THIS HOUSE WAS SO DAMN small. Bett was up in her tiny room, but she could hear every word of the conversation between her mother and Aunt Jeanette, who was here for dinner, which was going to happen in a minute, but this was the gossip hour, when her mother and Aunt Jeanette talked about everyone and everything, in the same way with the same gestures, and Bett usually enjoyed it but not today. She held the stone in her hand and wished for quiet.
“I saw the Floozy today,” said Aunt Jeanette. Aunt Jeanette saw her sometimes because she worked near the insurance agency.
Bett’s mother sucked her teeth.
“She looked bloated,” said Aunt Jeanette.
“Cut the shit, Jeanette,” said Bett’s mother. “I don’t care. BETT!” she roared unnecessarily. “COME DOWN AND EAT!”
Eat.
* * *
Bett had come in the house, anxiety and terror sloshing all over her from the running, and started in her first hiding place with the Ho Hos, and then she’d moved to the second hiding place behind the stereo in the living room and eaten the cookies, but even that hadn’t been enough to take away the Pluses and to X out all the hell that was storming in her mind so she’d gone to her third hiding place and eaten the potato chips and then some corn chips from the actual pantry with cheese on them, three rounds done in the microwave, and finally that was enough and now she was in her room, stuffed and lying on her bed, finally thinking of nothing.
But she went down anyway.
“How was your day, kid?” asked Aunt Jeanette. Dinner was lasagna. Bett was repulsed by the smell of melty cheese, but she worked through her square in spite of that.
“It was a day,” she said to Aunt Jeanette. “How was yours?”
“You would not believe,” said Aunt Jeanette, who ran the office of a construction company. “This jagweed came in today and wanted to change an order that was already paid for and out on the truck. I told him are you kidding me? and he said does it look like I am? You people should have told me I was getting the wrong wood, and I was like, yeah, because we’re all psychic here and know what your plans are without you even telling us. And then he was like, I’m gonna call your boss and I said you’re looking at her and he swore and stormed out. Tripped on the doorjamb, too, which I enjoyed.”
“Jagweed down!” said Bett’s mom, and despite her nauseated, too-full stomach, Bett laughed. Aunt Jeanette could tell a story, that was for sure.
“How was cross-country, Bett?” her mother asked.
Bett looked at her plate.
“What?” said her mom, looking at her with concern. “Did something happen after school?”
Bett shook her head. “No,” she answered. “No psycho stuff. Just running.” Then, quickly, to distract her mother before she could start going on about how great it was that Bett had exercised, Bett looked up and blurted: “But what is going on with that dillhole who destroyed all the art, Mom? Do you guys have any, like, leads?”
“You know I can’t talk about an active investigation,” said her mother. “Just know that we’re working on it.”
“It sucks,” said Bett.
“It does,” said Aunt Jeannette.
“It more than sucks,” said her mother.
“Do you have to come talk to people up at school?” said Bett plaintively. “Can’t you interview them at the station?”
“Not without cause,” said Bett’s mother. “What, am I harshing your cool, being up at your school?”
Harshing my cool. Bett couldn’t bear the outdated slang. But outdated or not, it was the truth. Bett’s cool was definitely being harshed. She needed to keep her mouth shut about the psycho devil pictures even though she knew her mom would be investigating that, too, and spending even more time up at Salt River K–12.
“No,” said Bett. “It’s just that I’m sure it’s all nothing. Just someone borderline crazycakes.”
Ranger was catching.
“Borderline?!” Aunt Jeanette sang-screamed, and she and Bett’s mom were off, singing Madonna, while Bett groaned and tipped her head back until her throat poked up into the air in agony. But any amount of Madonna was worth it if her mother was distracted from thoughts of the vandalism case.
“I brought you something, Bett,” said Aunt Jeanette, stopping her terrible singing at last. “It’s a flat iron. My hair’s too curly for it to work, but I thought it would be perfect for yours because you have that soft wave. You could try it on your bangs.”
“No, thanks,” said Bett automatically.
“Well, I’ll just leave it here in case you change your mind,” said Aunt Jeanette. “No point in it going to waste at my house when maybe you can use it.”