Part 19 (2/2)

”What?”

”That's why you didn't bleed.”

Ruby stands up and pushes back from the table. ”Not everyone bleeds.” That's true, isn't it? She's heard that, hasn't she?

They keep talking, Alice, Dorian, and Cicely, about penetration and bleeding and virginity, about her and her night with Christopher, but she can hardly hear them beneath the noise emanating from deep inside her, a humming vibration, a kind of aftershock that is both sound and sensation moving along her nerves. Something's happening to me, she thinks, and then she looks up and sees that Chris is standing in the doorway.

He looks at her and says, ”You weren't?”

”What?” She can barely register his presence. How long has he been there? What has he heard?

”Last night wasn't your first time?”

”I didn't say that.”

”So you were? Or you weren't?”

”Why does it matter?”

Dorian says, ”I knew it.”

There's something wrong with him, she can see it in his eyes, but she can't put her finger on it, and then Benjamin walks in and he looks absolutely crazed, his mouth flapping, teeth grinding, and she realizes that they were doing c.o.ke together.

Ruby shoves Chris out of the way and runs down the dark hallway. Where's the bathroom, where is it? She tries a door-it's a closet-then another. Someone is coming up from behind her, maybe it's Chris-no, it's Cicely, who follows her into the bathroom.

”Leave me alone,” Ruby says, and then a wave rises up inside her, all the churning water beneath that cracked icy surface, it's rising up like an ocean wave. She snaps up the toilet lid, leans forward, and out comes a wash of tomato-red vomit.

She hears the door close, and then feels Cicely pulling her hair off her face, and she's grateful, so grateful for this small kindness, as another wave lets loose, and then another, her body rejecting the pressure she has subjected it to. Releasing the poison. It's as though her entire being has fallen into pieces, and everything old and ugly is forcing its way out.

Robin follows Calvin toward a cl.u.s.ter of three shabby houses, the rundown rentals on the block. The nearest one has a few longhaired boys hanging out in front on lawn chairs, gla.s.sy-eyed dudes in baggy shorts and tie-dye s.h.i.+rts, staring at the street as if waiting for something to appear. Does anyone still wear tie-dye? Then he sees that one of the s.h.i.+rts features a Grateful Dead logo on it, and it all makes sense. One of them raises his hand, less a wave than a signal. He pulls himself from the chair and ambles over, zeroing in on George and addressing him with, ”Hey, brother. What's doing with you?”

George takes a step backward, checking the guy out. He's got a few blond dreads pulled back with a rubber band, and long stick arms and legs poking out of torn-up Army-issue shorts. The guy s.h.i.+fts his weight from foot to foot as he talks and swings his limbs like a rag doll shaken by the wind. ”Brother, just wondering if you might know how to set us up with some ganja?”

”What are you,” George asks, ”a cop?”

The guy huffs out some surprised laughter. ”Most definitely not.”

”But you think I'm a dealer?”

”Naw, man. It's not like that. Just looking for some kind bud.” He gestures toward his buddies. ”We've got lots of brew, if you wanna swap.”

The guy is sort of cute in a sloppy, dirtbag way, the kind of kid you see playing hacky sack outside the dorms, eating breakfast in the middle of the afternoon, sleeping in lecture hall. Robin knows a few of them from the drama department who build sets and work on the lighting board, wealthy white boys with dreads. Trustafarians. They're harmless. But the look in George's eyes is neither amused nor familiar. His gaze hardens and he pushes ahead, telling Calvin, ”Come on.”

The Deadhead calls after them, ”No sweat, man. Have an excellent day.”

Robin can see the tension in George's shoulders and back, his entire torso defensively coiling into itself. A pang of protectiveness. .h.i.ts him. He's dragged George into this mess, through this long day of insults, where everyone is projecting something on to him.

On the front porch of the next house, a guy, not wearing a s.h.i.+rt, sits astride a beer keg, talking on the phone. His shoulder is bruised, a yellowy purple blotch on alabaster skin. There's something s.e.xy about this. The boy gives Calvin a nod of recognition, and mutters into the phone, ”Calvin just brought over more f.u.c.kin' people and s.h.i.+t.”

They have to step over the cord to get into the house. Following Calvin through the screen door, Robin feels a rush of something uncomfortable crash over him, a blindsiding wave. It could be fear, it could be sorrow, it could simply be a sense of being overcome by the unknown, but it has everything to do with trying, and failing, to connect his sister to this derelict place, which smells like spilled beer and spoiled food and looks like it's been vandalized by thieves. When he calls the cops, they're going to take one look around and want to arrest someone.

A tall, twitchy blond girl approaches them, her hands wrapped in yellow rubber gloves. ”We found her, we found her.”

”You found Ruby?” Calvin asks, and the girl, who must be his sister, nods.

”Is she OK?” Robin asks.

”She's in the bathroom.”

”Where? Let me see her.”

”Alice, this is Ruby's brother,” Calvin says.

Alice covers her mouth with one yellow paw. She looks away from Robin and shakes her head as if she doesn't want to say anything more.

Another guy, with c.o.ked-out eyes and finger-in-the-socket hair, steps up alongside her. ”So you're the notorious gay brother.”

”Excuse me?” he says.

The guy turns to George, who stands behind Robin, his arms crossed, legs firmly planted, and asks, ”And who are you?”

Calvin answers quickly, ”This is George. He's the brains of the operation.”

”Actually,” George says, ”I'm the muscle.”

”So Calvin brought the A-Team?”

”What'd you just say?” Robin asks, feeling his patience stretched-for George's sake, as much as his own-feeling himself ready to snap if someone doesn't direct him to his sister.

”Hey, Frizzy,” George says, taking an intimidating step forward. ”Pipe down.”

”A joke. Can't anyone take a joke?”

Robin says, ”They always call it a joke after they insult you.”

This guy rolls his eyes, muttering what sounds like ”Eat my shorts,” to which Calvin says, ”Come on, Benjamin. Don't start anything.”

Robin lets out a slow breath. He'd been wondering, for a single sickening moment, if this guy was the mysterious Chris.

Alice remains in front of them, shaking. She points toward the back of the house, saying, ”Bathroom,” and adding, ”I am so, so sorry.”

”Why? What happened?” Robin asks.

Alice sticks a finger in her mouth.

Robin marches past a dining table, where a skinny girl is pulling an oversized T-s.h.i.+rt over her knees as if made modest under Robin's glare, and frizzy-haired Benjamin nibbles on a fingernail as if he might chew it clean off. Like the bruised boy they pa.s.sed on the front porch, these two might be good-looking if they weren't so sleep-deprived and haggard. Everyone here looks older than they are, as if they're already ruined by life.

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