She ran a hand over her head, a soft blonde cap coming back, and I saw that there were tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry I look so weird,” she said. “He shaved my head to punish me.”
“You don’t,” I said, and did what felt like the only thing I could do—I hugged her. Her belly bumped into me hard, but I pushed my butt backward to make room and held her shoulders tight.
She sobbed silently, tears wetting my neck. “I hate him so much,” she said. “Hate him.”
“I know,” I said, understanding that she meant her father. “I know. I brought you some books.” I gave her the bag of paperbacks I’d collected. I had remembered that she’d wanted to read The Drifters because Joel liked it, so I got that one, and some other things I thought she would like.
She looked in the bag, and pulled out The Drifters. Tears filled her eyes and she dropped it back in the bag. “Thanks. I don’t really have much to do.”
“We should have my dad take us to Powell’s.”
“Hello?” she said, gesturing. “Jail.”
I ducked my head. “Sorry.”
We sat on the bed. An awkward silence rose, and I didn’t know where to look. Her eyes burned like spotlights from her face. Her skin was broken out. “I wish I could see the church burned down.”
“I should have taken a picture.” I rubbed my hands on my thighs. “How are things here?”
She gave a short, awful laugh. “Terrible. Every girl here is somebody who is thrown away.”
“No! You’re not thrown away. It’s only for a little while and you’ll be out.”
“I’m not going back to my dad’s house,” she said fiercely. “I’ll never live with him again. Ever.”
“Amma said he moved to some town in Texas.” I touched her hand, but I privately thought there was no way around her dad taking ownership of her again. He’d put her in here, and he would come back and get her.
“Have you heard anything from Joel?” I asked. I thought of the letter tucked away in my drawer.
She stared at me hard. “Back to crushing on Joel?”
“No!” I sucked in a breath. “Also, that was really mean.”
She looked away, but her mouth was still sullen. “Poor Phoebe. Life is so hard, isn’t it? Your poor dear parents divorcing.”
I blushed, painfully hard, and dug my fingernails into my palms. “Why are you being so horrible?”
“You’re the one! I’ve been in this place for nearly a month and this is the first time you’ve been here.”
“It’s hard to get here! And you’re kinda not easy right now.”
“Gosh,” she said sarcastically. “Sorry I’m not nice enough.” She rolled her eyes. “You just don’t get it, Phoebe. You’re so spoiled!”
“That’s not fair! My life is not perfect, either.”
“Oh, right. I forgot.” She bent her head into her hands, digging the heels of her palms into her eyes. The noise in her throat was filled with such frustration it might have come from a wild animal. “You think you get it, but you don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to live with a parent who hates you. Who hurts you.” Her spotlight eyes bored into me. “When he found out I was pregnant, he dragged me by my hair. He beat me with a belt until I couldn’t even stand up. And then he shaved my head.”
I whispered, “That’s awful. He should go to jail for child abuse.”
“Yep. He should. But he won’t.”
I knew that was true, too. It made me despair. All of it made me depressed—that she was stuck here, that she would have a baby she’d never see, that her father was such a bastard, that I couldn’t help her, no matter how much I wanted to. I felt the wall between us acutely. “Why haven’t you been writing in the diary?”
She closed her eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say whatever you want.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I can’t write it down. I just can’t.”
We struggled through another half hour of the awkward visit, with me stepping wrong at every turn and her returning scathing comments that made me feel about two inches high.
“You were born under a lucky star, Phoebe,” she said, when we were getting to the end. “Maybe try to enjoy it.”
“So lucky,” I echoed sarcastically. “My parents are divorcing. I’m such a geek that no guy is ever going to like me, and my best friend thinks I’m a total idiot.” Tears sprang into my eyes.