Free The Thirteen by Susie Moloney Page A

own.”
    Then the two of them were off again, talking about children, blah blah. Rowan sighed and retreated into the house, taking Tex with her. On their way through the door—her mu-ther didn’t even notice she was leaving—Old Tex swung his head back for another look. Rowan fantasized that the old guy was broadcasting a warning. Go home .
    In her mom’s old room she parted the curtains just wide enough to peer out at the two of them on the walk. They were still gabbing, gabbing, dark heads bent together like crows
    (pecking at something interesting and dead)
    She went from the window to the closet, found her school blazer with the St. Mary’s crest
    (Semper Vigilans)
    and put it on. She felt a little better. Then she pawed through her school bag and from the bottom fished out her pink plastic crucifix; they had all got one as a prize in the Lives of the Saints spelling bee the week before she got suspended. It was crappy and cheap, and as she pulled it out she hoped the little white Jesus hadn’t fallen off.
    Jesus was still glued to his cross. Rowan put it in the pocket of her blazer. Then she went into the living room and turned on the television, settling in for the short term at least. A rerun of the Jerry Springer Show came on. A big fat lady picked up a chair and threw it across the room at another lady, screaming obscenities that were bleeped out.
    She sat watching, sticking her hand into her pocket now and then, keeping track of the cawing and gabbing outside.
    Marla was so beautiful now, Paula thought. The awkward teen she had been was entirely erased. Her hair, her eyes—there was no mistaking it was Marla, but it was as though someone had retouched her, narrowing her jawline, lengthening her legs, scooping in her waist.
    “I think you’ll like the girls I’m hanging out with,” Marla said. “You’ve probably heard of one of them—Joanna Shaw?”
    Paula was impressed. Shaw was a popular talk-show host. “She lives here?”
    “Yes, and she’s a good friend. You know her show is going national next week?”
    Paula did know that. “How did you get to know her?”
    “Oh, I did a little consulting work for her,” she said. “But anyway, I’ll invite Joanna and a few of the other girls over, and I promise you’ll have fun.”
    “Well, it’ll be nice to see people, whether I know them or not.”
    “You’re home now. Where you belong.” Marla put her hand on Paula’s arm. It was comforting.
    “What about your husband? Will I get to meet him?”
    “Oh, he’ll be at work. I make sure he works very hard for us.” Marla laughed, and Paula felt included in the joke, whether or not she could imagine making a man work hard for her.
    Finally Marla said, “I really have to run. Can’t wait for Friday.” She got her keys out of her purse as Paula walked her to the car. She climbed inside and Paula leaned to look in the open passengerside window.
    “It’s so good to see you.”
    Marla smiled happily. “It’ll be like old times. But better—for both of us.” And she pulled away from the curb, pushing her sunglasses down over her eyes in a single smooth, elegant gesture. Like a movie star.
    Paula reached into her pocket and pulled out Marla’s card. It was plain white, with a black border. Very posh.
    She looked up at the house, wondering what in hell she would wear, knowing full well that whatever it was, she wasn’t going to be able to compete with Marla. She was lost in these thoughts all the way back into the house, where she discovered her daughter curled up with stinky old Tex in front of the TV, so bored she was radiating.
    “Okay, okay,” she said. “We’ll walk the dog!”
    Marla was frowning as she drove off. It had been good to see Paula. Weird, and good also, to drive up to that house and see a young girl on the step. For a second it seemed as if Marla had travelled back in time—sixteen, seventeen years back—had shown up at the Wittmores the way she’d done when they were