I’m disinclined to go anywhere without breakfast or at least a cup of coffee but it looks like I have no choice. I get behind the wheel of Laura’s car, hoping that the cold water I splashed on my face beforehand is enough to keep me awake for however long it takes to drive to the nearest fast-food joint that serves the greasy breakfast I’m craving.
Then I think better of it. It’ll cost more right away but it’ll make my pitiable budget last longer if I just restock Laura’s fridge instead. I check my reflection in the rearview mirror (tangled hair, dark circles under my eyes, bloodshot eyeballs) and pull up to the big chain grocery store.
The place and its parking lot is the size of a small airport. Nothing like its city counterparts where every square foot counts. That, and at just past ten a.m., it’s deserted. The aisles stretch out unto infinity, humming with air-conditioned air. That air depuffs my eyes the moment I walk in, and my mood instantly improves. I get coffee, a loaf of bread, some eggs, some bacon. I’m browsing leisurely through the produce section—I feel better just laying my eyes on all these luscious greens—when I become aware of another customer at the other end of the aisle. The woman has her back to me, facing her overflowing cart. I take note of the food in her cart, which leaves something to be desired, not cheap stuff but not healthy: frozen chicken wings, burgers, the expensive kind of frozen entrees, name-brand chips. She’s got a sizable budget but she doesn’t like to cook. Just like the cart, her figure only looks good at first glance. She’s thin but has the unfit, lumpy look of someone who keeps losing weight and regaining it.
She’s parked in front of the tomatoes, which she’s inspecting like she’s buying diamonds. She keeps staring and staring and staring at them, not budging, while I wait, idling a few feet away. I get impatient. I tap my foot. Finally, she takes off in a huff, the wheels of the cart groaning. Instead of making a beeline for the tomatoes, I watch her as her blond ponytail swishes across her Lululemon-clad back. Then she turns into the next aisle, and in that moment, I finally glimpse the side of her face. Recognition is instant. I freeze to the spot, unable to decide what to make of it. By the time I collect myself, more or less, Cath is gone.
I throw two or three tomatoes at random into my cart and take off. My heart is hammering. In the ice-cold store, I’m suddenly sweating through my T-shirt. By the time I turn into the same aisle, Cath is nowhere to be seen. I could take off after her, which would be conspicuous and make me look and feel like a stalker, or I could gather my dignity and go to checkout.
Naturally, I choose the first option. It seems like my steps resonate down the aisle like thunder as I hurry to where I think Cath went. I finally find her at the very end of the store, by the wall of detergents.
She must realize that she’s cornered, literally and figuratively. She can’t make a run for it without acknowledging me or she’ll be the one coming across as the loser. I approach her, mentally scampering to find what to say. Hi? Hey? Remember it’s been fifteen years since you stole my boyfriend on graduation night? Good to see you again.
Cath saves me the awkwardness. She’s the first one to speak. “Stephanie,” she says, “are you stalking me?”
“And hello to you too, Catherine. You could have said hi instead of pretending you didn’t see me.”
“And you could have taken your cue. But then again, manners were never your strong suit.”
“You’re one to talk about manners,” I say, sneering.
She ignores the remark, grinning. “So I guess things fell through in the big city,” she says. “Seeing how you’re back here after this long, and on top of that, still salty about your high school boyfriend choosing somebody else.”
“What can I say? It’s better to be a has-been than a never-been. How’s the corn this year? Or did you also switch to soy? Luc mentioned something about soy.”
Clearly, it’s that last sentence that hits the mark. Her face drops the fake cheerful look like a mask. “You stay away from Luc. That ship has sailed, Stephanie. A long time ago.”
“He’s the one who offered me a ride. Not my fault if he’s not in a great hurry to get home.”
“And he’s the one who told me all about it when he did get home,” she parries.
I can’t help it. I’m thrown off-balance. He did? I picture him pulling up to Cath’s dad’s McMansion in that F-150, sauntering up the stone front steps, kissing Cath on the lips, and telling her, Guess who I ran into today. She must really be down on her luck, hitchhiking…
“Yup, I knew I’d be running into you sooner or later. And I knew you came back two years ago to dig up sordid tales about Michelle Fortier. Everyone was talking about it. How everybody turned you down. How pathetic you were.”
I start to say something, but she interrupts, which is probably just as well, since I almost certainly would have regretted whatever was about to come out of my mouth.
“Don’t even start. Everyone could see through your bullshit then and now. It was all an excuse to sniff around Luc. You’re so transparent.”
“My god, Cath, I see why you never left Marly. You were always so limited, and you stayed that way. I’m here to get justice for a nine-year-old girl. Can you even wrap your little head around that?”
I know this stupid spat is nearing a crescendo. I guess we’re still just two high school mean girls.
Cath’s eyes flash in anger. “Why don’t you just pack your things and go back to where you came from?” she asks. “Can’t you see? No one wants you here. No one.” Her voice rises in pitch. A store employee pokes his head into the aisle to see what’s going on. “Everyone just feels sorry for you. The town trash. Just like your mother.”
I glance sideways to see that three, not just one, store employees are now observing the scene.
“Say what you want about Laura, but at least she never went after anyone who was taken,” I say. “Have a good one, Cath. Nice to see you again, and say hi to Luc.”
I must admit I feel a little unsafe turning my back on her. In high school, Cath was one of those popular girls who got away with whatever crazy shit they pulled—unlike me, even though I was arguably more popular than her. She had the rich parents and the father with some influence around town. Me, not so much. I had to toe the line but Cath could do whatever she pleased. In ninth-grade gym class, she put Nair in the shampoo of a girl who, Cath decided, paid too much attention to her crush. She once threw a metal water bottle at another girl in a fit of rage and chipped her tooth. She pretty much got away with it all with no consequences.
Maybe that’s how she ultimately decided to stick her hands down my boyfriend’s pants on prom night. Maybe Cath just got away with too much for way too long. She could never stand to play second fiddle to anyone. Especially me.
I pay for my groceries as calmly as I can—thank God my credit card payment goes through smoothly. I don’t need the additional humbling. The cashier is already staring at me. I can imagine what sort of rumors will be spreading through town by midafternoon.
Then I drive home, where Laura is still fast asleep but starting to stir, judging by the regular interruptions in her snoring. The odd feeling that invades me is a surprise. I almost feel a kind of tenderness toward her. Maybe it’s just Stockholm syndrome, but Laura did always dislike Cath in the extreme, almost as much as she hated Luc. And didn’t Laura turn out to be right after all?
To distract myself from ugly memories, I get a pan from one of the drawers and start making breakfast. Laura, it turns out, does have an old drip coffee machine that still works, and soon enough, the heady aroma of fresh coffee and frying bacon seeps under and around her flimsy bedroom door and wakes her up. She ambles out, wrapped in a bathrobe, squinting in the sun, and almost immediately reaches for her cigarettes. The smell of tobacco mingles with the scents of food.
“Mom,” I say, exasperated.
“What? Not like I have much to lose at this point.”
Anyone else might take a reprieve from bowel cancer as a second lease on life and at least try not to mess it up the second time. Clearly, Laura is the opposite, the YOLO type.
She takes her seat at the kitchen table, and I slide over a cup of coffee, which she takes with a grateful nod. “Aren’t you the domestic goddess,” she says.
“Hey, you don’t have to eat my breakfast if you don’t like it. There’s always old cereal.”
She gives me a smile that looks more like a smirk.
“I saw Cath at the store,” I say neutrally.
Laura makes a face. “Well, I hope you didn’t let her out of your sight. Wouldn’t put it past Claude Belair’s spoiled offspring to put rat poison in our food.”
“Oh, come on, Mom,” I say.
“Stephanie, I always told you. Stay away from people like Cath. There’s only one reason someone like her would be friends with someone like you in the first place…”
