Good Luck, Fatty

into my bed (good thing I remembered to make it this morning). I’ve only got one pillow, so we have to share.
    “Your bed is really soft,” Tom tells me as we lie side-by-side, staring at the water-stained ceiling, our arms tense between us.
    “It’s old.”
    “Mine’s like a gang plank,” he says with a nervous chuckle. “My dad’s big on ‘firmness’ and ‘back support.’ ”
    “Oh.”
    Tom goes quiet for a while, and I close my eyes, feeling that I am somehow like a blind person, my other senses heightened. The faint scents of perspiration and soap fill my nostrils. I hear Tom’s lungs seesawing with breath, his tongue coating his parched lips with moisture. My arm-hairs stiffen against his, setting off an electrical charge that echoes between my legs and starts my thighs twitching.
    Softly Tom says, “I’m glad you didn’t turn out to be…um, you know .”
    I flash on the pregnancy test stick. “Me too.”
    “Why did you let them do that?” he asks, sounding pained. Before I can answer, he adds, “You’re not letting them do it anymore, right?”
    “I was stupid,” I say.
    “ Was? ”
    “That’s right.”
    I open my eyes and roll toward him, my front flush with his side, my arm draped across his bony chest, his heart jumping against the inside of my elbow. I press my lips to his neck with the delicacy of a firefly alighting on a mountain lion, and he lets me. Again and again. Until, like Denise, he surrenders to the lure of sleep. And I’ve missed my chance to tell him I love him.

 
     
    chapter 14
     
    THE COPS never solved the case of the Royale, and I doubt they ever will, which makes me glad in a selfish sort of way. Because before that wrecker carted Gramp’s pride and joy off to the salvage yard, I dedicated an entire Tuesday afternoon to trying to decipher even one word of the mindless graffiti layered over the Royale’s fenders and hood.
    And I think I found something.
    In random spurts of hot-pink lettering (seriously, what kind of vandals tote around such flamboyant spray paint?) were what appeared to be the letters: G-O-D-O-U-L-C-K-A-F-T-T-Y, which I carefully transcribed onto the back of an old envelope for further analysis.
    After three hours of staring myself cross-eyed and plucking out the bulk of my eyebrow hairs from sheer frustration, I came to the following possible translations of this message:
    FLOCK GAUDY TOT
    DUCK LOFTY GOAT
    LUCK FATTY GOOD
    FLOUT TACKY DOG
    I must say that “duck lofty goat” is my favorite (a great name for a racehorse, right?), although I can’t imagine such humorous phrasing coming from the street urchins who obliterated the Royale. Plus, the “fatty” option seems a lot more likely, given my suspicions about Evan Richter, Justin White, Malcolm Gates and Corey Benson retaliating against me for shutting down the screw factory.
    Either way, the Royale is toast. And we’ve got a giant slice of cardboard for a window. And I hate assholes, whether they’ve screwed me or not.
     

----
     
    I’m behind the counter at The Pit, my back to the door, when Marie and Duncan (and a cool blast of air) breeze in. I shiver, turn to see Harvey shaking hands with my father and Roy bouncing softly on my mother’s hip.
    “Nice to meet you,” says Harvey’s voice as it floats my way.
    Duncan mumbles something I strain to hear, his death-grip of a handshake holding Harvey hostage. Suddenly I’m struck with an uncomfortable feeling, the feeling I might have if my husband stumbled across my lover, or vice versa.
    The strange thing is, Harvey’s my regular thing, and Marie and Duncan are the seedy indulgence. “What’s going on?” I ask, stalking up to Marie with a stiff spine and an attitude.
    My mother smiles, brushes a wisp of hair from Roy’s forehead. “Hello, Roberta,” she says without really looking at me.
    I shoot a dagger-stare at Duncan. “What’re you doing here?” I ask Marie, my thumb in my belt loop, my elbow cocked, my hand clutching a stack of numbered race cards I’m in the process of assigning to Yo-Yo cyclists.
    Marie spits out a little tsk sound. “Honest to goodness, Roberta, do you have to be so…?”
    “Bobbi,” I remind her. “You keep calling me Roberta. I don’t like that name.”
    “Point taken,” Marie says with a shallow nod, her fingertips dancing over Roy’s belly as if she’s about to start a tickle fight.
    I meet my brother’s gaze, and he gives me a perky giggle of recognition that sends a