Page 34 of Broken Bayou
“Dude,” one of his friends said. “Chill.”
“Dude,” her brother said back. “She’s fourteen.”
Claire flipped them both off, hopped down the jet’s stairs and into her waiting Uber.
“Be back here by one a.m. Wheels up at two a.m.,” her brother yelled.
Claire slammed the door and texted her friends, who were already waiting for her on Royal Street.OMW bitches.
The Uber dropped her on Canal because traffic was insane. Claire jumped out and walked the rest of the way into the French Quarter. Beads were flying from balconies down to moronic girls with their topslifted. Bourbon was wall-to-wall costumes and masks and hammered tourists. It was perfect.
Until some drunk dickhead stumbled into the back of her.
She wheeled around and froze when she saw him. Not a drunk dickhead. Shit. Then he did something odd. He took her picture with a Polaroid camera.
“Not cool,” she yelled at him over the roar of laughter and music. “Give me that.” If that picture got online, her mother would kill her.
He smiled, held it over his head. “Come and get it.”
She stepped closer, reached up, and in the next instant, felt something sharp jab her in the neck. Her vision blurred. She rubbed at the spot as the man leaned in and said, “I forgot to ask you to say cheese.”
Chapter Ten
The next morning starts with a jolt. I sit up, startled. Some kind of noise woke me. My head pounds. Visions of last night click through my mind. Travis, the wine, the kiss. Oh God. And on top of all that are the remnants of my dreams. Dreams about missing girls and missing cars and small-town bullies.
Bullies had been the topic of my first podcast, inspired by the bullies who went after my little sister. She was an easy target. Her stringy blonde hair refused to cover her large ears, and the mean girls at school called her Mouse. One called her Rat. I waited for that one on the little school bus that took the kids home in the afternoon. Mabry and I always rode home in Mama’s station wagon because she worked in the office, which got us a break on tuition, the rest of tuition covered by the current boyfriend. Somebody rich enough to have two refrigerators, Mama told us when we asked who he was.
That day on the bus, I waited. The leader of the bullies sat down by the window, and I moved up to the seat behind hers. As the bus rumbled into the driveway of its first stop, I pulled out a large pair of silver scissors I’d snagged from my homeroom. I snatched the bully girl’s braids in one hand and snipped them off. She screamed. I dropped her braids in her lap. “Now who looks like a rat.”
I was suspended for three days. It’s the only time I remember Mama telling me she was proud of me.
Of course, that’s not the advice I give out now. Today, a kid would be arrested for doing what I did. Probably sued. Rightly so. It was brutal, and I felt awful for that little girl who cowed away from me at school. And then I’d look at Mabry and feel awful for feeling awful. It’s no wonder I found my way into psychology.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and something clunks onto the floor. Black VHS tapes litter the covers. I have a vague memory of emptying the box after emptying the bottle of wine that Travis left. I’d separated out a pile that was labeled. The others were unlabeled. There are so many. I open my phone and pull up my order. A screen informs me my order is stillIn Transit. No indication if it’s actually going to show up today.
A loud knock sounds on the front door. The noise that woke me. I check my phone: 8:00 a.m. A little early for visitors, but I figure it’s going to be Travis. I hope he doesn’t apologize again. I’m the one who needs to apologize. Making a fool of myself is quickly becoming my new norm. Another knock. Or ... it could be a package.
I jump out of bed and twist my hair into the neatest bun I can manage, slip into a pair of pants, and button up a shirt but don’t bother tucking it in all the way. I trot down the front stairs, but when I open the door, I don’t see Travis or a package. I see a caricature of a man with yellow-blond hair, rosy cheeks, and round rimless glasses. To top it off, he’s wearing a bow tie with his tailored suit. And to his right stands a small towheaded boy who couldn’t be more than three years old, dressed like his dad, right down to the bow tie.
The older one extends his hand toward mine. “I’m Charles LaSalle II of LaSalle, LaSalle, and Landry. And you must be Mrs. ...” He pauses with his hand outstretched between us to check a piece of paper in his other hand. “Dr. Willa Watters.” He glances down. “This is Charles III. Charlie. He’s making rounds with Dad today since it’s summer and Mom needs a break.”
I picture the young mother on the other end of that phrase and consider mentioning my podcast. Then my mind spirals toifI’ll evenstill have a podcast to recommend. I clear my throat and shake Charles LaSalle II’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” I bend down and smile at his son. “And nice to meet you, Charlie.”
Charlie hides his face in his father’s leg, but something about him looks familiar.
“Son, don’t be rude,” Charles says, but Charlie only hides more.
“It’s okay,” I say, studying the boy. My antenna is up and telling me there could be more to Charlie than just being shy.
Charles clears his throat, studies me. “I ... um ... didn’t mean to wake you. Hope it’s okay we stopped by.”
“It’s fine.” I glance down. Even though I’m dressed, I don’t look like I’ve been up over ten minutes, which I haven’t. The shirt is more wrinkled than I thought, and I’ve buttoned the pants but forgotten to zip them. I pull my zipper up. “Come on in.”
Charles II blushes. “Again, sorry to bother you so early. I left a note saying I’d drop by. I popped over yesterday, but you weren’t here,” he adds quickly.
They follow me to the kitchen, and I notice Charlie is toe walking, like he’s tiptoeing across the floor.
“Walk normal,” the older Charles hisses under his breath, and my warning system wails.
