Page 44 of She’s a Doll

I listened to Nicola’s bare feet pad across the room toward me. “What are you doing back there?”

That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what happened? Everyone blamed Grandma.

She didn’t deny it.

This town, I rasped. This fucked-up town. You rich bitches always treat the rest of us like⁠—

“Hey. Hold up. You think I’m a rich bitch?”

You weren’t like me. You spent fifty dollars on a dress.

“What are you talking about?”

At the tea party!

“Yeah. OK. You got me. Years ago I spent fifty dollars on a dress that I only wore once, and I regretted it. How much did that cosplay cost you, per chance?”

Fuck you.

“I’m going to let that one slide because you’re upset,” she said. “And I get it. You have a right to be upset. This is a lot to process all at once. And yeah, you’re not wrong. This town is fucked, and what they said about your grandma was also fucked. But that’s just another reason to go to the police. If we can find evidence of what Kyle did, we can clear your grandma’s name.”

That wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have to spare Kyle to save Grandma. My grandma never hurt me. She was the only person in the world I knew never would. She’d raised me. Loved me. Carved out a space for me after my mum died and my dad decided he couldn’t cope.

Kyle did this. He did all of it. And now Nicola didn’t even want to help me kill him. She thought he could walk away from this with a heart that beat, with lungs that breathed. She thought the police arresting him would be justice.

He killed me. He killed me. He did it with his own hands. Why should he be allowed to do that and live? Why should he get anything less than what I got? Why should my family be the one to take the blame? Why should I have to be the one to settle?

“I’m sorry,” she said after a while, voice soft and calm and careful again. “I shouldn’t have dropped that info about your grandma being a suspect on you like that. I forget sometimes what you missed.”

I didn’t respond.

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” she added. “I never did.”

I stayed quiet.

“And I’m sorry I . . . I know this is hard for you, going through that day again. I’m sorry I lost my cool.”

I didn’t know what she was trying to do. Be nice? I didn’t want her to be nice. I wanted to go back to fighting. Fighting was easy. Fighting made sense. Fighting made the anger frothing beneath my duct tape feel strong, justified.

“And I’m sorry you didn’t think you could tell us about your certificate at Ginger’s party,” she continued, relentless.

Stop apologizing, I muttered. It was just a certificate.

“Hey. It’s more than I ever got.”

I thought you went to university.

“Sure did. For a bit. Got the debt to prove it, but not the degree.”

You dropped out?

“That’s another way to put it.”

But you were one of the smart kids in high school.

“Huh. I’m glad you noticed. I would’ve gotten dux if Chelsea Peters hadn’t swooped in last term with a perfect English score. I never forgave her for that.”

Chelsea Peters was at the party, I remembered. She’d worn a pink dress with tiny bells on the hem of her skirt. Beautiful. Of course. They’d all been beautiful. Shimmery, sparkly, and special.