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She looks like she thinks giant scorpions are going to jump out of the flowers. If so, it’s the fault ofWhole Foods, not me. I move to place the flowers on the plots of displaced earth she was kneeling beside, but she won’t move. She stands, blocking me. I raise my eyebrows, bemused. She’s like a kitten trying to pick a fight with a tiger, but the effort is appreciated.
I blink, my confusion now shifting to annoyance. “What’s your problem? Weren’t you the one who was all into paying respects and shit?”
“And shit,” she mocks, then her lips tighten, as if she’s not used to the curse coming out of her mouth. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Okay.” My eyes narrow, and I raise my flowers higher, like I’m brandishing a torch. “So, can I leave these and go, please?”
“No, I—we don’t want them.”
I can feel a muscle in my jaw ticking. I have no idea what I did to piss her off.
Okay, that’s not true. I can think of a ton of things I’ve done that could have potentially pissed off Etta, but the thing is she’s never cared. Ever, which is sort of why I kept doing it. Her lack of reaction has taunted me for years. That, and I like watching her on the rare occasion she does get mad.
“You know these are Tyberius’s parents, right?” she says, pointing at her aunt and uncle’s graves. “Did you ever think maybe they wouldn’t want your respect?”
“Why, cause their son is a prick? I don’t see the connection?”
She stands and practically vibrates with anger. “Because you beat up their son for no reason.”
I take a step back, slightly surprised at how upset she is. Of all the things I thought she would be mad about, her cousin hadn’t even crossed my mind.
It’s interesting though, that she never reacts when I poke at her, but the one time she thinks her family has been slighted, she’s furious. Beyond that, does she really believe I beat up her punk cousin for no reason? Tyberius Capulet was a good fucking actor then if his family believed that. Then again, I guess he wouldn’t tell them about what he did to Marcia—or almost managed to do before I intervened.
“Sure, good girl. Believe whatever you want.” I shove the flowers at her and take a step back. “Use them or throw them out, I don’t care.”
I turn and start to walk away, reaching into my pocket for my cigarettes. Just talking to her stresses me out in a way little else does, when I notice that there’s no car parked along the road in between the various plots. I stop, looking around. Did she walk?
A strange, foreign feeling rises in my throat, nearly choking me—like anger, but bitter. I lower the cigarette, unlit, and spin back around. “Are you out here alone?”
Etta looks up from where she’s crouched by her grandmother’s grave, seeming surprised I’m still here. “Amazing deduction, Sherlock.”
My gaze hardens. So much for her speech about kindness or whatever—I must be a special case, because I’ve never heard Etta be quite so caustic. “Where’s your car?”
“Why?”
“It’s a long walk back to your house.”
“Yes, thank you for that observation.”
“You shouldn’t walk alone, it’s dangerous. Come on, I’ll take you home.”
I hear myself, and I don’t recognize the person using my mouth. What the fuck am I talking about? Dangerous, how? This is fucking Stratford Massachusetts, a suburban college town with a median income of over a million per household and a crime rate of 2%, exclusively due to fights caused by our respective relatives. If anyone is in danger, it would be me if any of her family saw her in my car.
She stares at me with so much contempt I can practically feel the flames licking over my skin. “So, to sum up, you’re saying I should let you drive me home in case I run into some weird guy in the cemetery who wants me to get into his car?”
“Exactly.” I nod, glad she’s agreeing, and then realize what she’s getting at. “Wait, no.”
She shakes her head. “I’m all set, thanks.”
“Etta–”
She raises her eyebrows, probably because I’ve said her name. It sounds weird to me too, and we both pause for a moment. Suddenly I’m trying to remember if I’veeverused her real name, and why that’s even relevant.
In short, it isn’t.
“Etta,” I try again. “Don’t be stupid.”
The noise she makes is somewhere between a scoff and a choke. “Oh, I’m definitely going to listen to you now,” she says sarcastically. “Just leave me alone, Montague. I wouldn’t get in your car without a blue light and someLysol,anyway.I’m all set for STDs, thanks.”
