Rhymes With Witches (8 page)

“He's lying,” Pammy whispered. “I don't leave my curtains open, I swear.”

Feet slapped the floor. “Ladies, ladies,” a male voice said.
Kyle
. “Your presence is required. We're starting a game of butt quarters.”

“Butt quarters, ooo goody,” Bitsy said. “Sukie, Pammy? You in?”

Pammy sniffled. “I … I need to go to the bathroom,” she said. She fled the room.

“Good grief,” Kyle said, clearly confused. “Was she
crying
?”

“Here, Kyle,” Bitsy said. “Have some chips.” The bag rattled. Kyle crunched.

“Did Ryan really say all that?” Sukie asked in an undertone.

“She really should be more careful,” Bitsy replied.

“For Christ's sake, these chips are stale,” Kyle complained. “That
is the last time I buy organic, the environment be damned.”

“Abso-bloody-lutely,” Bitsy said. “Preservatives or die.”

Kyle strode past the island to the pantry, and my blood froze. He stood within feet of my hiding spot. “There must be a bag of Tostitos stashed around here somewhere.”

My heart whammed. I trained my gaze on the floor—not on his khakis, not on his pale feet—and prayed he would find the chips and leave.
Please, please, please,
I prayed.

“Ta-da,” he called.

I screwed my eyes shut.

He headed for the living room. “Shall we, then? Butt quarters awaits.”

“I better check on Pammy,” Sukie said.

“Suit yourself,” said Bitsy. “Kyle—hold up!”

The kitchen emptied, except for me. I crawled out from behind the island. Leftover adrenaline pumped through my veins. I felt thick, like I needed fresh air.

I looked into the living room. Bitsy had draped herself over the arm of a sofa, and she laughed as Kyle held up a quarter and wiggled his fanny.

“Demonstration, anyone?” he drawled.

Pammy was nowhere to be seen.

The next morning, I called Phil and told him to meet me at Memorial Park. He showed up with a ratty blanket, two king-sized
Cokes, and a milk-carton box of Whoppers, my favorite candy. Obviously I'd sounded more depressed than I'd intended.

“Hey,” he said, putting down the food and spreading out the blanket. As usual, the air smelled foul, because sewage run-off had contaminated the bordering creek. But the park itself was lush and green and nearly always deserted.

Phil patted the spot beside him. “Take a load off.”

I sat down and accepted one of the Cokes. The rattle told me he'd gotten extra ice, just the way I liked it. “What's better than roses on a piano?” I asked.

“Exsqueeze me?” Phil said.

“Tulips on my organ,” I said. “Hysterical, huh?”

Phil wasn't there yet.

“Tulips on my organ,” I said again. “Two lips on my—”

He winked and pointed his finger at me. “Clever girl. You make that up yourself?”

“Parker Rylant told it at the party last night, one of many blow-job jokes. You should have been there.”

“Wasn't invited,” Phil said.

“L'Kardos got steamed, because he said he didn't want Keisha to hear that kind of crap. He said it was sexist and offensive.”

“And right he was,” Phil said.

“Absolutely,” I said. I sucked on my straw, remembering Keisha's expression when I'd laughed, before I realized the joke was in bad taste.

Phil stretched out and propped his head on one elbow. “Tell me more.”

“They were like princesses,” I said. “Fairies. And everywhere they went, they sprinkled their magic fairy dust and made everyone adore them.”

“And ‘they' would be … ?”

“Who do you think? Keisha and Bitsy and Mary Bryan.” I reached for the Whoppers. “Bitsy told Ryan Overturf she'd have to slap his ass if he didn't give her a foot rub, and Brad, Bitsy's boyfriend, just laughed like
Haha, that Bitsy, such a joker.
And then Ryan was rubbing his thumb up and down Bitsy's instep, and Bitsy was purring and arching her back, and the whole time Brad was turning redder and redder. So finally Bitsy said, ‘Be a doll and get me another mojito, will you, Brad?' And Brad snapped out of it and said, ‘Sure, Babe. Anything you want. Ryan, need another Coors, man?'”

“That's so lame,” Phil said.

“I know.”

“Don't they know that friends shouldn't let friends drink bad beer?”

I shoved him. “Anyway, they were total goddesses, and I was a floundering blob of patheticness.”

“You're not a floundering blob of patheticness.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You only are when you say you are, so stop saying it.”

“Whatever.” I paused, remembering Nate Solomon's complete obliviousness to my very existence. Except my crush on Nate was one thing I would never bring up in front of Phil. So I told him about my inglorious retreat instead.

“I hid behind the island in Kyle's kitchen, because everyone I tried to talk to ran screaming for the hills,” I said. “
Now
am I a floundering blob of patheticness?”

“Ouch,” Phil said. He looked startled. “Did anyone see you?”

“No.”

“Well, thank god.”

“You think?”

He plucked a piece of grass. He threw it over the edge of the blanket. Then he circled back to the embarrassment at hand and said, “You hid behind the island? Why didn't you—I don't know—camp out in the bathroom or something? Or better yet, why didn't you just leave?”

“And how would have I done that? Bitsy was the one driving, remember?” I fiddled with the Whoppers carton, opening and closing the top like a fish mouth. Inside, the malted milk balls gleamed. “Ohhh, and get this. Bitsy came in while I was hiding there, and I about had a heart attack.”

I told him what happened, how she blasted Pammy Varlotta, and he winced at all the right places.

“It was horrible,” I finished. “Even when it comes to cut-downs, Bitsy's a notch above.”

“And this is a good thing?” Phil asked.

“You say it like it's not.”

“Well, is it?”

I put down the Whoppers. I had a feeling I wasn't going to be able to explain this. “Listen. If Pammy had wanted to insult someone, what would she say?”

“I have no idea.”

“She'd say something ridiculous, like, ‘Ew, where'd you get your shoes—Kmart?'”

Phil waited.

“But Bitsy's more … subtle.” I saw what flickered in his eyes, and I said, “All right, so maybe not subtle. More like sophisticated. Smart. I don't know.”

“Cruel?” Phil suggested.

“Maybe. I never said she wasn't.” I squirmed. “Jesus, will you stop looking at me like that?”

“I just don't get why you'd want to be friends with her, then.”

“Hey, better her than Pammy Varlotta.”

He arched his eyebrows. I glared.

“You are really annoying me,” I said.

“What? I didn't even—”

“Anyway, Rae says we have no choice. She says we have to like them, it's like witchcraft or something. And you yourself said you wouldn't throw Bitsy out of bed, now didn't you?” I jabbed my finger at him. “Ha. Ha!”

“Rae, as in Alicia's sister Rae? She said it's
witchcraft
?”

“You act like it's so bad, to want to be popular. ‘Ooo, she wants to be popular. Ooo, she's so shallow.' But—”

“Hold on. Who said anything about—”

“—but
everyone
wants to be popular, whether they admit it or not. And fine. I do, too. So hate me, all right?” He protested, but I railroaded over him. “But it's more than that. Because Sukie Karing is popular. Pammy Varlotta, believe it or not, is popular.”

“And your point would be?”

“My point is that it's not about being in the ‘in group,' which is so stupid I can hardly believe I just said it.”

“Then what's it about?”

I started to answer, then at the last instant decided maybe I didn't want to. “I can't explain.”

“Try.”

“No. It's unexplainable.”

“You started it, so you have to finish it,” he said. “It's the rule.”

I narrowed my eyes. He widened his, like,
Hey, this one's not my fault.

“Fine.” I lifted my chin defiantly. “It's not about being popular. It's about …”

“Spit it out.”

“Being one of them.”

“The Bitches.”

“That's right. And maybe it's not a good thing, but it's what I want.” I re-grabbed the Whoppers and popped one into my
mouth. It crunched in a really wrong way, and I tongued it back out. “Ew!
Ew!
What the fuck?”

The crushed Whopper, which should have been dense with malt, was practically hollow. First came a layer of chocolate, then a layer of pale brown malt, much thinner than it should have been, and then—

Bugs.

Nearly microscopic, except I could see them moving. I screeched and flapped my hand, and the malted milk ball went flying.

“Holy crap,” Phil said. “There were
bugs
in there. Did you see?”

“It was in my
mouth
!” I cried. “Of course I saw!”

Phil whistled. “Like maggots or something. Holy cannoli.”

I licked my arm to scrub my tongue. I took a sip of Coke, swished it furiously, and spit it out.

Phil shook the carton of Whoppers. “Are they all like that?”

“Throw them away,” I said. I pointed to the heavy-duty trash-can by the water fountain. “Throw them away
now
.”

He tipped the carton, and a glossy malted milk ball rolled into his palm. “Relax. I'm not going to
eat
it.” With his teeth, he split the Whopper open. He peered at the halves. He leaned closer, then made a strangled sound and flung them into the grass.

“I think I'm going to throw up,” I groaned.

“But don't you want to know how they got in there?” Phil asked. He fingered another Whopper, rotating it to study the chocolate glaze. “I don't see any burrow marks or anything.” He
bit into it and spit the two pieces in his hand. “Hey, hey—we've got a winner!”

The malt core was intact, two pale brown moons. He tossed the halves into his mouth and chewed.

“Phil! Just because you didn't see any bugs … just because …” I whacked him. “They could be dormant, you idiot!”

He shook another Whopper into his hand and split it open. He examined it. Threw it over his shoulder. “Bad,” he pronounced.

“Okay, whoa,” I said. “You are getting used to this way too quick.”

He checked the next Whopper. “Bad again. I swear, I don't know how the little wormy things get in there.” He cracked open another. “Ooo, this one's for you.”

I swatted his hand and sent the pieces flying.

“What did you do that for? That one was perfectly good!” he exclaimed.

“I thought I was telling you about my night from hell,” I said. “About how inadequate I felt.”

“You don't feel inadequate around me, do you?” Another Whopper passed his test, and he gobbled it down.

I cradled my head in my hands, because no, I didn't feel inadequate around him. What I couldn't tell him was that no one would
ever
feel inadequate around him, and that wasn't necessarily a good thing.

He put his hand under my chin. He tilted my head. He looked at me in this serious way, and for a second it was really freaky,
because the air pulsed between us and I thought,
Shit, is he going to kiss me?

“Here,” he said, raising a halved malted milk ball to my mouth. “No bugs.”

Later I thought about how it was that Phil, like Camilla, wasn't all ga-ga over the Bitches. He thought they were hot, sure, but he didn't fall under their spell like the rest of us. Camilla, she was above it all. At least that was my take on it. But Phil was immune for a different reason: because he was pure. That was a funny word to use on a boy, but it fit. He was pure of heart.