She’d meant only to hurt herself in the women’s room of the Hungarian Pastry Shop. To kick hard enough to split herself in two. To frighten Aileen, who’d have stayed safe inside her locked stall. She’d have left after that. Returned to her seat and pretended to have been there all along.
In another world, that happened. In another world, she got over her dad’s death. His betrayal, too. She moved on and dated one of those passionate grad students from her class. Her life was clean and perfect in that other world.
But Rhea slammed too hard against the cheap stall door with its sharp metal corners. The lock broke. The small person sitting inside must have been leaning down, head parallel to her hips.
Rhea had yelped in pain as she’d fallen, and then she’d been on the floor, her knee too tender to bend. So she’d scooted against the wall. She’d closed her eyes against the thing inside the half-open stall. The girl’s ebony hair, immobile as a wig. Not Aileen Bloom. An accident. The wrong girl. Bright red ran out, adhering to grout around the baby-blue tiles.
People crammed the women’s room. The mother came first. And then more, including Aileen and the rest of the class. They’d seen Rhea, some running straight for her, to tend to her. Her kneecap had floated just off center. And then they’d seen the blood.
Jessica Sherman.
Who did that to you?
* * *
Gertie Wilde was just parking her car in front of her house when she heard Julia’s voice: “You can’t have her!” More young voices followed, all saying the same thing: You can’t have her!
The sound resonated. It roused Dominick and Linda Ottomanelli, who hadn’t been sleeping anyway. They’d decided that Arlo wasn’t really hurt. Just like Gertie and the brick, he was being hysterical. They’d decided they’d done the right thing in defense of their twins. And yet, they couldn’t sleep.
It woke Sai Singh, Nikita Kaur, and their children who were seriously considering moving to Jackson Heights, where it wasn’t nearly so upwardly mobile but at least you weren’t the only South Indians on the block. And these Americans were fucking drama queens.
It woke Cat, Rich, and Helen Hestia, who’d stayed inside during the beating, and now felt they’d shirked their moral responsibilities. So Rich and Cat had drafted a letter to the New York Times about the mistreatment their daughters had likely received at Arlo Wilde’s hands.
It woke Sally and Margie Walsh, who’d begun to wonder if they’d gotten carried away by all this child abuse talk.
It woke Tim and Jane Harrison, who forgot about the Sharpie line when they exited their divided house, smearing it as they walked.
It woke Adam Harrison, whose best friend, FJ, had cowed him into breaking into a veteran’s painkillers. What FJ did after that, smashing the mirrors and smearing them with his own waste, hadn’t been part of the plan. Adam had been disgusted by it, and by his drunken friend, too. Ever since, he’d popped Oxy at night, just to sleep.
It woke Steven, Jill, Marco, and Richard Ponti. Bolstered by their apparent heroism （they’d taken down a shooter!）， they sped out from their house, hell-bent on protecting all of Maple Street from the monsters outside.
It woke FJ and Fritz, who each walked alone and at a different pace toward the hole.
But it did not wake or even startle Rhea, who brought up the rear. She’d been expecting it all along.
On her way, she opened the Benchley mailbox, took out the gun she’d hidden there. As she unlatched the safety, she followed the shouts and the vision in her mind of Shelly’s open, knowing eyes.
Sterling Park
Monday, August 2
Julia Wilde. Ella Schroeder. Charlie Walsh. Dave Harrison. Mark and Michael Ottomanelli. Lainee Hestia. Sam Singh. These were the remaining members of the 2027 Maple Street Rat Pack.
The ground filled behind them, the hole narrowing ever smaller. Shelly had to be carried up the ladder. Between the rest of them, this was possible. They made sure not to lower or drop her until they were all out, and when they set her down, they did so carefully.
When they reached the summit, they were no longer alone. Julia was not the last to let go of her dead friend. It was Ella who held tight, her face pressed deep into what remained of her sister’s soft, black hair. The Rat Pack surrounded Ella, keeping the adults out, as they knew Shelly would have wanted.
The adults only watched, impotent in this as they had been in all things before. Ella curled up inside her sister, pulling the dead girl’s arms so they wrapped around her. The Rat Pack let this happen for a long time. Long enough that their own sorrow subsided, and they could be of use.