"No you didn't," she said suddenly. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a box, then opened it and shook something out into her hand. "Got a match?"

Mark handed her a lighter and she flicked it, then held the long object toward the flame, stepping back as it erupted into a shower of sparks between us.

"The sparklers," I said. I'd forgotten all about them.

"Happy Fourth of July," she said to Mark, and he kissed her.

I started toward Mira's, wanting some time alone to savor everything that had happened, from the Chick Night to my triumph over Caroline Dawes.

"Colie, stay and light these with us," Morgan called after me.

"I should go," I said.

"Okay. But here. Catch."

And she threw the sparklers at me, the box turning end over end in the air before I caught it in both hands. "Happy Fourth of July," I said, but they didn't hear me.

I closed the door carefully, then slid my hand into my pocket and retrieved my lip ring, carefully securing it back in its proper place. I took off my shoes and tiptoed down the hallway; I didn't know how late it was, but I didn't want to wake Mira.

I shouldn't have worried. Before I'd taken two steps, I heard her voice.

"Hey there." She was sitting in her chair, a disassembled telephone in her lap. I recognized it: it was the one from the upstairs hallway, which had a very quiet ring. "How were the fireworks?"

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"Good," I said. I walked over and sat down beside her. The entire house was dark, except for the light over her shoulder, illuminating the parts strewn across the table. Behind the house, over the water, someone was continuing their celebration, the snaps and cracks loud in the dark.

"Another project," I said, nodding at the telephone, and she laughed.

"You know," she said, "it's always just one thing that needs to be adjusted." She picked up a bracket and examined it, turning it in the light. "But the hardest part is discovering what that one thing
is."

"I know," I said.

She sighed and looked at me. And then took a closer look, and smiled. "You look wonderful," she said softly. "What's different?"

"Everything," I told her. And it was true. "Everything."

We sat there. Through the living room windows I could hear faint music from next door, soft, drifting love songs. I closed my eyes.

The fireworks kept on across the water, pops followed by laughter and bellowing. "Such a noisy holiday," Mira said. "I hate all the pomp and circumstance, everything blown up into a big deal. I much prefer a nice, quiet celebration."

"We can do that," I said. "Come with me." I got up and found some matches, and she followed me onto the front porch, where we sat on the steps. I shook two sparklers out of the box, handing her one. When it burst into light she smiled, surprised.

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"Oh," she said, waving it back and forth as the sparks showered down. "It's beautiful."

I lit one for myself and we sat there, watching them in the darkness. "To Independence Day," I said.

"To Independence Day." And then she tipped hers forward, touching mine, and kept it there until they both burned out.

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***

chapter twelve

The annual Baptist Church Bazaar was crowded, even at eight A.M. I went with Mira. She pushed her bike over to the church steps, carefully chaining it to the rail while I took a look around.

Most of Colby was there. The church itself was small and white, like something from a picture postcard, and people were milling across its neat green lawn, picking over the displays and tables of junk: mismatched plates, old cash registers, vintage clothing. In the parking lot were the bigger items, like a pop-up camper, an old rowboat with chipped red paint, and the biggest wrought-iron mirror I had ever seen--its glass broken, naturally--which instantly caught Mira's eye. As soon as the bike was secure she headed right for it, leaving me standing in front of a table stacked with old hamster and bird cages.

For the next hour, as I browsed, I was increasingly aware,

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again, of how everyone reacted to Mira. I watched as they eyed her, or smirked once she had passed. A few people--Ron from the Quik Stop, the pastor of the church--waved and greeted her. But most of the town seemed to view her as some kind of alien.

"Oh, goodness, look at that," I heard a voice I recognized. "Mira Sparks is already doing her shopping."

I turned around slowly to see Bea Williamson standing there, the Big-Headed Baby on her hip, shaking her head at Mira, who was crouched down, examining a pair of old roller skates.

Maybe it came from facing down Caroline Dawes. Or it could have been building all summer. But suddenly, I felt a fury rise in me toward Bea Williamson and every nasty thing she'd said about Mira in my earshot. It built like a flush, crawling up my neck to make my scalp tingle, so different from my own shame yet feeling the same. I narrowed my eyes at her; she was wearing a gingham sundress and white sandals, her blond hair bouncing as she bent down to deposit the Big-Headed Baby on the grass. When she looked up, her gaze shifted past. She didn't recognize me.

She's got some kind of issue with Mira,
Morgan had told me all those weeks ago.
I don't know what it is.

But there didn't have to be a reason.

I moved to the other side of the table, watching her, and pretended to check the price on a bent hamster wheel.

"I'm surprised she wasn't the first one here," Bea was saying, as the baby toddled past her legs and started around a table covered with plastic placemats. "I half expected her to camp out last night to get the best bargains."

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"Oh, Bea," said one of the other women--a clone, in blue and white, same hairstyle. "You're terrible."

"It's just awful," Bea said, fluffing her hair. "Whenever I see her, it practically turns my stomach."

I thought of Caroline again, the way her nose wrinkled when she'd seen me at the Last Chance. And I glanced back at Mira, knowing this wasn't my fight, that if she acted like she didn't care, I should too.

But enough was enough.

I found myself walking around that table, right up to Bea Williamson. I stepped between her and the blue clone, and she stepped back, surprised, then remembered who I was: her eyes went right to my lip ring. The flush was still burning my skin, as I stood there ready to do for Mira what she'd never done for herself.

I took a deep breath, not even sure what words I would say, how I would begin. But I didn't even get a chance.

"Colie?"

It was Mira. She was standing right beside me, with her bike; there was a shiny chrome toaster--priced to sell at four dollars-- wedged in the basket. She didn't even seem to notice Bea Williamson and her friend.

"Are you ready to go?" she asked, putting a hand on my arm.

I looked at Bea Williamson, all the words I wanted to say about to spill out. But Mira had already started to push her bike, oblivious, the toaster rattling, and I had to let her lead me away.

We walked together along the road toward the Last Chance, her bike between us. The toaster clanged each time we hit a bump. The rest of her purchases--two old hatboxes, a leaking

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beanbag chair, and a set of socket wrenches--had been left for Norman to pick up later.

The further we walked, the more what had just happened bothered me, until I couldn't take it anymore.

"Mira," I asked her suddenly, as a car blew past, "how do you
stand
it?"

She looked up at me, dodging a pothole. The toaster clanked. "Stand what?"

"Being
here," I said, waving a hand at the Last Chance, the Quik Stop, everything. "How can you stand the way they treat you?"

She turned her head. "How do they treat me?" she asked. I wondered if she was joking.

"You know what I mean, Mira." It wasn't like I wanted to start listing things, adding insult to injury. Still, I had to make my point. "The things they say, about your bike, or your clothes. The way they look at you and laugh. I just--I just don't see how you can
take
it, day after day. It's got to hurt so much."

She stopped walking and leaned against the bike, looking at me with those wide, blue eyes, so much like my mother's. "They don't hurt me, Colie," she said. "They never have."

"Mira, come on," I said. "I've spent this whole summer seeing it. I mean, what about Bea Williamson? You can't tell me--"

"No, no," she said, shaking her head, "It's not about Bea Williamson. It's not about anyone. I'm a lucky person, Colie. I'm an artist, I have my health, and I have friends who fill my life and make me happy. I have no complaints."

"But it
has
to hurt you," I said. "You just hide it so well."

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"No." And then she smiled at me, as if this wasn't as complicated as I was making it. "Look at me, Colie," she said, gesturing down at her big yellow shirt and leggings, her little purple high-tops. "I've always known who I am. I might not work perfectly, or be like them, but that's okay. I know I work in my
own
way."

All this time I'd thought we had everything in common, but I'd been wrong.

I stood there, at the side of the road, and watched as she got on her bike, beginning to pedal slowly downhill toward home. She turned back to wave at me, and then started to coast, the wind picking up behind her. Her hair streamed out and her yellow shirt began to flap wildly, billowing out like crazy wings as, before my eyes, she began to fly.

Around the end of the rush that day, the phone rang and I reached for it, drawing a ticket out of my pocket and my pen from my hair.

"Last Chance," I said. "Can I help you?"

"Is Colie there?"

It was a boy. I glanced back at Norman--the only boy who might logically call me--to see him sitting by the grill reading a book about Salvador Dali and eating french fries.

"This is she," I said. Morgan looked up from her salt shakers.

"Hey," the boy said, relieved. "It's Josh. From last night?"

"Oh, right," I said, leaning back against the coffee machine. "Hi."

"Hi. So, we're getting ready to leave here, but, uh ..." I

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could hear noises in the background, people talking and car doors slamming. "But I wondered if maybe I could call you when you got home. I mean, I live in Charlotte too."

"You do?"

"Yeah."

Isabel came down the hallway, her hair up, ready for work. "Take-out order?" she asked Morgan, nodding at me.

"Nope," Morgan whispered. "Boy."

Isabel raised her eyebrows. "Stand up straight."

"He can't see me," I hissed, covering the mouthpiece.

"So we could get together and see a movie, or something. You know, before school starts," Josh continued.