Reprieve: A Novel

Part I

Witnesses

Witness: Cory Stout

Cross-Examination Excerpt

September 16, 1997

Q. When you got to Cell Five, what did you see?

A. The defendant was holding a knife to Bryan Douglas’s throat and screaming for John.

Q. Just to clarify, he was screaming for John Forrester, the owner of the Quigley House?

A. Yep.

Q. Was John there that night?

A. Nope.

Q. Did you recognize the man with the knife?

A. Recognized his voice. Dude was on our blacklist.

Q. Can you clarify, please, your blacklist?

A. It’s a list of people who’ve threatened us.

Q. Is this list reserved for people who live in Lincoln, Nebraska?

A. Not at all. It’s got people from all over the world, but mostly from Nebraska, I guess, since the biggest pains are usually local.

Q. Is the list long?

A. Yep. Hundreds.

Q. But let me get this straight, you recognized his voice? You’d never actually met my client in person.

A. Yeah. I knew his voice well. He left messages almost every day all crazed.

Q. Okay, so you saw the defendant with a knife to Bryan’s throat, then what?

A. Everyone rushed down to Cell Five—the crew, the cast, people in the control room, everyone. Nuts. I didn’t want ’em to crowd like that, but sometimes people aren’t too bright.

Q. So the entire cast and crew witnessed the defendant holding a knife to Bryan’s throat?

A. Yeah. And the other contestants, they witnessed it too. They’d been competing in that cell.

Q. And who were the other contestants?

A. Victor Dunlap, Jane Roth, and Jaidee Charoensuk.

Q. And Kendra Brown, the one who’d initially CB’d you, was she there?

A. No, not in the cell. She was in the control room.

Q. Why was she there?

A. She’d been in the parking lot, ’cause that’s where . . . She’d run to the house for help. She thought I’d be in the control room, but I wasn’t. I was in Cell Five, like I said. So, she saw it.

Q. Saw what?

A. Well, she saw what happened.

Q. And what exactly did she see?

Kendra

After her father’s funeral, in a bright, green-carpeted reception hall, Kendra Brown, age fifteen, sat in a corner by herself, flipping quickly through the pages of Pet Sematary. She was at the part where Louis Creed, protagonist and ideal father, witnesses his child’s death-by-truck, noticing, sickeningly, that his son’s baseball cap is filled with blood. Filled with blood. That’s what it said. Filled with blood. Kendra shook her head, thought: How would a baseball cap, presumably cloth, fill with blood? Wouldn’t the blood just soak in? Wouldn’t the cap deflate? Wouldn’t there have to be a ton of blood for the cap to fill? If so: gross! She looked up.

In the center of the room, her extended family—most from the D.C. metro, but a few from elsewhere—mingled. They carried baked goods held upright by red and yellow napkins. Some nibbled; others devoured. Her cousin Iris, whom she hadn’t seen in five years, stuffed half a chocolate-chip cookie in her mouth, chewed vigorously. Her jaw dislocated left, then right, then left, then right. She slouched, her free arm reaching for the floor, her stomach flowing over her pants, her breasts free and pendulous against her rib cage. Kendra swallowed. Look at her, crying like that, she thought. Like she was close to him.

Kendra opened her book again. The words ran into one another. Filled with blood. She blinked. She closed the book, sighed.

Kendra, baby, come over here, her mother, Lynette, called from behind the food table.

Kendra set her book down, went to her. Her mother had been furiously rearranging the dishes, making sure the baked goods, the fried goods, the desserts were all in their proper places. She set down a plate of brownies, strode around to the front of the table, met her daughter.

Mom, Kendra said.

What a mess, Lynette said, unwrapping a mint, popping it into her mouth. I told them to keep it orderly. The harsh light enlarged her weariness. Her cheeks were drawn, her forehead deeply grooved. Kendra had always found her mother striking—long-limbed, large-eyed, smooth-faced, a direct contrast to her own short-limbed, small-eyed, freckled self—but there, in front of all that food, she looked rabid and ancient, a woman in need of a month of hot meals and warm showers. She wore a pair of rumpled black pants, creased and bunched in odd places, and a flowy red button-down that opened slightly at the top, exposing a dark, rigid clavicle. Kendra reached out, grabbed the collar, pulled it closer to her mother’s neck. All of this, Lynette said, shaking her head. A mess.

Mom, Kendra said.

I know, Lynette said. I know. But why are you over there by yourself? Don’t do that. Don’t you do that to me today.

What do you want?

Kendra, Lynette said. We talked about this.

We did? Kendra said.

For one damn day, Lynette said.

Fine, fine, fine, Kendra said, feeling prickly, turning slowly toward the clump of family in the middle of the room. Fine, fine, fine, she said. She walked.

It wasn’t that she actively disliked her family. For the most part, they amused her. Her cousins, her aunts, her uncles, they’d all, at some point, helped her mother out, and individually they were great conversationalists: for instance, Kendra could sit and listen for hours to her uncle Howard talk about how, when he was young, he’d nearly died on a yacht in the Bahamas. Something about a rotten mango. Something about a high-speed car chase. Something about a white man mistaking him for a seaside restaurant employee. Anyway. As a collective, and especially at major functions, her family all talked over one another so that together they became this buzzing, barking mass, and Kendra found this extremely irritating. Packed together in one room, they overwhelmed her with their intense animation, and so she withdrew.

But this was a different kind of day. And she’d told her mother that she would engage. So she walked to the center of the mass and allowed them to descend, their funereal breath mixing, fluttering. They said: Kendra, how are you? Kendra, I’m sorry. Kendra, I’ve been prayin’ for you. Kendra, what you need, hon? Kendra, come here, let me look at you. Kendra, you need food? Kendra Kendra Kendra Kendra Kendra Kendra Kendra

Kendra. Her uncle Nestor—all 325 pounds of him—stood in front of her, put his hand on her shoulder, tilted his head, said, You okay?

Kendra looked away. Around her, condolences weighted the air, constricted her throat. She wasn’t quite ready to receive them. She wasn’t quite ready to understand that her dad had become permanently erased. She looked up. The ceiling seemed impossibly far, all glaring white fluorescence. She looked to her left, to the wall, to a painting of Jesus praying in Gethsemane, his head haloed gold, his eyes beseeching and sad.

Hey, Nestor said. I was just thinking. You remember how your dad used to lift you over his head and run around the house? You were like, ‘I can fly, I can fly, I can fly!’ He chuckled. "You’d giggle so much you’d cry! Whole buckets of tears and you, all cute, goin’ on about flying. He’d put you down and you’d say, ‘More, more, more!’"

Hmm, Kendra said, blinking hard, still looking at Jesus.

Whenever you two were in a room together you were smiling broad as ever, Nestor said.

She looked at him, focused on the mole in the center of his forehead. When did you see me—

"He cherished you completely, K. Completely."

Kendra stuffed her hands into her pockets, looked longingly at the chair in the corner. How full was that baseball cap? she thought. A tablespoon? A cup? A pint? She imagined Louis Creed picking it up, letting the blood spill out all over the road.

Greg’s at peace now, Nestor said, nodding. He’s smilin’ down on you.

Kendra smiled, turned, shoved her way to the outskirts of the group, nodded, embraced, nodded, embraced. Kendra, I’m sorry. Kendra, you come visit anytime. Kendra, you try the brownies? Kendra Kendra Kendra.

She thought: And what exactly am I supposed to do with all these fucking sorrys?

She found her cousin Bryan, the only family member without food, standing at the perimeter of the group with his hands clasped in front of him, solemnly observing. She reached up and hugged him, felt warmth.

You look weird in a suit, Kendra said.

I wanted to come over and say hi before, he said, pulling back, but you seemed busy with your book. He smiled. His teeth gleamed.

I guess, she said.

I’m sorry about your dad, he said.

Yeah, she said.

Standing next to her cousin made her feel tiny. He was six-foot-two; she was barely five feet. He was athletic, lithe, confident, the type of guy who endlessly frustrated women. She was inward, clumsy, sullen, a girl who roamed invisible down school hallways. For some reason, though, they got along best: it was him she’d called directly after the accident, saying: I think this is shock? Though he lived in Nebraska with her mother’s sister Rae, she saw him the most out of all her cousins. Rae and Lynette were exceptionally close.

Don’t know why you’d wanna read books when you’re not in school, Bryan said. And that? Here? Now? Stephen King, man. He’s fucked up.

What do you know, Kendra said, her vision clouding.

I know enough.

I can’t deal with all this, she said, staring once again at Iris, who was still chewing.

He sniffed. I dunno. You’re what they call . . . what is it? Someone who doesn’t fit into normal life?

Fuck off, Bryan.

No, I don’t mean it negative. All the brilliant people are like that.

A misanthrope?

Maybe.

They stood in silence for a while. Gray light from the window fell over her cousin, shadowing his eyes. Outside, traffic rumbled and screeched down Rhode Island Avenue. Kendra winced. Since her father’s accident, she couldn’t stop envisioning loud, clamorous impacts. Every honk, engine rev, or shriek of rubber on asphalt signaled a grave, untimely death, and though nobody had been in the car with her dad, whenever she closed her eyes she envisioned everything: the white truck edging closer and closer to her father’s lane, her father’s horn blaring, her father shouting, Get in your lane!, the car ahead not accelerating, the car behind not decelerating, the middle-aged truck driver growing sleepier and sleepier, his head bobbing up and down, the truck careening over the line, her father grabbing the steering wheel so tight his hands shook, the spray of dirt, the small hill, the sudden shouts of the truck driver, who still, impossibly, raced beside him, the fumbling brakes, the choking seat belt, and finally, the wide, wide trunk of the scarlet oak tree.

You okay? Bryan said.

Kendra breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. Uncle Nestor told me how my dad used to lift me over his head and pretend I was flying, she said.

So? Bryan said.

My dad never did that.

When you were little—

He never did that.

I think I remember something . . .

No, Bryan.

He shifted his weight from his left to his right leg, stuffed his hands in his pockets. Hey, when you gonna get out of this all-black phase? he said, looking her up and down. "Haven’t you heard? Goth shit is a white loser thing. Black people got enough problems—we don’t wear them for show, you know?"

Whatever, Kendra said. It’s a fucking funeral.

Bryan said, Well, I guess.

Kendra thought of the last time she’d seen Bryan. He’d been at her house talking to her dad, who, as per usual, sat poring over paperwork in his starched white shirt and solid blue tie. Bryan had been discussing his new girlfriend, gesticulating wildly, trying, Kendra supposed, to make up for her father’s cool rigidity. Bryan told Greg, her father, how this girl, Simone, was different from all the others, how she challenged him, made him think. I’ve never felt this way before, Bryan said. I’m serious.

Kendra had walked in on them, looking first at her dad, then at her cousin. She’d thought: Bryan, no. Haven’t you learned anything? but said nothing, letting her cousin continue speaking to the stone structure that was Greg Brown, and when Bryan was finished, after he’d briefed her father on all the particulars of Simone’s wondrousness, Greg removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, sighed, and said, I’m sorry, Bryan. I’m just not interested in this right now.

In the reception hall, Bryan wrung his hands by his sides. There was a nervousness to him that Kendra had never witnessed before. She didn’t understand it. It wasn’t like he and Greg had been close. "Are you okay?" Kendra said.

Your mom’s gonna need your help, Bryan said. She’s not good.

"Nobody’s good," Kendra said.

I’m just saying, Bryan said.

You know he was a fucking jerk, she said. You understand that, right?

Kendra, Bryan said.

What.

She closed her mouth. Part of her stoicism was an act, she knew. Part of her wanted to cry, or race around like her mom, or spill memories like everyone else in the reception hall. Part of her felt like falling into the grief, letting it consume her, displaying the displays that everyone expected, but another part, a stronger part, remembered too much, remembered the nights her mother had called Greg at eleven P.M., midnight, one A.M., pleading for him to come home. Your clients will be there in the morning, she’d said. But we’re here now. Kendra remembered how he’d missed her last three birthdays without so much as a card, how he ate fancy dinners with clients while Lynette slathered jelly on toast, how, when he was home, he walked around without speaking, grunting hellos, then retreating to his study. Could she properly grieve a man who’d tried so badly to be missing? She didn’t know.

I’m just saying, Bryan said, Lynette, she’s gonna need you more now. So stop sulking in your room, reading those books. You’re gonna have to seriously work together, figure shit out.

What do you know, Kendra said.

I know enough, Bryan said.

Okay, Kendra said. Whatever. She touched her cousin’s arm, squeezed, then went back to her chair.

After the reception, Lynette said she needed a few things from Greg’s office in Alexandria, and though Kendra protested, the idea of metroing alone that day horrified her, so she hopped in her mother’s Ford Escort and looked out the window as Lynette raced across town to the Fourteenth Street Bridge.

Kendra had been across the bridge hundreds of times, of course, and it usually gnawed at her, knowing she’d soon be spending time at her dad’s boring workplace. But today, with her mother’s distress constricting the car, her father dead, Nestor’s words ringing in her head (He cherished you completely, K), everything seemed different, everything seemed new. The dying sun lit the clouds, and the pink wisps danced down the black water. The lights of Pentagon City dotted the edges of the river, and though she’d always found the Potomac somewhat boring, a river that native D.C. people often avoided recreationally, on that day, it seemed strangely beautiful, a natural insertion plopped between two hubris-laden cityscapes. It’s pretty here sometimes, she thought. I should remember that.

It was late, and the office was empty. She followed her mom through the front door, the dark lobby, past the marble reception desk, down a small hall, to the third door on the right.

Why do we have to be here again? Kendra said, feeling suddenly hungry. She hadn’t eaten any of the food at the reception.

You don’t have to whisper, Lynette said.

What do you actually need?

Kendra, Lynette said. She pushed the door open, turned on the light.

Every time Kendra saw her father’s office, she was struck by its orderliness. The law books stood neatly against the shelves behind the desk, the framed degrees hung perfectly on the north wall, the file folders and notebooks stacked tidily atop the oak desk, the pictures, the typewriter, the clock, even the window that looked out on South Fairfax Street, all of it utterly in place, as if forever unused, forever stationary. Despite the twinkly sanitization, however, she’d always found the neatness an affront: why would her father spend so much time curating such bald-faced organization here when at home he rushed through everything, leaving clothes on the floor, food on the counter, dishes in the sink? His home life, it seemed, had been something he needed to barrel through and zip past so he could get back to his actual life, his meaningful life, his office. It angered Kendra; even with him gone now, she still felt his professional urgency everywhere, diminishing and minimizing her, filling her with a profound sense of neglect.

And then there was her mother, who’d just let it all happen. Kendra looked at her, frowned. Lynette sat at Greg’s desk, spreading her hands out on the wood. She drummed her fingers against the shiny top. It’s amazing, she said. I’ve never sat here. Not once since we’ve been married.

Mom.

Lynette leaned back in the chair, looked up at the lights, crossed her hands behind her head. I couldn’t go home yet, Kendra, she said. Just not yet. She blinked hard, lifted her long, toned legs, put them on the desk, crossed her feet. If she hadn’t looked so depleted, she might’ve looked powerful. She closed her eyes. Our lives are going to change, she said. Vastly.

They’re already changed, Kendra said.

I’m not sure I can do this, Lynette said. I’m not sure.

Kendra shook her head. She’d never understood why her mother had put up with her father’s continued absences. On the phone with Greg, Lynette had always sounded weak, succumbing to his sternness without mustering any of her own. There was no reason Lynette couldn’t have demanded his presence. Kendra’s friends’ mothers did it all the time. In fact, her best friend Camille’s mother ordered Camille’s stepfather around so much that she—Camille’s mother—sometimes begged her husband to make a decision.

Lynette opened her eyes, blinked up at the white light. We were together so long, she said. Like an appendage.

Kendra sat on the chair opposite her mother, leaned back. But we’re gonna be okay, right? she said. I mean, you’re okay financially?

Lynette folded her legs, sat upright in the chair, looked at Kendra with red, slitted eyes. Really? That’s what you’re caring about now? That’s what you’re thinking about?

Kendra shrugged. Is it a bad thing to think about?

I’m gonna get a job, Lynette said, smirking. Don’t you worry about that.

It’s not such a weird question, Kendra said.

Lynette shook her head. Why don’t you just wait in reception for a minute, okay? she said. I wanna be alone here.

In the waiting room? Kendra said.

Lynette pursed her lips. Or outside. Or go home. I just need a minute, okay?

But, Mom—

Please, Kendra, Lynette said, her voice sharp. Kendra stood up, backed away.

"I don’t wanna just sit out there," she said.

Then go home! Lynette said.

What?

Just a few minutes, okay?

Kendra fumed, balled her hands into fists. I mean, this is happening to me, too, you know.

Lynette went cold. She sat back in the chair, looked at her reflection in the window. Kendra stood for a while in the doorway, willing her mother to say something more, but Lynette stayed silent, and after a few minutes of suffocating quiet, Kendra left the office and took a seat in the dark outer room.

A few weeks later, Kendra sat listlessly in geometry class, listening to her teacher, Mr. Blaisdell, drone on about parallelograms. He drew a slanted box on the board, adding numbers, letters, symbols, and Kendra, feeling exceptionally tired and ornery, wondered why it was that he never came to class in anything but wrinkly khakis and faded polos. Teachers made okay money, she thought, right? Certainly he could afford new clothes. She rapped her pencil against her book, loud. Blaisdell turned around, put his hands on his hips, tilted his head.

Miss Brown? Mr. Blaisdell said.

She didn’t look at him, just stared at her textbook.

Miss Brown, is everything okay?

She looked up, choked. Replacing Mr. Blaisdell’s squishy face was the lean face of her father.

Oh my god, she said.

Miss Brown?

She blinked; Blaisdell’s face returned, but her father still staggered about in her mind’s eye. She shook her head.

Miss Brown, Mr. Blaisdell repeated.

She grabbed her bag, stood up, walked. Thirty eyes burned into her. Still, she kept going, out of the room, into the hallway, past the restrooms, past the principal’s office, past the long row of gray lockers, to the front doors. She pushed, breathed in clean autumnal air, and walked some more, down the steps, across the street. She sat on the curb, hugging her knees, watching as the cars on N Street stopped, flashed their blinkers, waited.

Memories fell upon her in one enormous flood—her dad eating silently, grinning down at her, him at a park, she a young girl, her mother’s face shiny with promise, reflecting the sun—and each of these images reminded her that her father hadn’t always retreated into work, that there had been times when he was fully present, such as the day he’d made her sit and watch the Rodney King video, the one where a group of white cops beat Mr. King with batons. She’d been in fifth grade—impressionable, not yet jaded—and her father had rewound, repeated, rewound, repeated. When she’d finally said, Stop, Daddy! he’d grabbed her by the shoulders, stared her down, pointed at the screen, and said, You watch this, Kendra. This is the world we live in. A little over a year later, riots broke out; people were shot, killed; stores in Los Angeles demolished, set aflame; and he came home that day drunk and sweaty, dropping his briefcase at the door, stumbling helplessly into her mother’s embrace. He’d sobbed and shook, and Kendra had watched, horror-stricken, thinking that the fires of L.A. were headed for her neighborhood. Why else would her father be crying so hard? Why else would he look so defeated?

On the curb, Kendra exhaled a long, ragged breath, blinked back tears. In front of her, Dunbar High School rose like an asylum, a boxy, seven-story brown monolith, housing for the city’s adolescent leftovers. She clutched her knees tighter. Beside her was a tree whose branches curved perfectly up and out like a big, leafy, inverted umbrella. She moved a few feet to the right, catching its shade.

I didn’t even really know you, she thought. So just leave me alone.

She looked across the street at the school. Students trickled outside. Some went to cars. Some walked. Some crossed the street and surrounded her on the sidewalk. A few snickered. She didn’t stand up. They left her alone. She was now the girl whose dad had died in a freak car accident, which was better, she guessed, than being Tasha Vance, the girl whose dad died with a prostitute, or Koreesha Simonson, the girl whose dad shot her mother, but still, she hated that people kept such a wide berth: it wasn’t like she’d contracted some contagious disease. She pulled her knees closer, shivered, watched all the kids, wondered if her mind would ever take a rest. I don’t want to think about you, she thought. Please just go away. Please, please, please—

A person was hovering. She looked up. Her friend Shawn Sims stood above her, playing with his fingers. Kendra squinted.

Hey, he said.

Shawn, I’m not in the mood, okay? she said. She brought her hand to her forehead. He looked impossibly tall.

I know you’re going through a lot, but—

Shawn, no, she said.

Movies might help you take your mind off things, he said.

No, she said. No.

He was gangly and thin, his plain white T-shirt oversized and loose. When she stood, dusted herself off, he immediately looked away, as if the death of her father had reconstructed her face into something foreign. They’d known each other for two years now, had started an unofficial horror-lovers club at school, which, at first, had boasted fifteen members. The group had convened once a week in one of the English classrooms. They’d exchanged novels, traded videotapes, discussed the merits and demerits of things they’d watched and read, even talked about filming a movie up in Rock Creek Park, a slasher that they’d tentatively titled President Death. The movie never got made, of course: nobody had equipment, nobody knew how to get equipment, and the few pages of script that Shawn had written were, according to him, so bad they literally smelled. Eventually, without the movie serving as an anchor for the group, membership dwindled to only Kendra and Shawn: the others cited increased extracurricular obligations, schoolwork, or just general disinterest.

Things aren’t good at home, Kendra said, zipping her bag, running her arms through the straps. My mom’s a mess. Around them, clusters of students passed. Vanessa Harrison, a girl she’d known since the first grade, looked at her, arched her stenciled eyebrows, then turned swiftly toward Breanna Davis, whispering. Walking behind Vanessa was Jeremy Hortense, a football player, a boy Kendra had crushed on for years. He said, Shake it, V! Vanessa ignored him, laced her arm into Breanna’s, started skipping.

Kendra turned back to Shawn, tilted her head. People sometimes made fun of him, mainly because his forehead was enormous. It sped over half of his face, his eyes, cheeks, lips, and chin seemingly squashed together to prevent further extension. They also called him Oreo, which annoyed Kendra. There was no such thing as white on the inside. That would mean there’s only one way to be Black. Our group is done with anyway, she said.

No, it’s not, he said. There’s us. And we can get more. But until then . . .

Until then? she said.

Come on, he said. "Let me come over. Please. We can watch Hellraiser."

She sighed. "My dad just died, Shawn. You really think I wanna watch Hellraiser?"

"But Lord of Illusions is coming out on video soon, he said. Don’t you wanna do a Clive Barker marathon before we see it?"

"Didn’t that movie just come out in theaters?"

Shawn shrugged. It doesn’t take that long . . .

She tightened her backpack straps, looked over at the school. Only a few students trickled out now. She glanced at her watch. Shit, she said. She turned around and walked quickly down the sidewalk. Shawn followed her. I’ll bring popcorn, he said.

No, she said.

"Come on, Kendra, he said, panting. You know I can’t watch these by myself."

She smiled. Shawn, horror lover that he was, was also a big ’fraidy cat. During the hospital scene in Jacob’s Ladder he’d bitten his knuckles so hard that he’d left indentations. She’d had to treat him with antibiotic ointment and a Band-Aid afterward. Big fucking baby, she’d said, laughing.

Okay, he said, "maybe not Hellraiser, but how about something dumb? C.H.U.D.? Ghoulies? I haven’t seen C.H.U.D. II yet. You wanna?"

She stopped, turned. "C.H.U.D. II? she said. Seriously? Who watches C.H.U.D. anymore?" And yet: as silly as the idea was, watching a low-budget ’80s horror movie sounded, at that moment, incredible. She shook her head.

Fine, she said, pulling her hair behind her ear. Fine. Saturday. Regular time.

Shawn’s forehead creased: five long squiggles in a sea of skin. Really?

Fine, she said.

"But what do you want me to bring? Do you want Hellraiser? Or . . ."

I gotta go, she said. See you Saturday.

Kendra. What do you want—

But she was already across the street, running home as fast as she could.

Three days later, on a bright, crisp Saturday, Kendra sat on her couch with her friend Camille Brennan, eating Fritos and bologna sandwiches and watching The Bugs Bunny & Tweety Show. Camille—skinny, brace-faced, light-skinned—usually let Kendra talk only when she, Camille, literally couldn’t—like if her mouth was full or she had laryngitis. Her outpourings had gotten so bad that by the eighth grade, Kendra started timing her friend’s chewing and swallowing habits, knowing that if she wanted to get a word in she’d have to interrupt, or insert herself when Camille’s risk of choking was highest.

On this day, as per usual, Camille commented extensively on the TV show, saying things like, "What is a rascally rabbit anyway? I’ve never heard of anyone calling anything rascally and I don’t think some old grandma could move fast enough to clobber a cat like that and What’s a roadrunner? Are they actual animals that live in the desert or something?" Knowing that Camille loved Fritos and ate them nearly every day, Kendra had bought two bags, replenishing the bowl as soon as it was half-empty. Kendra had things she needed to talk about, and if she could manage to get a word in, she could direct Camille’s focus.

She set the bowl of Fritos on Camille’s lap. Camille looked at her, shrugged, and said, You trying to get me fat or something? Doesn’t matter. I’ve been exercising. Sorta like 8-Minute Abs but I add exercises that work the sides and chest and stuff—you should try it. She took a handful of Fritos, shoved them in her mouth.

They’d known each other forever, or at least that’s how it seemed to Kendra. In elementary school, Camille, scrappy and loud, had pushed Paul LaFleur to the ground when he’d yanked on Kendra’s hair at recess. Camille had shouted, Get used to being down there, you stupid lowlife. And Kendra had felt so grateful, so cared for, that she’d followed Camille around until Camille had finally turned to her and said, "So what is this? You want to be best friends? Well, fine."

Eyeing the bowl of chips, Kendra said, "Shawn Sims is coming over this afternoon and I want you to stay here with us, but you can’t talk during the movie, okay? You