Free She'll Take It by Mary Carter Page B

beauty Kim was blessed with a childlike innocence, and picking up on subtleties was not her forte.
    â€œTrina’s Web site,” she says again. “And I swear, Melanie—nobody thinks it’s funny. I didn’t know about it until she showed it to everybody at the Fruit of the Loom audition. But don’t worry—she’s the one who came off looking bad. Even the banana thought she was a bitch.” I pause here, not only because unlike me Kim uses cuss words sparingly and I’m thrown that she’s just called Trina a bitch, but for the second time today I have a weird image stuck in my mind. Great. Now I’m thinking about a naked midget and a banana. It served to momentarily distract me from the matter at hand. “Do you hate me for not telling you, Melanie?” Kim says quietly. “I just didn’t want you to get hurt. She’s just jealous.”
    I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out. What is she talking about? Why would I be on a Web site?
    â€œAnd before you ask,” Kim continues, “the answer is no. You don’t look that fat in real life.”
    I slide down the file cabinet and sink to the floor. “I look fat?” I say, trying not to cry. I still don’t even know what she’s talking about, but anytime anyone says “you don’t look that fat in real life”—take it from me—it’s never a good thing.
    â€œAnd I’m not judging you,” Kim continues. “Honestly, if that’s what you’re into—who am I to judge?”
    â€œWhat? What am I into?”
    â€œI wouldn’t have believed it was you except you’re wearing my pink diva shirt.” Pink diva shirt, pink diva shirt, pink diva shirt. “You can have it by the way. I could never wear it again now.”
    â€œKim—”
    â€œI’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I just have too many clothes. You know that—you’ve seen my closet—”
    â€œKim, listen—”
    â€œBut don’t you think it’s kind of funny? I mean, you should almost be flattered, it’s had like a million hits so far.” A million hits? I stare at the ceiling and pray to the Saint of the Drunk and Stupid to jog my memory. Pink diva shirt, pink diva shirt, pink diva shirt. Think, think, think. Nothing is coming to mind. I know the shirt. I know Kim has a pink diva shirt. I did borrow it once too, didn’t I? When did I, when did I, when did I?
    Oh, the night of Trina’s party. The famous party where she accused me of stealing her pearl soap dish. The party where Ray and I made our first public appearance as a couple and made love on a pile of coats. Beautiful, magic Ray. How many days has it been since he’s called me? Is it eight? Nine? It feels like longer. He’ll call. He’s a guy. They have to do their caveman thing. It’s not personal; it’s just what they do. It means he likes me. Just the thought of Ray is restoring peace and balance to the panic that is rolling around in my brain. Who cares about a Web site? I, Melanie Zeitgar, am dating Ray Arbor. Ray. Arbor. Isn’t that a beautiful name? Like a sunny field of trees.
    â€œOh God. You don’t think that’s why Ray hasn’t called you, do you?” Kim asks, setting my sunny field of trees ablaze. “Because of the Web site?”
    I’ve never been hit by a train. As a kid, my brother and I would walk along the railroad tracks near our house picking up smooth blue glass and flattened pennies, listening attentively for the sound of a whistle, anticipating the delicious feel of vibrations on the tracks. Zach would torture me with stories of kids “just like us” who had been innocently walking the tracks when, blam, here comes the train and there’s nowhere to go and now they’re dead. Just like the movie Stand by Me based on Steven King’s short story “The Body,”