“Can you erase it?” I ask, my heart pounding. “He’s eighteen, thank fuck, but he didn’t consent to be filmed. I’m pretty sure they could sue the shit out of the Darlings for that.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m deleting it now. But if anyone screen-recorded it…”
“Then it’s too late,” I finish, dropping my head back again. “Fucking Magnolia. What was she thinking?”
“She was probably thinking she’d get something she could use to sue the Dolces,” Dixie says. “Do you realize the extent of what they’ve done to her family? Her uncles have been killed, mutilated, and driven out of town. Her aunts have been committed to mental institutions and attempted suicide. Her cousins have been disfigured and tortured and beaten. Her brother left town before they could get to him, but she probably hasn’t seen him more than once or twice a year because of them. You can’t blame the girl for trying.”
I swallow and press my nails into my palms. I know what the Dolces have done. They’ve done it to me, too. But hearing it all laid out like that makes me feel sick. It has to stop. Someone has to stop them. But I always come back to the same question.
How?
“Oh my god,” Dixie shrieks suddenly, sitting forward between the seats. “Turn it up!”
“What?” I ask.
“The radio,” she squeals, lunging forward to twist the dial.
“Shit, you almost ran me off the road,” Gloria says over the music, covering her heart with one hand. “Don’t scream like that while I’m driving.”
“Shhh,” Dixie says. “This is Dolly’s new song.”
“Who?” Lo asks.
“Dolly Beckett,” Dixie says. “My cousin. Now listen.”
“The mayor’s daughter?” I ask. I vaguely remember hearing a song from her a few years ago, and everyone in town made a big deal of it, like they thought she was going to be the next Taylor Swift or something. Instead, the song faded away and people forgot all about it, like they do after a one mini-hit wonder or any other small town’s lame attempt at a claim to fame. Sadly, the only real celebrities that come through Faulkner are the ones who detox at Cedar Crest, the fancy rehabilitation center on the outskirts of town.
“Yes,” Dixie says. “She’s been in LA since she graduated, but she’s only ever had one song out. This is off her second album.”
We dutifully listen to the song with Dixie, since it’s her cousin, even though I’m not really into pop-country bops. Though I’ve never met her, it’s still cool to hear someone from your hometown on the radio. When the song is over, Gloria turns it back down. Dixie chatters on about her cousin until we get to school, and we get swept up in the Homecoming madness. The court lines up at halftime, all of them wearing mums that drape to the ground and must weigh half as much as the smaller girls on the court. They walk a red carpet and wave to everyone, and I cheer for Gloria and Dixie. The Walton twins and another Dolce girl round out the court.
The girls leave the field, and the halftime show continues, and then the football team comes back on. I watch Duke clowning when he gets a touchdown, watch the town loving him. Am I the only one who knows these boys are monsters? The only one who cares?
If I took them down, would I be the town’s enemy instead of their savior because I took away their golden boys? Maybe they don’t want to be saved. Maybe they don’t deserve it. What has this town ever done for me?
There’s no party after the game, since the dance is the next day. When Gloria drops me off, I go inside my small, smoky house. The big sectional Royal bought is gone, leaving one side of the living room bare except for a few beer bottles and cigarette butts that had rolled under the couch, some dust bunnies, and the dents in the threadbare carpet where the legs of the couch rested.
“Mom?” I call, shrugging out of my jacket.
“Oh, thank god you’re home,” she says, rushing out of my room and down the hall toward me. I stiffen, instantly on alert. I know this Mom. It’s not the one who sat on her bed and told me she was proud of me for getting a sugar daddy. This is the Mom who talks too fast, walks too fast, her movements jerky and almost robotic but also exaggeratedly quick. The one who stayed out all night partying and didn’t sleep it off before crawling home, spaced out and jittery and coming down. This Mom is still up.
“What do you need?” I ask carefully, watching her for sudden movements. It’s been a while since she came home tweaked out, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten her sudden rages.
“The keys,” she says. “Where are the keys?”
“What keys?” I ask, tucking my jacket under my arm instead of tossing it on a chair. The key she wants is in the pocket of my jacket. I know better than to leave something like that at home when I’m out with friends.
“The car keys,” Mom says impatiently, holding out a hand. “Where are they?”
“You don’t have a car, Mom,” I remind her.
“Baby, I know that,” she says. “But I got a little behind on my payments, you know, to Bobby Dale, you remember him? He’s been around here before, came to my retirement party. You remember? He was wearing a trucker hat, I think it was black, had the little figure of a woman on it, what’s that called? You know, just the shape? What’s it called?”
She snaps her fingers fast, fast, fast.
“A silhouette,” I say, staring at this woman, willing her to look like a stranger and not so bone-tired familiar. “And yes, I remember Billy Bob, but he’s not getting my car.”
“No, no, no, it’s just to borrow,” she says. “Like collateral. He’s just needing me to pay him back, and see, I don’t have the money right now, baby. But I’m gonna get it, and real soon, too, you’ll see. I’m fixing to get a job tomorrow, I just need to hold him off a little.”