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"Then I'm going to tear it up." He clasped the top between his fingers as if he were getting ready to tear it.
"Don't!" Her voice was shaking. She bit the inside of her cheek, but she couldn't stop her eyes from filling with tears. "You don't want it, Reed. Please give it to me."
"I already told you what you have to do, Lard Ass."
"No. I'll tell my dad."
"And I'll tell him you're a stuck-up little liar. Which one of us do you think he'll believe?"
Both of them knew the answer to that question. Bert always took Reed's side.
A tear dripped off her jaw onto her cotton top, making an amoeba-shaped smear on the leaf of the strawberry. "Please."
"Pull down your pants, or I'll tear it up."
"No!"
He made a small tear at the top, and she couldn't hold back a sob of distress.
"Pull 'em down!"
"Please, don't! Please!"
"Are you going to do it, crybaby?" He lengthened the tear.
"Yes! Stop! Stop and I'll do it."
He lowered the photograph. Through her tears she saw that he had made a jagged rip through the top inch.
His eyes slithered down over her and settled on the point where her legs came together, that mysterious place where a few strands of golden hair had begun to grow. "Hurry up before somebody comes."
An awful vomit taste rose in her throat. She worked the button at the side of her shorts. Tears stung her eyes as she struggled with the zipper.
"Don't make me do this," she whispered. The words had a wavery sound, as if her throat were full of water. "Please. Just give me the picture."
"I told you to hurry." He wasn't even looking at her face, just staring at the place between her legs.
The bad taste in her mouth got worse as she slowly worked her shorts down over her tummy and thighs and then let them fall. They circled her ankles in a crooked figure eight. She was cold with shame as she stood in front of him in her blue cotton underpants with tiny yellow roses all over them.
"Give it to me now, " she begged.
"Pull down your panties first."
She tried not to think about it. She tried just to take her panties down so she could have the picture of her mother, but her hands wouldn't move. She stood in front of him with tears running down her cheeks and her shorts snagged around her chubby ankles and she knew she couldn't let him see her there.
"I can't," she whispered.
"Do it!" His small eyes darkened with fury.
Sobbing, she shook her head.
With an ugly twist to his mouth, he ripped the precious photograph in half, then in half again before letting the pieces float to the ground. He ground them beneath the sole of his sneaker and ran toward the house.
Tripping on her shorts, she stumbled blindly toward the ruined photograph. As she fell to her knees, she saw a set of widely spaced eyes tilted up at the ends just like her own. She gave a little shuddering gasp and told herself it would be all right. She would smooth everything out and tape it all back together again.
Her hands shook as she arranged the four crumpled pieces in their proper order, the top corners first and then the bottom ones. Only after the photograph was reassembled did she see Reed's final act of malice. A thick, black mustache had been inked in just above her mother's soft upper lip.
That had been twenty-three years ago, but Phoebe could still feel an ache in her chest as she stood at the window staring out over the grounds. All the material luxuries of her childhood had never been able to compensate for growing up under the shadow of Reed's cruel bullying and her father's scorn.
