The Bitch Posse (36 page)

May 1988
Holland, Illinois

Just before Rennie heads to his door, she leans into me and presses her forehead against mine for luck. “Guess what popped into my head in the middle of the night?”

“What?”

“A nursery rhyme.” She reaches into the backseat for Amy’s hand, then mine, and we’re in a ring-around-the-rosy circle as she recites:

Who killed Cock Robin?
“I,” said Jenny Wren.
“With my poison pen,
I killed Cock Robin.”

Then she bursts into laughter.

“That’s pretty good,” I say. But that’s not how I remember the
poem. Didn’t Jenny Wren and Cock Robin get married? And there was no poison pen in the rhyme at all. I certainly won’t point it out to her, though. Hell, for all I know, Jenny Wren really did kill Cock Robin, and the whole Sparrow thing was a setup.

Amy giggles too, a little gulp that sounds like half a sob. She
is
scared. Shit. I hope she gets her nerve before it’s time. She will. The Bitch Posse girls don’t take shit from anyone.

Rennie slides out of the front seat and blows us a kiss as she walks to his doorstep. Amy and I wait in silence.

It doesn’t take long.

They walk down the driveway, arm in arm. She’s a study in pale skin and dark hair, black dress clinging to her tiny body, black silk scarf flying out from her neck. A cat, elegant, graceful, perfect.

I slide into the driver’s seat so she and Schafer and Amy can play it out in the back. This is how it’s planned. After Rennie and I hung up from each other, she called him and said she wanted him back, suggested a little fun with all three of us, tonight at the Porter Place. With all those rumors about our being in a lesbian drug cult, he bought it, no problem.

Fuck his credential and all that. The Bitch Posse’s going to kick some ass and draw some blood, and that’s just how it has to be. He brought it on himself. We’re going to fuck up his head, scare him good. And when we’re through with him, he’ll be so fucking humiliated he’ll never touch another girl.

I glance at Amy in the rearview. Her eyes are glass, but I don’t think she’s afraid anymore. I don’t know. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with Amy.

Right now I can’t let myself feel my hate. I can’t let the flash of the day of Rennie’s abortion and all the pain and tears about Rob Schafer pick their way into my head. I can’t let him see that stuff because there are appearances that must be kept up. So I breathe in and out, pushing away thoughts.

He’ll be so sorry he fucked with us. And if things get messed up for some reason, well, let’s just say I have it all planned out.

It’s all scripted. Every. Fucking. Word.

Rennie whispers something in his ear, and he laughs and squeezes her close. She opens the back door. They tumble in, first Schafer, then Rennie, kissing. When I shoulder-check to back out of the driveway, I catch Amy in my gaze and narrow my eyes.
Come on, you know your part.

He’s sliding his fingers up her thigh already anyway, and I have to turn around and drive. Behind me he says, “Rennie filled me in on everything, and I can’t wait. I always knew good things come in threes. . . .”

I glance in the mirror in time to see Amy rest her head on Schafer’s lap, her hands working on his zipper as he starts unbuttoning Rennie’s sweater. “Amy. Amy Linnet. Freshman year, third period, second row from the front. Why’d you ever quit cheerleading? You looked so cute in that little skirt.” He sucks in his breath at whatever she’s doing. “Oh, Amy,” he whispers, “we’ll have to get together more often.” Then Rennie, I guess it’s Rennie because Amy’s otherwise engaged, shuts him up with a kiss. He breaks away for a minute to lean up to me, his breath hot in my ear. “You have a beautiful name, Cherry, want me to break you?” and I fight so hard not to shrink away from him.

As warmly as I can manage I mutter, “That won’t be necessary.”

He lands a kiss on my neck, and Rennie, protective, says, “Let her drive, Rob.” God, I’m glad I don’t have to be there in the back with them. My heart’s breaking for Rennie, how can she do this with how much she hates him? And Amy, I hope she doesn’t end up blowing him before we get there. But this is the only way.

So I pop my new Jesus and Mary Chain tape into the player and turn up “Kill Surf City” really loud so I don’t have to hear the smacks of kisses, the moans. This song is about hate hate hate, and it’s just perfect. I step on the gas and light a cigarette and get us there quick.

A light rain pitters on the roof of Rennie’s car, and I pull in close to the Porter Barn, turn off the engine, and leave the keys in the ignition. All part of my plan, of course.

Schafer doesn’t notice a thing. He’s practically in a drunken swoon, lipstick all over his face and neck, unzipped pants ready to fall down off his ass. Amy and Rennie each take a hand and lead him from the car into the barn, laughing. They’re both doing such a good job.

I rummage through the glove compartment for one last thing. He turns around, tosses words at me. “You coming, Cherry?”

My hand freezes. Does he see?

“Coming?” I say. “You bet I am, more than once I hope.”

He laughs. “I knew you weren’t named Cherry for nothing.”

Oh, he is a sick, sick slob.

“Come on, Rob,” calls Amy, tugging his arm. “I hope I can call you that now.”

“Call me whatever you want, Amy, you gorgeous thing.”

Their voices disappear into the barn.

I get the knife out of the glove compartment and tuck it into my long black coat. The cold rain sprays over me, spitting on my face. I stand there for a minute, alone against the sky. We could go further, if we wanted to. We could jump over the edge and go spinning into the valley below.

It’s more tempting than you’d think. Really, what’s to stop me? What’s to stop
us?
It’s all empty anyway. The sky goes on forever above me. If I closed my eyes I’d be swallowed up in the blackness, be part of it, just be Nothing. I try it for a minute.

My consciousness slips back into me.
Goddamn it, Cherry, stay focused.
I slide my finger along the knife, the little slit of a cut waking me up, making me real.

Tonight the Bitch Posse’s going to mess with his head so much he’ll end up in a fucking mental institution. We’re going to fuck him up so bad even his wife won’t want him.
Guess what, God? I don’t feel one bit sorry about it.

I walk into the barn.

The girls have lit the candles that are scattered around the place, and Amy’s unscrewing the vodka bottle, as planned. I try to send her a psychic message:
Don’t get drunk.
I give her credit; she presses the bottle to her closed lips and passes it to him. He lifts his hand from between her legs and grabs the vodka, takes a hearty swig, and gestures at me with it. “Cherry, join us!”

I pull my coat close, sit cross-legged in the circle, and shake my head when he offers the vodka. “I took three hits of acid an hour ago.” A bald-faced lie. “Booze doesn’t do a thing for me when I’m tripping.”

“Tripping, huh?” His eyes are marbles in the candlelight. “God, that takes me back. I used to be pretty wild, back in the day.”

Back in the day. All that hippie bullshit, peace love and happiness, is a big fat lie. Just what has he become? He leans across the circle and smashes against me in a kiss.

I can’t let him feel the knife that’s pressing into my side, so I pull away.

He locks his fingers in the hair near my ears. “Not as wild as you girls, though.” And he laughs as if he’s said something terrifically funny. His skin is like wax, like something in a museum. Not real.

Not real.

I glance at Rennie. Beads of sweat spring onto her upper lip.

A barn swallow screams past us and swoops to the opposite rafter. He stiffens, checks from left to right. Rennie laughs, a low, husky laugh. “It’s just a bird.”

“So where’s Dawn?” I ask.

He lets go of my hair, swallows more vodka. “She’s working late at
the firm. I left her a note that I decided to take in a movie, alone. I do that sometimes.”

Yeah, I just
bet
you do.

“Come closer, Cherry.” He reaches for Amy’s breasts with one hand and Rennie’s with the other, his mouth hanging open like a dog’s. He’s not a person, not really. He’s a bundle of hormones and impulses, a great big cock on legs. He slides his tongue over his lips as he runs his fingers over my friends’ breasts, and my heart aches for them; I’ve seen about enough. “Come
here,
Cherry,” he says insistently. “I want
all
of you near me.”

I nestle up behind him, lift the wavy hair at the nape of his neck, and slide my tongue along his skin. Moaning, he squeezes my friends, and I give them a Cherry-wink. “Put your hands behind your back.”

“What?”

Amy lands a bite on his earlobe. “If you want to play our games, Rob, you have to follow our rules.”

Smiling, he lets Amy pull his fists together behind him, and Rennie unwinds the rope. “Just a little extra fun,” she says, tightening the knot around his wrists and scooting around to the front to kiss him. She laces her fingers in his hair and tugs him closer, gazing at him extra long before glancing at me. Her brown eyes are open wide as a doe’s, and then slowly, deliberately, she returns my wink.

I slide the knife from my coat, give him a choke hold, and press the blade to his throat.

He stiffens. “Rennie? What’s this about?”

“Yeah, Rennie,” I say, sliding the blade gently along his skin.

Her face is stony.

Love swells in my chest. I will give my friend this gift, her sweet revenge. “Rennie, darling, you explain.” Every word is scripted, every movement choreographed, and my darling Rennie’d better draw up some courage.

“Tonight . . . ” She pauses.

Fuck up his head, get him good.
I close my eyes, sending her my strength, and mouth the words “
Bitch Posse
. . . ”

When I open them, she’s smiling. “Tonight, Cock Robin . . . ”

She knots her fingers in his hair and yanks hard.

“We’re gonna slit your fucking throat.”

May 2003
Summit Hospital
Oakland, California

After Rennie and her nephew leave, Amy watches TV for a while and then drifts off to sleep. She dreams a wobbly dream, with black and white lines going up and down her sight line in lightning jags. She’s walking through a grassy field, all alone. High fog clings to the sky, and a clot—that’s what it looks like, a clot of blood—sinks toward her, picking up momentum. As the clot nears Amy, it separates, grainy, a million red dots. Closer still, she sees the dots are birds, birds? They zoom closer, suffocating her. No, not birds.

Bats.

Red bats fill the sky, every inch of it, as they swarm about five feet above. The Dream-Amy screams and falls to the ground, covering her ears and head with her hands. The bats scream too as they draw nearer. Something or Someone puts a hand under her, turns her over like she’s a baby, holds her eyes open, and makes her look as the red bats dart
and shriek, mice-birds, as red as dried blood. One flies near her face. She tries to scream again and the bat flies into her mouth, and next to her stands a girl, tall, with blond curly hair, holding a baby . . .

She awakens in a cold sweat. The Chinese woman next to her is talking to a visitor. “Yes, yes, but you are lucky her doctor is so smart, you should listen.” She is full of advice, Shu-Qing, always. They’ve chatted a little, and Shu-Qing’s given Amy all sorts of tips, from taking up painting again to letting her parents back into her life. Amy agrees with some of it, not all, never all. She notices Amy awake next to her and says, “You were dreaming, Amy?”

“Yes.”

“I heard you muttering, that’s how I know. You pay attention to your dreams, Amy. Shouldn’t she pay attention to her dreams, Stephen?”

And the tall Chinese man with the long nose, the nut brown eyes, the bow lips, smiles.

“This is my son, Stephen.”

Cherry’s lips were shaped just like his.

Cherry.

She’s what’s missing from this whole equation.
Where are you, Cherry? Come back, come back, oh, please don’t leave me.

“Handsome, yes?”

Heat blooms in Amy’s cheeks.