The Flood Girls (42 page)

This was a new year, and a new student council. There were no minutes to read from the previous meeting, as they had disappeared with last year's secretary. Nobody cared about what had been discussed three months ago anyway. The student council president was the type of girl who did every extracurricular activity, in an attempt to make up for her atrocious personality. She began the meeting by introducing herself and her long list of accomplishments, and then introduced the vice president, the secretary, and the treasurer. They also were known for their atrocious personalities. Normally, Jake believed that women should have a more active voice in politics, but not in this case.

There were four representatives from every class, and Shyanne volunteered for the seniors, but the other fifteen representatives were burnouts or total nerds. Shyanne broke it down for him—the freshman class would meet and elect the most awful candidates they could pull together, in an attempt to sabotage the system. The sophomore class would nominate the mentally handicapped and the obstructionists, because they figured out how the game was played. The juniors were always hungover, or high, and they elected their two foreign exchange students and two kids who were devoutly religious. The seniors were a little more unpredictable—some volunteered, like Shyanne, because it looked good on a college transcript. Others volunteered just because they hated the new student council president.

Sarah was imperious. She sat on the stage with the vice president, the treasurer, and the secretary, who had yet to take a note on her yellow legal pad. They did all of the talking, while the representatives took a nap or did homework or threw spitballs at one another. This went on for twenty minutes—the student council president discussed the black bear crisis, the new uniforms for the girls' basketball team, the new faculty members, and the renovations to the chemistry lab.

Finally, it was time to talk about the main event. Homecoming. Sarah discussed the wood gathering for the bonfire, the pep rally, and the fund-raiser, which this year was something called Donkey Basketball. Finally, she began to discuss the dance.

The treasurer raised her hand, and Sarah called on her.

“We have three hundred and ten dollars to spend this year, but we need to keep two hundred dollars in prudent reserve.”

“Okay,” said Sarah. “So we've got a hundred bucks to spend. I was thinking we should make it a Sadie Hawkins theme this year!” Her fake enthusiasm was grating; everybody knew she just wanted an excuse to force boys to slow dance.

“No,” said Shyanne, from her seat in the auditorium.

“You need to be called on,” declared Sarah.

“Shut it, Sarah.” Shyanne stood up, and pointed at Jake. He immediately began to blush.

“Who is that? Is that an elementary school student?” Sarah laughed, and the vice president rolled her eyes and began to apply cuticle cream.

And then Shyanne was dragging him onto the stage, while Sarah looked confused and slightly frightened.

Nobody else paid any attention until Shyanne wheeled the chalkboard out onto the stage, and Jake unrolled his sketches and scotch-taped them in place.

Triumphant, Jake walked home from school, his feet barely touching the ground. His head was filled with shopping lists, with the schematics of decorating a gymnasium, with his ten minutes of glory.

He entered his yard. Thankfully, he looked up from his reverie. A black bear sprawled on his porch, and it gnawed on one of Bert's filthy boots. The bear was bald in patches, his snout disfigured by scratches that had become scar tissue. This bear was a survivor.

Jake raised his hands. The bear raised his head and looked up at him, curiously.

“I AM ERICA KANE! AND YOU ARE A FILTHY BEAST!”

The bear resumed eating Bert's boot, until Jake threw his earth science textbook at it, and then the bear yawned and stretched and lazily walked into the backyard.

R
achel was thankful that Jake hated math, and was terrible at it. He just didn't care about solving for
X
, because he believed there was more important detective work to be done. He came in with his algebra homework for the last hour of Rachel's shift, and they gossiped and speculated about Laverna, who had been spotted with Jim Number Three. There was also the mystery of Red Mabel, and why she had shaved her head. Jake assumed that it was head lice, but Rachel had it on good authority (and the rare sober authority, as it was not bar gossip, but discussed at AA) that the two Mabels had teamed up for some sort of project. Rachel was just grateful for Jake's presence, serving him Shirley Temples until he was vibrating from sugar, and she often called Diane Savage Connor from the bar phone for assistance with the algebra problems that stumped them both. Rachel found herself missing softball, the sunburns, the furrowed scrapes on the knees, waking up in the morning so sore she could barely walk. She missed riding back from games with exhausted women, spent and silent, an easy quiet that could only exist among sisters, or veterans of the same war.

Lately, the distraction of Jake had become the only sane part of her day. The silver mine had closed down for a month, after a section had caved in, and safety inspectors were flown in. They still had not given the all clear, and the lesbian silver miners had become day drinkers. They tipped terribly, and there had been some sort of fissure among them, perhaps a blame game over the cave in, or perhaps a love triangle gone wrong. The miners had divided into two camps. Usually, ten or so would sit in the back by the jukebox, playing the same Anne Murray songs over and over. The other camp was a small one, really just one lesbian who Rachel had always thought was the alpha of the pack, now relegated to sit by herself at the bar, heckled mercilessly, watching in the mirror nervously for the projectiles that were often hurled at the back of her head. The split had been a vicious one. If the outcast tried to use the bathroom, she would be blocked by a flank of surly women. They had matching crew cuts now, to further distinguish their solidarity. The outcast kept her waterfall of crunchy black hair, shaved on the sides, a frizzy tail that fanned out across her shoulders. Rachel stopped herself from forbidding the public urination, and stopped Jake from offering to deep condition her hair. The banishment had caused the outcast to have some sort of breakdown, which was surprising, because every lesbian Rachel had ever known had been a reticent creature. The fistfights were never fair, and always ended up with the outcast on the floor, her former coworkers pouring beer on her. The outcast returned to her barstool, guzzling drinks, only leaving to urinate on the sidewalk.

It was a Friday afternoon, and it had been an odd week. Mrs. Matthis was still drinking, even though lunch had come and gone. She finished two entire crossword puzzles, and the floor beneath her was covered in pencil shavings. In addition to the lesbian psychodrama, Rachel had felt a tangible buzz throughout Quinn, noticed a bloodthirsty look on the faces at the grocery store and at the Sinclair. Tomorrow was the first day of deer-hunting season. Jake was the only normal person in town, and his outfit especially pleased Rachel, even though it was a rare repeat. She adored the smart gray suit, as it hung on him perfectly, and this time he had paired it with a black button-down, the butterfly collar fanning out across his shoulders. She would check his shoes later.

“I'm going hunting tomorrow,” he said, and stabbed at a maraschino cherry with a plastic cocktail sword. For the first time ever, he avoided making eye contact.

“I hope you are talking about the thrift store,” said Rachel. “Please tell me you are stalking the elusive Yves Saint Laurent sweater vest.”

“In this town?” Jake had finally secured the cherry, and popped it in his mouth. He laid the stem delicately across the edge of the napkin. “And that's not very funny. I really want one of those.”

“Sorry.” Rachel was confused, and the outcast had brought taxidermy with her today, adding to the insanity. The outcast had propped up a ­badger on the stool beside her, mounted on a circle cut from the stump of a pine tree. It was a cheap job, the eyes replaced with pure black marbles, much too large, bulging from the sockets. She had staple-gunned plastic Easter basket grass along the edges. The whole thing was unnerving to look at, made worse because something had gnawed off a front paw. Rachel was aghast when the outcast stroked the badger during the lunch rush, but now she almost called her mother, because the alpha had begun to whisper to it.

Jake whispered also. “That is really, really weird.”

Rachel wiped the bottom of the glass before she returned it to the napkin. Jake would say something about a ring of condensation. “I guess you aren't going to clarify,” said Rachel. She slid the math book down the bar, and leaned on her elbows. “Why on earth would you go hunting?”

“Jesus Christ,” said a gravelly voice. “This is America, sweetheart.” Rachel looked up at the miner, waiting at the bar with an empty glass. She was Laverna's favorite, and despite her crew cut, she still resembled young Elvis. “Are you some sort of communist?”

“Vegetarian,” Rachel said, and tilted her pint glass, pulled the tap. While it filled, Elvis extinguished her cigarette on the head of the badger, and the outcast said nothing. Elvis squinted at Jake's drink.

“Is that a fucking Shirley Temple?” Elvis was drunk, and obviously looking for a fight. Unfortunately, she had picked the two most fearful people in Quinn.

“Yes,” said Rachel, reaching for the bar phone.

“They are delightful,” Jake announced, and picked up the plastic cocktail sword, as if he planned on using it as a weapon.

“You should be drinking a Roy Rogers, kid.” The miner snatched the sword out of Jake's hand and flung it at the outcast, and it stuck, trapped in the static of her hair. “Little boys drink Roy Rogers. Little girls drink Shirley Temples.”

“Thanks for the tip,” said Jake. Rachel winced at the defiance in his voice. “I certainly don't think you, of all people, should be giving me advice on gender conformity.”

“Speak English,” said Elvis. “This is America!” Mrs. Matthis tried to ignore Elvis, even though she was uncomfortably close. She valiantly sharpened another pencil, and turned another page.

“You've already said that,” Jake said, and stood up from his stool. Rachel began to dial her mother's number, her other hand scrambling in the soapy water of the bar sink, as she tried to find something more vicious than a teaspoon. Elvis stared down at Jake, two feet shorter.

But all at once, the showdown was over. Mrs. Matthis stabbed her in the hand with a freshly sharpened pencil. Elvis screamed; the pencil had been brought down so hard that it continued to stick in her hand, even though she shook it wildly, in pain.

Mrs. Matthis did not react, picked up another pencil and sharpened it nonchalantly. The bar filled with the sound of crickets, as she continued to twist another pencil back and forth, creating an armory.

Elvis screamed as she was rushed out the door by her brethren, on their way to the hospital in Ellis. There would be no retribution—even the silver miners knew Mrs. Matthis still had friends in the court, even though she was now armed and dangerous.

The outcast was delighted by this turn of events, but did nothing to stop the fire that smoldered in her taxidermy.

“You need to be more careful,” said Rachel. “Those women are lunatics. You can't challenge them to a fight, Jake. Especially not in that suit.”

“Whatever,” said Jake. He faked a yawn. “Overdressed and unimpressed.”

The smell of burning fur had reached Rachel, and she wrinkled her nose. “Let's talk about this hunting thing.”

“Not my idea,” Jake said, and accepted his drink. “Obviously.”

“Are you even old enough to hunt?”

“I don't really know,” he said. “This morning, there was a brand-new camouflage shirt and matching pants on the kitchen table. In my size. And one of those horrendous orange safety vests.”

“How awful,” said Rachel. “Do you even have shoes for that sort of thing?”

“Loafers,” he said. “I'm kind of worried about the traction. I'm pretty sure hunting was my mother's idea. Or maybe Bert's. Whatever. They're trying.”

“Maybe things are better.”

Jake lifted his glass and saluted her, just as Tabby came through the front door. The sudden burst of daylight lit the Shirley Temple, and it glowed as he held it in the air. “I owe that to you.”

He took a drink, as Tabby halted, grimaced at the badger. The drape of smoke made the scene even more surreal.

“The miners,” explained Rachel. “Don't worry. I'll clean it up.”

Tabby said nothing as she walked behind the bar, tied an apron around her waist. This was the Dirty Shame, and Tabby had apparently seen stranger things. She poured a beer for the outcast, and began to busy herself opening the cash register and counting the till. It was the beginning of another shift.