Free Open Court by Carol Clippinger Page A

but it hadn't broken her. And maybe, just maybe, Janie wasn't broken, either. I let myself think this. I needed to think Janie was OK.
    At one o'clock in the morning Polly decided she was hungry. We creaked into the kitchen. Words echoed from the dimly lit living room.
    “Polly, are you guys still up?” called Maren. “Bring in the rest of that pizza, will you?”
    “And water,” Pete said. “Please.”
    Polly grabbed bottled water. I carried the pizza.
    Pete's head was propped awkwardly against a sofa pillow. Maren's blouse was on the floor, her bra on thecoffee table. I sort of stood there at a loss. Surely she knew she was naked, didn't she? How could she not?
    Maren took the pizza. “Did Polly tell you about her ribbon?”
    I assumed only hookers or drug dealers were corrupt enough to be naked in front of people and not care. Apparently I was wrong. I had the strong urge to laugh. To bust up laughing. I clenched my jaw tight. Surely this was a joke, right? No one was laughing. No wonder Pete thought she was interesting. Interesting, naked—same difference.
    “Yeah, she did,” I said, remembering the ribbon's untimely death in the Cassinis’ backyard. “That's great,” I added, pretending I wasn't surrounded by a bunch of freaks.
    “Next time she's going to get a blue ribbon, aren't you, Polly?”
    “Gonna try,” Polly said.
    “Don't leave it up to fate, Polly. If you'd studied a little longer, you would've easily won first place.”
    Polly shrugged.
    “You're smarter than any of those kids,” her mother lectured, voice rising. “Besides, this camp is expensive. You need to show a little more initiative.”
    This naked woman was yelling at angelic Polly rightin front of me. No one was laughing. My jaw was clamped so tight I was forgetting to breathe. My mom wouldn't have mentioned a stupid ribbon; my mom didn't even know how to keep score in tennis. My mom wore clothes.
    Polly changed the subject. “Where'd you guys go?”
    Great, more conversation.
    Maren spat out the details of the James Bond flick they'd seen. “The line was clear out to the parking lot, and we had to wait an hour for tickets …”
    Meanwhile, Pete was falling asleep sitting up. Eyes closed, his head nodded. He'd catch himself only to dip down again. Finally, he shook off the sleep like a wet dog. Disgusted, he grabbed Maren's shirt from the floor and tossed it at her as she continued to talk about 007.
    “It itches,” she said, like he was stupid.
    “There are other people here,” he said, meaning me.
    “So?” She flipped the blouse back to the floor.
    “I'll get you a T-shirt.”
    “What are you, a Boy Scout all of a sudden?”
    Their eyes locked. Pete looked away, preventing the impending fight.
    “Anyway, the end of the movie was great because—”
    Pete gripped Maren's shoulder. Her skin turned light pink from the pressure. He could have crushed herbones had he wanted to: he was that strong. I kind of wished he'd slug her or something. I already disliked her and I barely knew her. Pete looked at me apologetically.
    “It's time for you girls to get some sleep, isn't it?”
    We retreated, without snacks. I examined Polly's chameleon face for some kind of an explanation, like maybe she was adopted or something and not really human but an angel here to comfort me. Her face revealed nothing.
    I snuggled into my sleeping bag, suddenly tired.
    “Hall?” Polly whispered in the pitch-blackness.
    “Huh?”
    “Good night.”
    I lay awake for a while. My sleeping bag was too hot and I couldn't get comfortable. In the dark I somehow knew that Polly burying her ribbon and me slicing up my tennis academy catalogs hadn't really accomplished anything. I knew that, even if Polly didn't.

“ T urn the sound down! I'm on the phone.”
    Brad played air guitar to the radio while my brothers’ rude friends propped their feet on my mom's coffee table.
    My mom refers to my brothers’ friends as riffraff and hooligans, but Michael