“Fuck you,” Tina said to the third red light we hit on Miccosukee Road.
“If you don’t mind,” I protested weakly. The girls had given me the front seat, and I was slumped over with my forehead pressed up against the glass, breathing hotly through my mouth. Some electrifying wartime president I was.
“Why are there so many red lights on this road?” Tina demanded. “And why do they look like that?” In Florida, the traffic lights are mounted horizontally. I’d always thought it gave them a sentient quality, like squat little robots, winking and blinking at you. They’re sort of adorable, Denise said once, and I’d laughed admiringly and told her that was such an artist’s thing to say.
“Hurricanes,” explained Bernadette, ever Miss Florida. “The winds.”
The little robot opened his green eye, and we continued on our way.
“It was really nice of you girls to visit Eileen and play along with everything,” Tina said. “I don’t agree with the family’s decision not to tell her, by the way. It’s infantilizing.”
This new, exotic word rolled off Tina’s tongue and activated the part of me that sought out the attention of bawdy, glamorous women, women like Denise and Tina, who, in their own ways, reminded me of my mother.
“What is”—Bernadette paused a moment, playing back the pronunciation in her head—“in-fan-til-iz-ing?”
“It’s when people treat perfectly capable adults like children,” Tina said, “and they tend to do it to young women.”
“They just don’t want her to get hysterical,” I said in the family’s defense. I had to speak with my eyes closed, licking my dry lips between words. I flailed a hand aimlessly. “You saw what just happened.”
Tina scoffed. “And so? What’s wrong with being hysterical? It’s a hysterical thing that happened.”
“We have more dignity than that,” I said, lifting my head with enormous effort. Never let them see you sweat, I was always saying, except I could see the filmy residue my glands had deposited on the window.
“I’ll tell you something from experience,” Tina said, flexing her fingers on the wheel. “They will call you hysterical no matter how much dignity you have. So you might as well do whatever the hell you want.”
“Right,” I told her at the four-way stop on Copeland, because she was clearly not from around here.
Tina approached the back entrance to The House at a respectful crawl, though the street was mostly deserted. Low, heavy clouds had overtaken the sun, and there was no one to crunch over the dead leaves and pine cones on any of the paths that cut between Seminole Street and the south gates of the university. Someone’s father was hurriedly throwing her suitcase into the trunk of a station wagon parked outside the Delta house, rushing around to the driver’s side and yelling at his daughter that they needed to get on the road. The back of my neck prickled. On that block alone were three sororities, a cheeseburger joint, a popular bar, and an even more popular church. It was always bustling with activity, and yet at the moment, it felt fled and war-torn, under siege. Everyone getting out while they had the chance.
Tina parked at the curb, parallel to the metal police barricade that fenced off the back lot of The House. The officer on duty crouched down low to observe us. He straightened, appeased, seeing it was only a car full of women.
“Do you girls feel safe here at night?” Tina asked us. There were police and crime scene technicians all over The House, but they would be gone by dinnertime, their fingernails scrubbed of blood and their minds numbed with cold beer. I envied them, that this was merely a part of their life and not their life. “Because if you don’t, I might be able to help you.”
“We’re not staying,” I said. “We just have to pick up some more things before we go back to Mrs. McCall’s house. She’s an alumna of the sorority.”
“How will you get there, though?”
“The police will take us.” I opened the car door. “Thank you for the ride.”
Tina stamped her hand on my knee. “Pamela? Can you hang back a moment?” I had no fight left in me, so I gave my sisters a half wave. Go ahead. I’ll meet you inside.
Tina and I sat in silence, watching Bernadette and the others link arms and approach the guard at the next barricade, who was asking for IDs. The girls rooted around inside their purses for their wallets.
“Is the school providing you with any kind of support?” Tina asked, regarding me with what felt like parental concern. “Professionals to talk to about this?”