See-You-Next-Tuesday."
"I don't get it."
"Spell it out."
The girl does. "Oh. I get it. Cunt." The girl rolls her eyes. "Whatever."
"Don't you roll your eyes at me, missy. And you shouldn't say that word."
"Okay, Mom ."
"I'm not your mom."
"I know that. I'm not a moron. Did you think that for a moment I actually believed you were my mother?" She thrusts her tongue into the pocket of her cheek with a bulge, looks Miriam up and down. "You're old enough to be my mom, though."
"I am not, you little fucking jerk. I'm only in my mid-twenties."
She shrugs. "So is my mom."
"You're what, thirteen?"
"Twelve." She sees Miriam looking at her. "Yeah, my mom was fifteen when I was born. And since I'm not a total tardcart, I can do the math, and that means she's twenty-seven. See? Mid-twenties."
" Late -twenties," Miriam corrects. "And even then, it's not like she's some old-ass hausfrau . Respect your elders. Or something."
"I would but she's gone."
"Gone. Like, poof, evaporated into nothing? Gone like dead? What?"
"Like, left me alone in her studio apartment a year ago to go off and see the world. Or shoot heroin. Because she really likes heroin."
"So she kind of sucks, then."
"Kind of."
"My mother was the opposite," Miriam says. She tries to picture her mother's face. It's hard. The face swims in a cloud of features – noses and eyes and cheeks and skin palettes. Some drift into place before floating away again, rejected. "Prim and proper. Had me locked me down pretty good. That woman probably could've used a little heroin. Loosen her up a bit."
"My mom could've used more prim and proper."
"We could trade moms."
"Deal."
The girl offers her hand.
Miriam stares at it like it's covered in spiders.
The door to the office opens – and Miriam notes that it says Headmaster, not Principal. A small man with slicked-back black hair, two dark cherry-pit eyes, and a navy blazer pokes his head out.
"Miss Lauren Martin," the Headmaster says, his voice long and drawn out and creaky like an old door. "Nice to see you again. We will attend to you shortly. First I must meet with Miss…"
He looks at Miriam, expectant.
"Black," she says. She thought about lying, but fuck it.
"Good. Miss Black, if you care to…" He steps back from his door.
The girl – Lauren – looks up at her. Hand still out.
"Do we have a deal?" she asks Miriam. "To trade moms."
Miriam knows she shouldn't touch the hand. What's the point? Just as she's starting to like this girl she's going to fast-forward to the girl's demise, however it goes. Drunk-driving accident at age eighteen or a head-cracking slip in the shower at age eighty-one?
And yet there's that urge, that familiar urge, the tingle in the tips of her fingers and the damp creases of her palm, and she reaches in and hesitates suddenly the way an airplane hovers above the landing strip before setting down on the tarmac and then–
She takes her hand and sees how the girl is going to die.
FIFTEEN
The Mockingbird's Song
Early morning light shines gray through shattered window, capturing in its beam whorls of dust and flakes of rot, and the beam ends on the face of Lauren Martin, age eighteen, strapped to an old doctor's table. The leather padding beneath her is cracked and bites into her naked back, thighs, buttocks. Smells braid together: sweat, urine, steel, and through all of it the thread of a sharp chemical stink.
Lauren is gagged with barbed wire, wound all the way around her head, front to back – the rusty barbs tearing into the corners of the girl's mouth.
The wire binds her head to the table.
Her tongue and lips are dried. She's been here a while.
The walls around her are blackened and charred. Wallpaper bubbled like blistered skin. The ceiling is pulled down in places. Knob and tube wiring dangle, caught in saggy bundles of
"I don't get it."
"Spell it out."
The girl does. "Oh. I get it. Cunt." The girl rolls her eyes. "Whatever."
"Don't you roll your eyes at me, missy. And you shouldn't say that word."
"Okay, Mom ."
"I'm not your mom."
"I know that. I'm not a moron. Did you think that for a moment I actually believed you were my mother?" She thrusts her tongue into the pocket of her cheek with a bulge, looks Miriam up and down. "You're old enough to be my mom, though."
"I am not, you little fucking jerk. I'm only in my mid-twenties."
She shrugs. "So is my mom."
"You're what, thirteen?"
"Twelve." She sees Miriam looking at her. "Yeah, my mom was fifteen when I was born. And since I'm not a total tardcart, I can do the math, and that means she's twenty-seven. See? Mid-twenties."
" Late -twenties," Miriam corrects. "And even then, it's not like she's some old-ass hausfrau . Respect your elders. Or something."
"I would but she's gone."
"Gone. Like, poof, evaporated into nothing? Gone like dead? What?"
"Like, left me alone in her studio apartment a year ago to go off and see the world. Or shoot heroin. Because she really likes heroin."
"So she kind of sucks, then."
"Kind of."
"My mother was the opposite," Miriam says. She tries to picture her mother's face. It's hard. The face swims in a cloud of features – noses and eyes and cheeks and skin palettes. Some drift into place before floating away again, rejected. "Prim and proper. Had me locked me down pretty good. That woman probably could've used a little heroin. Loosen her up a bit."
"My mom could've used more prim and proper."
"We could trade moms."
"Deal."
The girl offers her hand.
Miriam stares at it like it's covered in spiders.
The door to the office opens – and Miriam notes that it says Headmaster, not Principal. A small man with slicked-back black hair, two dark cherry-pit eyes, and a navy blazer pokes his head out.
"Miss Lauren Martin," the Headmaster says, his voice long and drawn out and creaky like an old door. "Nice to see you again. We will attend to you shortly. First I must meet with Miss…"
He looks at Miriam, expectant.
"Black," she says. She thought about lying, but fuck it.
"Good. Miss Black, if you care to…" He steps back from his door.
The girl – Lauren – looks up at her. Hand still out.
"Do we have a deal?" she asks Miriam. "To trade moms."
Miriam knows she shouldn't touch the hand. What's the point? Just as she's starting to like this girl she's going to fast-forward to the girl's demise, however it goes. Drunk-driving accident at age eighteen or a head-cracking slip in the shower at age eighty-one?
And yet there's that urge, that familiar urge, the tingle in the tips of her fingers and the damp creases of her palm, and she reaches in and hesitates suddenly the way an airplane hovers above the landing strip before setting down on the tarmac and then–
She takes her hand and sees how the girl is going to die.
FIFTEEN
The Mockingbird's Song
Early morning light shines gray through shattered window, capturing in its beam whorls of dust and flakes of rot, and the beam ends on the face of Lauren Martin, age eighteen, strapped to an old doctor's table. The leather padding beneath her is cracked and bites into her naked back, thighs, buttocks. Smells braid together: sweat, urine, steel, and through all of it the thread of a sharp chemical stink.
Lauren is gagged with barbed wire, wound all the way around her head, front to back – the rusty barbs tearing into the corners of the girl's mouth.
The wire binds her head to the table.
Her tongue and lips are dried. She's been here a while.
The walls around her are blackened and charred. Wallpaper bubbled like blistered skin. The ceiling is pulled down in places. Knob and tube wiring dangle, caught in saggy bundles of
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