Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,55

flutter across the table. She stands and marches into the kitchen. She pulls two beers out of the fridge, cracks them open easily, and comes back to the table. She hands me one, clinks bottles quickly, and sits back down, slumping in her chair. I have no idea what’s going on and every minute she holds back, I get more and more worried. I cut in as she situates her legs under her in the dining room chair. “Where’s Cal? Is everything . . . is he . . .”

“Cal’s fine. He’s out with West and some other boys from the team,” Merry Carole says, offhandedly.

“You mean he’s out with his brother,” I say.

“Queenie, please.”

“You mean, he’s out with that unrelated boy who looks exactly like him and whose parents are ninety?”

“Now that’s just mean,” Merry Carole says, unable to stifle her laughter.

“Then what is it?”

“Apparently, I’m a whore again,” Merry Carole says, taking a long pull from her beer.

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh yeah—haven’t you heard? Cal only got QB1 because I’m screwing Coach Blanchard,” Merry Carole says, threading her hands through her long blond hair that’s damp from the shower. No pageant height and nary a product in use. She is (for once) au naturel. And she’s as radiantly beautiful as ever.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“The orientation for new Stallion Batallion parents was today,” Merry Carole says.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Merry Carole takes a long drag on her beer.

“And they were terrible.” It’s not a question.

“Of course.”

“Which shouldn’t be a surprise.”

“But it always is.”

“I know.”

“I’m nice, Queenie.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It should.”

“It never does.”

“The sad thing was, I walked in there thinking this time was going to be different. Why do I keep doing that?”

“I don’t know,” I say, knowing I did the same thing with Everett. Thinking this time was going to be different. Now that we’re adults, he was going to sweep me up and finally admit to God and everybody that we’re in love. But no. It was the same. It’s always the same.

“I mean, let’s not get crazy here. I got a whiff that it was happening within seconds and smacked that glazed smile on my face as quickly as I could, taking my place along the wall,” Merry Carole says, her hand pointing to her plastered-on pageant smile as a game-show presenter would. She stands and reenacts the entire thing. Perfect. Breezy. Unaffected. We laugh. Her laugh crackles and breaks as it spirals down into the vast pain that is at the very foundation of us both. She sits back down and takes another swig of her beer.

“So what happened?”

“I’m in line at the stupid potluck just before we start planning the team barbecue, which you’re coming to, by the way,” Merry Carole says, her eyes laser focused.

“You’re in a fragile state, so I’ll agree to this. Now continue,” I say, already trying to figure a way to get out of the team barbecue, a fund-raising event thrown by the Stallion Batallion. It’s not if Merry Carole and I will be completely ostracized, it’s whether or not we’ll be able to have some barbecue before it happens.

“So I was ladling out some tacky punch and I hear these two women talking about Coach Blanchard. I give them the Smile. They, of course, don’t smile back.” I nod in agreement. Of course. Merry Carole continues, “And I hear one of them say, ‘Her? He can do way better than that! Just like her momma, that one.’ ” Merry Carole’s smile fades quickly. The story has stopped being funny.

“What a bunch of bitches,” I say.

“I’m . . . I wasn’t even wearing something . . . I mean, this is my body. I’m not going to hide it because . . . I shouldn’t have to apologize for looking the way I do.” Merry Carole can’t finish a thought or a sentence.

“Trying to understand rationally what those women were talking about is useless. They’re catty bitches and the only way to put you back in your place is to make sure you feel as terrible about yourself as possible,” I say.

“Mission accomplished,” Merry Carole says, raising her bottle of beer.

“So it’s the same old shit, then?” I ask, knowing this chatter well.

“Yeah, but I just hate to see Cal brought into it, you know?” Merry Carole’s voice sputters and chokes.

“I know,” I say, leaning across the table, through receipts and binders, to give her hand a squeeze.

“It’s fine. Really. It just . . . it just caught me by surprise,” Merry