Girls on the Verge Page 8

  She thinks. “How about the Man Cave?”

  “The Landing Strip?” I say, and Annabelle laughs.

  “The Jug Hut?”

  “The Panty Palace?” I offer.

  “Nice one,” Annabelle says.

  “I know some strippers, and they make good money. There’s a strip club down the street from Iggy’s where I work. They come over on their break all the time, and they are so nice. They club together at Christmastime and buy us all little boxes of Whitman’s Samplers and tie them with glittery red bows. There’s one girl called Ruby Tuesday who always buys a Diet Coke float. She’s my favorite. She told me she made enough money to pay rent and all her bills with enough left over to pay for her kids’ activities.”

  “Would you ever do it? Be a stripper, I mean?” Annabelle asks.

  “I’m not a good enough dancer,” I say. “No one would hire me. I took a pole dancing class once and left with a ton of bruises.”

  “What makes me laugh is all those asshat guys who clack about women cockteasers and how shitty they are,” Annabelle says. “And then they go to a strip club and pay women to cocktease them.”

  “I wonder why the Boobie Bungalow closed down,” I say. “If a strip joint can’t make it in a town, what can?” I got worried for the strippers then, picturing someone like Ruby Tuesday losing her job and having to find another in a town that couldn’t support a strip joint. A job that paid enough so her kids could keep their activities.

  “I don’t know,” she says. She gives the Boobie Bungalow a long look, then pulls her hoodie over her head and falls asleep in two seconds.

  I thought Bea had fallen asleep while Annabelle and I were talking. But the back door opens, and Bea gets out. She slams the door harder than the door requires and walks over to the Boobie Bungalow. She stares at it for a long while and then starts walking away, her arms crossed over her chest.

  I get out of the car. “Hey!”

  Bea ignores me and starts hurrying like she’s got someplace to be.

  I follow. “Bea! Get back here. It’s not safe to go wandering around like that. Remember the guy with the hook hand?”

  “I don’t care,” she tosses over her shoulder. “Go back to the car and leave me alone.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Far away from you and Annabelle, your new bestie.”

  “Hey!” I reach her and grab her shoulder. “What does that mean?” Bea shrugs, but I hang on and make her stop. “Annabelle is not my bestie, okay?”

  “She is too!”

  “I don’t know why you’re saying that. I barely know her.”

  “Oh, come on, Camille. You two have so much more in common than we do now. You can laugh and talk about strip joints and sex and … stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “And when did you take a pole dancing class?”

  “I—”

  “I have exactly zero to add to that conversation.” She holds her fingers in a little O. “Zero.”

  “You do, too, Bea. You’ve been holding your own in every conversation we’ve been having,” I point out.

  “I don’t understand half of what you’re saying.”

  “Is this about the abortion pill? About the fetus? I’m sorry, Bea, I shouldn’t have told you. Annabelle thought you’d be upset—”

  Bea flings her arms up. “See! Let’s not upset Bea! When did you ever worry about upsetting me?”

  “Because I would never talk about this stuff in front of you, ever! I know it makes you uncomfortable, and I don’t want to do that.”

  “I’m tired of you protecting me. Of keeping things from me. Just like my parents do, and I’m sick of it. I never thought you’d treat me that way, like they do. Like I’m some delicate flower or something.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “We tell each other everything, Camille, and you know it. You never told me about that Dean guy. You had a crush on a guy, and you had s-sex,” Bea stumbles over the word. “You did it with him, and you never said anything to me!”

  “We don’t talk about things like that,” I say. “What was I supposed to tell you? ‘Oh, hey, Bea, FYI, while you were training to be a teen youth minister, I had awkward sex with a guy in a soccer field who ghosted on me the second he put his pants back on’?”

  Bea crosses her arms again and looks away, her jaw set. “You should’ve told me.”

  “What good would that have done? I told you about being pregnant pretty much right away and look how you treated me.”

  “I didn’t do that to be mean to you. I thought I was doing what was best for you.” Bea grows quiet. “That was a mistake, and I realized it when I saw you sitting there in the Holler Up with Annabelle. At first I was really jealous because you were sitting in our booth, and you were with someone way, way cooler than me. But then, after you told me she was going to drive you, I knew it was my fault you were there with her. I let you down.”

  Bea starts crying.

  FIFTEEN

  JUNE 27

  Everyone is at work, and I have the house to myself, which is good. I sit in my bedroom researching on my laptop. Each time I think I understand Texas abortion restrictions, another page says something contradictory, and it seems to be changing by the day. What was true a few years ago is different now. I don’t know. I shut my laptop.

  This much is clear: I can’t get an abortion through a clinic—that’s completely out of the running. I pull up the Greyhound bus schedule. It takes at least eight hours by bus to get to the border. I look up hotels near there. The cheapest I find is sixty bucks a night.

  Okay, this is good. I got this.

  But I don’t got this, because the website says I need someone I trust to stay with me as the tissue passes. I can grit my way through it. But what if that’s not enough? How much pain and blood is too much before I know I need a hospital? I picture myself on the floor of some janky hotel by the border, all alone, bleeding to death.

  What is wrong with me? Why don’t I have more friends in my life I can trust with anything? All my friends come from the Globe, and we only have acting in common. I’ve spent my whole life in a mini-clique with Bea, creating our own little world. We shared Harry Potter, model horses, camp, Shakespeare, Oreos, problems with our parents. We were always in lockstep, always in full agreement. But now all that’s gone.

  I have no one to sit with me. No one.

  And then Annabelle Ponsonby pops into my mind. Someone willing to buy a twenty-five-dollar test for a girl she barely knows would probably be trustworthy. But what would I say to her? “Hey, we were in a couple of plays together. Would you mind driving me to Mexico to get an abortion?”

  But I am out of options, so I look on the Globe directory for Annabelle’s number. I cringe as I tap in each digit.

  There are a few seconds of silence before someone speaks: “Hello?” It’s Annabelle, and she doesn’t sound friendly.

  I’m about to say sorry, wrong number, and hang up the phone, but I wade in. “Um … sorry, this is Camille? Camille Winchester?”

  “Oh, hey, Camille. Sorry about the crap hello. What’s up?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t contact you earlier. About the pregnancy test?”

  “What about it?”

  “To thank you. And I need to pay you. My mind has been in a tailspin for the past few days, to be honest.”

  “Hey, no problem, and you don’t owe me anything. I’m sorry that pharmacist was such a dick. Is everything okay?”

  The worst she can say is no.

  “Not really. I’m pregnant,” I whisper, bracing myself for her reaction.

  “Fuck.”

  “I can’t find a way to get a legal abortion.”

  “Meet me at the Holler Up in fifteen minutes.”

  * * *

  Annabelle sits across from me in a booth at the Holler Up. When she picks up her coffee cup, I see that her fingernails are bitten down as far as a person can bite without hitting skin.

 
The restaurant is decorated for the Fourth of July. Cardboard flags are taped all over the walls. An exploding shower of red, white, and blue fireworks dot each corner of our paper placemats, and a bowl of candies wrapped in plastic flags sit next to a basket of packaged oyster crackers.

  Our waitress comes by and refills Annabelle’s coffee and drops another Sprite for me. Someone behind me ordered a patty melt, and the smell of fried onions, something I used to love, makes me want to hurl. I grab a pack of oyster crackers and tear them open. I feel so tired, I want to put my head down on the table and take a nap.

  “I don’t know all that much about buying abortion pills,” Annabelle says, “but I know it’s something people do. I read an article about it after the clinics closed down.”

  “Is it legal, though? If something goes wrong … can I go to jail?”

  Annabelle shrugs. “I don’t know, but is it worth it to you to risk it?”

  I wrap my hands around my soda, pressing my fingers against the cold plastic. “I want an abortion. I’m going to do this. I can take a bus to Hidalgo and—”

  “You don’t have to take a bus. I’ll take you.”

  “Why?” I’ve had more lines in a play with Annabelle than I’ve had actual conversations, and yet she’s offering to take me hours away to get an abortion pill.

  She leans forward. “If you have to go all the way to the border, then I will take you. Gladly.”

  “Why would you do this for me?” I ask.

  “Because I would hope my friends would do it for me. We can drive there in my car, get the pills at that flea market, and come back when it’s done,” Annabelle says.

  “What if they don’t have it? What then?”

  “We’ll go to Mexico. Do you have a passport?”

  “Yeah.” My family all got passports for a trip we planned to take to Mexico last year, but we didn’t end up going. “I’ll pay for everything,” I put in quickly.

  “I’ll take care of food. It won’t be much. We can go tomorrow if you want to.” She reaches over and takes a pack of oyster crackers.

  “Actually, could we leave Monday?”

  “Sure, no sweat.”

  Finally, a plan, a certainty. A way to make this all go away, with someone who understands. Someone who doesn’t judge.

  “When do you go back to England?” I ask.

  “Sorry?” she says over the rattle of the cellophane packet.

  “England?”

  “End of summer.” She crunches into a cracker.

  “I bet you can’t wait to leave.”

  She shrugs, her mouth full of crackers.

  “Were you homesick when you first left?” As much as I’m ready to leave Johnson Creek, the thought of being far away from home makes me apprehensive.

  She gives me the side-eye. “Hardly.” She reaches for another pack of crackers. “So who is the guy? Does he know? If you don’t mind me asking, I mean.”

  “I … um, no. I only went out with him a couple times.” I pick up my straw wrapper and wind it around my finger. “Don’t tell anyone, would you?”

  She shrugs. “Who would I tell? It’s none of my business what you do with your body.”

  “Bea would not agree with you.”

  “Bea Delgado?”

  “Yeah. She’s my best friend. Or, I guess, was my best friend.”

  “Wait a second. Did Bea break up with you because of this?” Annabelle gets really pissed again. “I hate girls like that, seriously. I’m so glad to be out of Johnson Creek High School, home of the virgin princesses. What the fuck business is it of hers? I mean, how does this impact her life?” She leans back in the booth, crossing her arms.

  Part of me is glad Annabelle is on my side, but another part hates to hear someone bad-mouth my best friend.

  “I get what you’re saying…”

  “Ditch girls like that, I mean it. Those slut-shaming girls are beyond.”

  “I guess I never thought of her like that.”

  “Well, have a thought.”

  The busboy comes by holding a plastic tub of dirty dishes and eyes our table, moving on when both of us grab our cups.

  I can’t believe this is the first real conversation I’ve ever had with Annabelle Ponsonby. Instead of talking about acting and what she’s learning in England, we’re talking about do-it-yourself abortions and how crappy people are, particularly my best friend. This truly and completely sucks. The song “God Bless the USA” starts to play. The corny lyrics and the sappy way the guy sings them remind me of that abortion parental-bypass judge I saw this morning. I bet he loves this song. I bet his barbershop quartet is planning on singing it at some patriotic Fourth of July event.

  I start to tell Annabelle about him, but she’s looking over my shoulder. “Speak of the devil.” She points with her chin. “Bea just walked in with some dude.”

  I slink down in my booth a little. “Of course.”

  “They’re coming this way.”

  I glance over my shoulder; the two of them are making a beeline straight for our table.

  “Camille?” Bea says. “I thought that was you.”

  “Hey, Cam,” Mateo says. “Haven’t seen you for a while. Sorry about Willow.” His eyes dart around. “That sucks.”

  “Why haven’t you replied to any of my texts?” Bea asks.

  Bea finally notices Annabelle. She does a double take, her expression turning from fangirl admiration to confusion in two seconds. It would be funny if this whole thing weren’t so awful.

  “Whoa, Annabelle Ponsonby,” Mateo says under his breath.

  “Annabelle? What are you doing here?” Bea asks.

  Annabelle lifts her coffee cup and widens her eyes. “I am drinking coffee.” Every word drips with sarcasm, which I know will hurt Bea’s feelings. I should say something to make it less hurtful, but I can’t. I feel caught. I want to crawl under the booth.

  Bea’s jaw twists, and she looks at Mateo.

  Annabelle’s phone buzzes in her pocket, and she takes it out and glances at it. “I gotta bounce. You want a ride home?”

  “That’s okay. I’m going to sit here for a little bit. I’ll walk home.”

  “You sure?”

  I nod.

  “I’ll see you Monday then, okay?”

  Bea watches Annabelle walk away, and then she turns to me. “Why are you talking to Annabelle Ponsonby, and what’s Monday?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I, uh…,” Mateo says, slowly backing away from the booth. “I’m gonna go sit at the counter and grab a cheeseburger.”

  Bea slides into the booth.

  “What do you want, Bea?”

  “I want to know what’s going on with you. I’m worried.”

  “You are not. Save it.”

  “I care about you, and you know I do.”

  “Okay, so do you care that I have to go all the way to the border to buy pills?”

  Bea levels a look at me. “Is Annabelle Ponsonby going with you?”

  “Yes, she is. She’s actually driving me. I barely know her and she’s being a better friend than you.” I want to hurt her as badly as she hurt me. And now I don’t care that Annabelle hurt her damn feelings.

  Bea’s face flushes. She doesn’t say another word. She gets up and marches past Mateo sitting at the counter and out the door. The bell dings as it shuts behind her. Mateo gets up and follows her, casting one last confused look my way.

  I don’t fucking care.

  I sit at the table by myself for a few minutes, watching the bubbles form and pop on the surface of my soda. I don’t care, I don’t care. The waitress comes by with a coffeepot in each hand.

  “You okay, hon?” the waitress asks. “You look awful sad.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Where’d your friends go?”

  “They had to go home.”

  “Honey, I’ll tell you something my mama told me a long time ago. Your girlfriends are the most important people you’ll ever
have in your life. You keep hold of them.”

  SIXTEEN

  JUNE 30

  “The night after I saw you at the Holler Up, I had a dream that we were swimming in that lake by my grandma’s cabin in Emaleen,” Bea says. “I started sinking, and you didn’t see me. You kept swimming away; my mouth was full of water so I couldn’t shout out to you. You swam away from me while I sank to the bottom.” Bea scrubs at her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Camille. For driving away from you that day.”

  It’s easy to think people forget about you when they walk away, like you never mattered at all, that you never shared a history. But of course that’s not true. I’m still pissed at Bea, but it’s not as if either of us has experience dealing with a problem like this.

  I hug her. “I’ll never let you sink, Bea. I promise. We’ll always be friends.” I step back, my hands on her shoulders. “Let’s make a pact. Friends forever, no matter what?”

  “Friends forever,” she says. She smiles.

  “Shall we spit swear on it? Just like in My Girl?”

  “Ew, no!”

  “Come on!” I hold my hand up to my mouth, pretending to spit into it.

  Bang!

  “Shit!” I jump, and a little eeep shoots out of Bea’s mouth.

  We swing around, trying to figure out where the noise is coming from.

  “It’s by the dumpsters,” I say. “Nothing good comes from dumpsters.”

  Bea shakes her head vehemently.

  Bang!

  We stare at each other for a second, wide-eyed, and then grab hands and start running. “It’s the hook guy!” Bea shrieks. “The hook guy.”

  “I think it’s raccoons!”

  “Raccoons with hooks!” Bea blurts out.

  “That’s bad, too!”

  We keep running, zooming around the parking lot, hand in hand, back to the car.

  Bea peeks into the front seat. “Shhh! Annabelle is still sleeping,” she says, panting.

  I look into the window. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone sleep that hard in my life.” I doubt she’d wake up for anything, even psycho killers or ghost strippers.

  Bea studies Annabelle, who is lying on her back, her mouth half-open, her legs propped over her steering wheel, her bare feet squished against the window. “How can she sleep like that?”