Sharp_Objects

let me take you out,” he said. “Just for fun. No shop talk. My brain desperately needs a night off from this stuff. We could do something appropriately small town.”
    I raised my eyebrows.
    “Pull taffy? Catch a greased pig?” he began ticking activities on his fingers. “Make our own ice cream? Ride down Main Street in one of those little Shriners cars? Oh, is there a quaint county fair anywhere near here—I could perform a feat of strength for you.”
    “That attitude must really endear you to the locals.”
    “Kathy likes me.”
    “Because you tip her.”

    W e ended up at Garrett Park, jammed on swings that were too small for us, wobbling back and forth in the hot evening dust. The place Natalie Keene was last seen alive, but neither of us mentioned it. Across the ballpark, an old stone drinking fountain spurted water endlessly, would never go off until Labor Day.
    “I see a lot of high-school kids partying here at nighttime,” Richard said. “Vickery’s too busy these days to chase them off.”
    “It was like that even when I was in high school. Drinking’s not that big a deal down here. Except, apparently at Gritty’s.”
    “I’d like to have seen you at sixteen. Let me guess: You were like the wild preacher’s daughter. Looks, money, and a brain. That’s a recipe for trouble around here I’d guess. I can picture you right over there,” he said, pointing to the cracked bleachers. “Outdrinking the boys.”
    The least of the outrages I’d committed in this park. Not only my first kiss, but my first blow job, at age thirteen. A senior on the baseball team took me under his wing, then took me into the woods. He wouldn’t kiss me until I serviced him. Then he wouldn’t kiss me because of where my mouth had been. Young love. Not long after was my wild night at the football party, the story that had gotten Richard so riled. Eighth grade, four guys. Got more action then than I’ve had in the past ten years. I felt the word wicked blaze up by my pelvis.
    “I had my share of fun,” I said. “Looks and money get you a long way in Wind Gap.”
    “And brains?”
    “Brains you hide. I had a lot of friends, but no one I was close to, you know?”
    “I can imagine. Were you close to your mom?”
    “Not particularly.” I’d had one too many drinks; my face felt closed and hot.
    “Why?” Richard twisted his swing to face me.
    “I just think some women aren’t made to be mothers. And some women aren’t made to be daughters.”
    “Did she ever hurt you?” The question unnerved me, particularly after our dinner conversation. Hadn’t she hurt me? I felt sure someday I’d dream a memory of her, scratching or biting or pinching. I felt like that had happened. I pictured myself pulling off my blouse to show him my scars, screaming, yes, look! Indulgent.
    “That’s a bizarre question, Richard.”
    “I’m sorry, you just sounded so…sad. Mad. Something.”
    “That’s the mark of someone who has a healthy relationship with his parents.”
    “Guilty.” He laughed. “What about I change the subject?”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay, let’s see…light conversation. Swing-set conversation.” Richard scrunched his face up to mime thinking. “Okay, so what’s your favorite color, your favorite ice cream flavor, and your favorite season?
    “Blue, coffee, and winter.”
    “Winter. No one likes winter.”
    “It gets dark early, I like that.”
    “Why?”
    Because that means the day has ended. I like checking days off a calendar—151 days crossed and nothing truly horrible has happened. 152 and the world isn’t ruined. 153 and I haven’t destroyed anyone. 154 and no one really hates me. Sometimes I think I won’t ever feel safe until I can count my last days on one hand. Three more days to get through until I don’t have to worry about life anymore.
    “I just like the night.” I was about to say more, not much more, but more, when a broken-down yellow IROC rumbled to a stop across the street and Amma and her blondes piled out the back. Amma leaned into the driver’s window, cleavage teasing the boy, who had the long greasy dirt-blond hair you’d expect of someone who still drove a yellow IROC. The three girls stood behind her, hips jutted out, the tallest turning her ass to them and bending over, lean and long to pretend to tie her shoe. Nice moves.
    The girls glided toward us, Amma waving her hands extravagantly in protest of the black exhaust cloud. They were hot little things, I