Page 81 of She’s a Doll

Another ad break.

Another song.

I was just starting to think that perhaps Ginger wouldn’t show, that we’d be able to go back to Nicola’s place, watch TV, and pretend none of this had happened, at least for a few days more. It was a disturbingly beautiful thought, one I wanted to be true more than I should have. But then Nicola sat up straighter, and I knew we weren’t going to be so lucky.

“Not a word, Lu,” she said softly. “That was your promise. Not a word. I . . . I won’t be able to do this if you’re talking too.”

Not a word, I said.

Only a few seconds later the passenger’s side door opened and someone sat down. I couldn’t see her. Not really. Hidden in my pile of rubbish with only a narrow opening, I couldn’t see more than the hem of a pink maxi dress and the edge of a tan pleather handbag. But her voice, when she spoke, was achingly familiar.

“Hello, Nicola.”

“Hey.”

“Thank you for . . . um . . .”

“What did you want to talk about, Ginger?”

Ginger exhaled slowly. “So . . . that’s how it’s going to be?”

“Yeah,” Nicola said. “That’s how it’s going to be.”

I shifted slowly, carefully, until Ginger’s halo of blonde curls came into view, poking out from behind the headrest. Just like in a corny daytime movie, the music on the radio turned sweet and warbly when I saw her. A love song, one I recognized, old and nostalgic.

When we were kids, Ginger had always been the queen bee, the star of the show, the Barbie doll, all glittery and perfect. Except she’d also been nice, which was unfair. You shouldn’t get to be beautiful, popular, and nice. But that was the Ginger Béliveau brand.

Except she wasn’t Ginger Béliveau. Not anymore. She was Ginger Lawson now.

“You know,” Ginger Lawson said, “it’s unfair that you’re angry at me.”

In the rearview mirror, Nicola’s eyes slid closed for a moment. “Unfair?” she repeated in a flat monotone.

“Yes. It’s unfair. You’re the one that made up stories about my husband, vandalized half the town, hacked into Lucy’s Meta account.”

“Lucy told me her password,” Nicola said, eyes opening, face blank and unreadable. “Not exactly a master hacker over here.”

Ginger turned her head, and I caught a glimpse of her profile, pensive lips, round-tipped nose. “I didn’t know you and Lucy were so close.”

“Yeah. Well. Life’s full of surprises.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Look,” Ginger began. “I . . . I’m sorry that we’re not friends anymore but⁠—”

Nicola switched off the radio, killing the song mid-crescendo and plunging the car into a sudden, suffocating silence. “Say that again.”

“I, um . . . I’m sorry that . . . that we’re not . . .”

“Say it.”

“I just meant . . .”

“I have hearing loss,” Nicola reminded her, voice pitched low and angry. “Say it again. I need to know I heard you right. You’re sorry that we’re not what?”

“Friends anymore,” Ginger said, louder.

“Oh. Right. That makes sense. You’re sorry because when I told you what happened to me, you didn’t believe it.”