The Initial Insult - Mindy McGinnis Page 0,79
lipstick smearing on the glass.
“Why are you driving my car?” I ask David.
“Because you probably shouldn’t be, babe,” he says, his hand wandering over to my knee. I look at it for a second, study the long fingers and the knuckles. I brush it away. I don’t like him. His hand isn’t Hugh’s hand.
“No, I mean, like, why are you driving my car?” I repeat, because he didn’t understand that I’m not asking which of us is more fit right now. I’m asking why he can’t just let me drive my own goddamn car, like Hugh does, putting the passenger seat far back enough to accommodate his bulk.
I had to adjust it when I got in, pulling it forward and smiling, thinking about the next time Hugh gets in and his knees will be up in the vents, his chin resting on them, and we’ll laugh about it, and why isn’t he here right now? And where are we going, anyway?
“Where are we going, anyway?” The last thought escapes my mind, leaks out through my mouth. This happens with the Oxy, sometimes. I should be more careful. Who knows what I could say, what might come out of me. Hugh is usually with me and he takes care of me when I’m this bad off, and why isn’t he here right now?
“White Trash Zoo,” David says in answer to my question, the one I spoke aloud.
“Fucking A,” Gretchen says from the back seat, her words sloppy and slurred against the window. “Tressy Trash Montor.” She tries again, lifting her head this time. “Trashy Tress Montor.”
Shit. That’s right. Hugh didn’t want to come. Didn’t want to do . . . whatever we’re doing. We’re going to do something to Tress. They are. Or I am. I don’t know.
David cuts the lights, and the moon takes us the rest of the way, past the Usher house, like a huge tombstone in the night, the pond in front reflecting the glare of the moon. It’s so bright, too bright, showing us everything, making me see. I don’t know how we got out here. I don’t want to be here, but I am here, and Gretchen has gained a second wind and is almost perky as she hands me something when we get out of the car.
A sack. A grocery sack. A dollar-store sack. The dollar store—the only place Tress can shop now—and why did we go there? Why would Felicity Turnado be in a dollar store?
“‘Thank you,’” I say, reading the sack aloud, but Gretchen thinks I’m talking to her, and she laughs and reaches into the bag and pulls out a can of spray paint and it’s red and she’s shaking it and it makes a click click click because there’s a little ball inside mixing the paint, like there’s one inside my head right now mixing my thoughts and my words are going to come out like the paint, spraying out of my mouth, and I don’t want these people to hear me because I don’t know what I might say.
I don’t know what will come out of me because I don’t know what’s inside me.
There’s a smell, thick and heavy, with a sound, a hiss, and they are doing it, they are doing something bad. Something that will hurt Tress. Tress who was my friend, and these people are not my friends, and I know that but I am here with them now, anyway. And I feel something cold in my hand, and I look down and there is someone I know, an actual friend, looking back at me with a question.
“Goldie-Dog,” I say, dropping to my knees. I wrap my arms around her neck, and she leans into me, and she smells like shit and animals and a dog, but it’s not chemicals and it’s not paint and it’s not bad words. It’s not a bad smell, just a smell, and I want to tell her that but I don’t know how, so I just keep my arms around her and look deep into her eyes and hope she knows, hope she feels that I love her, right now. I loved her then and I love her now, and there’s a flash and someone tells me to look somewhere and I do because I am a follower, and Goldie looks too and there’s another flash.
Gretchen is laughing and she falls into David and her lips are red and the sign is red and now his lips will be red,