But Bobby spoke first. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shook my head. And then words came tumbling out. “It’s all so awful. I was over at Keme’s mom’s place. Have you ever been there?”
“Not inside.”
“But you know,” I said. “Does everyone know? Does Indira? Does Millie?”
“That they live at the RV park? Yes, everyone knows.”
“Not that.” I tried to think about how to put it into words. “It would be so much…I don’t know, simpler, I guess, if his mom was just this outright awful person. But she’s not. She actually seems sweet. And she’s totally incapable of taking care of herself,much less Keme. I don’t know why. I don’t know if that’s how she’s always been, or if it’s like a learned helplessness kind of thing, and at some point, she decided to be that way because she thought it was easier. But that’s how it is. I mean, Foster is obviously the one making all the decisions, and before him, there was somebody else, wasn’t there?”
Bobby nodded.
“And there’s this part of me that sat in that stupid camper and wanted to scream at them. Wanted to shake September. Because even though I feel bad for her, I feel worse for Keme. I mean, it’s like she doesn’t care about him at all. No, that’s not right. It’s like—it’s like he’s somebody she knows, and she likes him, and she hopes everything turns out all right for him, but that’s as far as it goes.”
Brushing my hair away from my forehead again, Bobby said, “That sounds like a defense mechanism. She hasn’t had an easy life either, from what I gather. At some point, it was too hard or too much to worry about Keme. And so she stopped.”
“But how? I mean, he’s her son. If we have kids, I’m going to duct-tape them to chairs and not let them out of the house until they’re forty. Do you know what happens to kids in this world?”
On the strawberry tree, a squirrel scampered up a branch, making it sway. A second squirrel chased after it, chittering.
“Also, please stare into this memory wipe device,” I said, “and forget I said anything about having kids.”
For an instant, the whole world lit up with Bobby’s big, goofy grin. Then he swept his fingers slowly across my forehead again. “I’m more worried about the duct-taping-them-to-chairs part.”
“Wasps, Bobby. Trampolines. Middle school locker rooms. Do you know they expect you toshower?And don’t get me started on organized sports.”
That white slice of his grin broadened again. But then it faded, and he said, “For some people, it’s easier to put up wallsthan to keep being hurt. And the walls look different for different people.”
Leaning into the warmth of his touch, I let myself relax a little. “I know. It just—it just broke my heart. And then they found those bloody clothes, and as soon as I saw them, I knew they were Keme’s. I mean, I’ve seen him wear that stupid hamburger T-shirt so many times I’m surprised it hasn’t rotted away to nothing. In medical terms, I freaked the freak out. And then I came here, and the sheriff is actually thinking about arresting him, and he won’t say anything, and he’s clearly been in a fight—”
I touched my chest again without thinking about it.
This time, Bobby’s hand wrapped around mine, and in an unfamiliar voice, he asked, “Did he hurt you?”
It took me a moment to register that new note as anger. Tightly controlled, yes. But definitely there, and shaded with protectiveness and something else, something even scarier, a matter-of-factness that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Like Bobby was going to handle it—permanently—if anyone hurt me.
(And yes, I kind of liked it.)
“No,” I said. “And knock it off. I don’t want you going in there after I leave and beating him with wet towels or rubber hoses or, um, ladies’ swimming suits.”
It took about two seconds before “What?”
“They’re kind of like the intersection of wet towels and rubber hoses, right? An all-purpose, leave-no-marks torture device? You could really whip him with a bikini top.”
Three seconds before “Dash.”
“And I know this part is dumb, but it was weirdly embarrassing to fall on my butt in front of the sheriff. I know she didn’t care. I know it doesn’t matter. But it hurt, and then I started to cry and that was even more embarrassing.” The restof it flowed out of me, and I couldn’t have stopped it if I’d wanted to. “And the worst part is I thought I was being brave. I thought I was doing, you know, something good. Going outside my comfort zone. Showing him how much I cared about him. I mean, Bobby, my God, I was going to hug him, and it wasn’t a funeral or National Taco Day. We weren’t even shipping him off to war.”
“What war?”
“And instead, I was just…wrong. I mean totally, completely, humiliatingly wrong. He didn’t want a hug. He didn’t need a hug. He definitely didn’t—I don’t know what I was thinking. At the best possible times, I’m the most annoying person he’s ever met. I should have remembered that.”
“Dash,” he said softly.
“That’s all,” I said.
The hum of tires came from the next block.
