“Colie,” I said warily. I’d had enough experience with girls in groups to be on my guard.
“What’s the deal with that thing in your lip?” the blonde said bluntly. “It’s creepy.”
“Isabel,” Morgan said, elbowing her. “How old are you, Colie?”
“Fifteen,” I said.
Morgan came closer to me, tucking her hair behind her ear. On her right hand, she wore a ring with a tiny diamond, just big enough to flash in the light. “How long you down for?”
“Just the summer,” I said.
“Order up!” Norman yelled from the kitchen.
“That’s great,” Morgan said. “You’ll be right next door. Maybe we can go to the movies sometime or something.”
“Sure,” I said, but I kept my voice low. “That would be—”
“Here you go,” Isabel, the blonde, said, dropping my food right in front of me. “Ketchup’s inside the box. That’ll be fifteen-eighteen with tax.”
“Right,” I said, handing her the twenty. She turned on her heel and went to the register.
“Well, tell Mira I said hi,” Morgan said, “and that I’ll be by for Triple Threat tomorrow, since I’m off.”
“Triple Threat,” I repeated. That had to have something to do with wrestling. “Okay. I will.”
“Here’s your change,” Isabel said, slapping it on top of one of the boxes.
“Thanks,” I said.
She stepped back, next to Morgan, and squinted at me. “Can I tell you something?” she said.
“No,” Morgan told her, her voice low.
I didn’t say anything. So she did.
“That thing in your lip is, like, repulsive.” She scrunched up her nose as she said it.
“Isabel,” Morgan said sternly in a Mom voice. “Stop it.”
“And next time you decide to dye your hair,” Isabel went on, ignoring her, “you should try to get all of it one color. I’m sure your mom can afford to send you to a professional.”
“Isabel,” Morgan said, grabbing her by the arm. Then she looked at me. “Colie,” she said, like she knew me. “Just don’t listen . . .”
But I didn’t hear her, couldn’t, was already gone, turning and walking out the door with the food in my hands to the parking lot before I even knew what was happening. Over the years I had perfected removing myself from situations. It was kind of like automatic pilot; I just shut down and retreated, my brain clicking off before anything that hurt could sink in.
But every once in a while, something would get through. Now I stood under that one streetlight and the fries and onion rings stank in my hands. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I wasn’t even me anymore. I was bigger, a year younger, and back in my neighborhood the night Chase Mercer and I took that walk down to the eighteenth hole.
I didn’t cry as I walked back to Mira’s house. You get to a point where you just can’t. It never stops hurting. But I was glad when I didn’t cry anymore.
I didn’t even know this girl, this Isabel with her blonde hair and pouty lips. It was like I wore a permanent “Kick Me” sign, not only at home and school but out in the rest of the world, too. It isn’t fair, I thought, but those words were as meaningless as all the rest.
Mira was sitting in front of the TV when I came in. She’d put on a pair of blue old-lady slippers and replaced the kimono with a faded plaid bathrobe.
“Colie?” she called out. “Is that you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Did you find it okay?”
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror by the door: my black hair, my piercing, my torn-up jeans and black shirt, long-sleeved even in this summer heat. Isabel had hated me on sight, and not because I was fat. Just because she could.
“Colie?” Mira called out again.
“Yeah,” I said. “Your salad’s right here.” I took it into the back room. She opened the box immediately and popped a piece of lettuce into her mouth.
“Oh, I just love their Caesar dressing!” she said happily. “Norman sneaks some home to me every once in a while. It’s wonderful. What did you get?”
“Just a burger and fries. Here’s your change.” I put it on the coffee table, where she had two plates and two iced teas and a stack of napkins waiting.
“Oh, thank you. Now sit down and let’s eat. I’m ravenous.” Cat Norman hauled himself out from under the couch and nudged the bottom of the box with his nose.
“I’m not that hungry,” I said.
“Bad cat,” she said, pushing him back with one foot. To me she added, “But you must be starving! You’ve had such a long day, all this excitement.”
“I’m really tired,” I said. “I think I’ll just turn in.”
“Oh.” She stopped eating, glancing up at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” This came instantly, like a reflex.
“You sure?”
I thought of Isabel, the way her eyes narrowed as she zeroed in on me. Of my mother in her purple windsuit, new shoes squeaking, waving good-bye. Of an entire summer stretching ahead. “Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”
“Well, okay,” she said slowly as if we were striking a bargain. “You probably are worn out.”
“Yeah,” I said, starting out of the room, my cold smelly burger still in my hand. “I am.”