Betsy Wickwire's Dirty Secret (20 page)

T
here weren't many people at the funeral so Dolores's green hair stood out even more than normal. I sat in a pew at the back. I didn't hear anything the priest said. I just stood or sat when everyone else did.

When it was over, Dolores walked out right past me. I wanted to stop her but I was too scared. I was worried she'd cause a commotion in the church.

Then it occurred to me: Frank would have enjoyed a commotion.

Dolores was already out the door by the time I realized that. I got up and followed her.

Frank's daughter was shaking people's hands in the lobby. I said to her, “I'm really sad Frank died. He changed my life.” His daughter was surprised by that, but I didn't have time to explain. I'm not even sure I could have.

Dolores was half a block down Barrington Street by the time I got out. Murdoch was in the Rebel on the other
side of the road. I motioned for him to wait—then ran after her.

“Dolores! Wait up!”

She kept walking. I ran faster. Not that it was particularly hard to catch her.

“Please,” I said and grabbed her shoulder. I had no idea what I was going to say next.

She didn't turn around. She just wiped my hand away as if it was dandruff and kept going.

I stopped, my forehead pounding, and thought, Fine. Let her go. What's the use? I'd tried.

I headed back toward Murdoch but I didn't get very far before I sighed, turned around and started running after her again.

“Dolores! Would you quit it? Come on. Murdoch's here. We'll give you a drive.” I tried to keep my voice from sounding mad but I couldn't do anything about my footsteps.

I was just centimetres away when she finally swung around. She was wearing a conservative black dress that looked like something my mother would wear to an important meeting.

“Why should I?” she said.

We stood there glaring at each other like two boxers in a publicity shot.

It was a good question.

Because I miss you
.

Because you came and dragged me out of my room when all I wanted to do was die
.

Because you made me get over myself
. “Well?” she said.
Because everybody screws up. Because everybody has dirty secrets. Because I know exactly how you feel
.

There was no good answer, at least none that I could get myself to say. It was all so complicated and ugly and we were both just human. We'd both done things we shouldn't have. I really didn't want to get into it. Did it really matter? Who even cared? I just needed to say something that Dolores would understand.

“Because you're being a douchebag,” I said.

She stared at me and tossed her hair back off her face.

“So are you,” she said.

“My point exactly.”

We both wanted to laugh but neither of us would. She reached down and adjusted the strap on her shoes. They were purple platform heels with orange glass butterflies on the toes. I knew she couldn't have stolen
those
from any of our clients.

“Well, all right,” she said. “But only because these heels are killing me.” She tromped right past me toward the Rebel. “You can take me to Value Village on the way.”

C
arly was leaning against the counter. Her hands were behind her back and her hair was swept over to one side. She was looking up at Nick. He was going to kiss her.

Betsy understood that immediately. It yanked her to a stop. She stood in the cafeteria doorway like a cardboard cut-out of herself—flat, motionless, feeling absolutely nothing except the roots of her hair, which suddenly ached like thousands of tiny bruises.

Oh, get over it
, she thought.

She'd known this was going to happen sooner or later and that, when it did, it would be awkward. She grabbed a tray and got in line. “Hi, guys,” she said.

Carly's hand flew up to her mouth. Nick jumped back.

Betsy laughed. “Relax.”

They didn't. They pulled themselves together enough to natter on about McGill and Montreal and their residences and their courses, but they didn't relax.

And the truth was, neither did Betsy. She wanted to be big about it and forgive them but she knew she never would. She wanted to like them too, but that wasn't going to happen either. The whole time they talked all she could think about was how perfect they were—and how little that seemed to matter any more.

The only time her heart got involved in the conversation at all was when she noticed Carly wrap her finger around Nick's. It made Betsy think of Murdoch. Two more weeks until the end of September and then he'd be in Montreal—provided, of course, the Rebel made it that far. If he was lucky—if
she
was lucky—he'd get one of the animation jobs he was applying for here.

The guy at the grill asked Nick for his order. Betsy used the interruption to make her escape to the salad bar. She piled her plate up with healthy green stuff and then, on a whim, threw in a big, unnaturally orange mound of pasta salad too, just because it reminded her of Dolores.

Betsy would Skype her after dinner. She wanted to see how the night class in set design was turning out.

A girl Betsy recognized from her creative writing course was seated at a table by the window. She'd volunteered to read her story in class the other day. It was this
really weird fable about a 112-year-old woman, a singing meerkat and a gigolo named Ralph.

Betsy picked up her tray and went over to introduce herself.

This book would not have been possible without the inspiration provided by Lynne Missen, Hadley Dyer and the long greasy hair coiled in Eliza's bowl of pablum.

VICKI GRANT
has been called “one of the funniest writers working today” (The Vancouver Sun). Her comic legal thriller, Quid Pro Quo, was described as “John Grisham for the skateboard set.” Her most recent book, Not Suitable for Family Viewing, won the Red Maple Award, was named a Manitoba Young Readers' Choice Award Honour Book and was shortlisted for the Canadian Library Association Young Adult Book Award, the Arthur Ellis Award and the Snow Willow Award. Visit Vicki online at www.vickigrant.com.

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Betsy Wickwire's Dirty Secret
Copyright © 2011 by Post Partum Productions.

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