“Time-out,” Julia rasped, staggering. “You’re lying. It’s too far.”
Shelly charged.
Julia only had a second, and for true, she was scared another blow from Shelly would break her neck. “Perfect hair. Perfect Free People. But you’re all messed up inside. Your period’s bleeding through,” she croaked in a whisper you had to listen for to hear.
The words sank in. Shelly’s fists unclenched. Julia kept going, saying all the bad thoughts she’d never voiced. All the things you think when you’re alone and you’re mad, and you fantasize about telling somebody off. The things you’ll never really say, because they’re way too mean.
“My dad doesn’t look at anybody but my mom. You’re just jealous because I have a dad. Yours is just some ghost who sleeps in your house. Your mom treats you like you’re crippled. She doesn’t hear and she doesn’t see. You’re not a person to her. Just a doll she dresses up and shows off. You could be made of maggots on the inside and she wouldn’t care so long as your hair’s brushed.”
Shelly paled. Her under-eyes, by contrast, got more purple.
“Shelly, what is that? Are you hurt again?” Ella asked, pointing at Shelly’s low-slung linen jumpsuit. The stain. Now that Julia had named it, everyone could see it for what it was.
“It’s her crimson tide,” a Markle answered.
Shelly’s mouth wrenched open as if to gag, but no sound came out. It was a grisly thing to see, like invisible fingers were strangling her. Then, croaking words, soft and hideous: “It’s not a period. Your daddy did me.”
“Liar,” Julia answered, mad and shaking and sick to her stomach, because she’d never been in a fight so mean. So low.
To hide the red, Shelly fanned her hands in front of her, and then behind. And then one hand in front and the other behind. But her jumpsuit hung too loose. You could still see.
Someone laughed. And then somebody else. And then even Shelly’s own sister Ella was laughing. The laughter got louder. It wasn’t fun-laughing. It was scared, pressure-release-laughing, like the soulless sound a filled balloon makes when you let it go and it zings across a room. The whole Rat Pack, in hysterics. Everybody but the Wilde kids, who were horrified.
From Interviews from the Edge: A Maple Street Story, by Maggie Fitzsimmons,
Soma Institute Press, ? 2036
“It started long before that child fell down the sinkhole… The Wildes were strange. I never liked them. No one did, except for Rhea. Which is ironic.” —Jill Ponti, Sterling Park
Sterling Park
The Rat Pack’s laughter sagged. They watched as Shelly, fanning her linen jumper’s backside with her hands, disappeared into her house. After that, it was just the Markles still laughing, plus Lainee Hestia, who matched her titters to theirs, trying to make sure she stayed on the inside of the joke.
“She’s hurt?” Ella Schroeder asked.
The Markles heard that and got quiet. Lainee emitted one last, humorless shriek.
“It’s a period. No big deal,” Dave said.
“Does she need a doctor?” Ella whispered. She was built small like her mom, and even though she was upset, her squint expressed anger. She had resting rage face.
“It’s okay. She’s okay. It’s normal,” Julia answered. Her throat hurting, her voice was just a sandpaper whisper.
Ella started crying. She ran for 118 Maple Street. She didn’t shut the front door behind her after she got inside. It stayed wide, offering a full view of the Schroeder hallway. Clean wood floors, a secretary with mail neatly stacked, an indigo and orange Persian rug.
Julia expected a grown-up or big sibling to come out. What the hell? You don’t laugh at someone’s period! they’d shout. What’s wrong with you? She felt she deserved to be yelled at. They all did, no matter what Shelly had done.
The rest of them must have felt the same way, because the Rat Pack stood very still. Seconds passed. A full minute. No one came out of Shelly’s house. Somehow, that was worse.
Sam Singh broke the pause. “I didn’t do anything!” he hollered, then jogged back toward 104 Maple Street, where he lived. Lainee Hestia wandered away next, slow and seemingly oblivious. By the time she was at her house, she was softly humming the Star Wars theme. The Markles climbed back on their trampoline. “She’s gonna pay for this,” Michael Ottomanelli threatened while inspecting the tiny red speck of blood that had, at some point, stained the mesh. “It’s gonna be a huge dry-cleaning bill,” Mark added.