Free The Full Cleveland by Terry Reed Page A

good for her health.
    Clarine knocked on the door and opened it. “That’s enough,” she said, staring with distaste at the broken-down spectacle that once was the perfectly self-possessed Mickey Knight.
    I took my crutch and led Clarine out of the room. “Clarine, what should we do, she’s heartbroken.”
    â€œGotta have one to bust one,” Clarine said, chuckling at her own little joke.
    â€œ Clarine” I loved Clarine, but I hated the way she loved to hate Mickey Knight.
    â€œWell, which one is it anyway? Matt’s friend Charles, Christopher Bridges, or the nice boy, Thomas?”
    Mickey wailed from the bedroom.
    â€œClarine!” I cried. “Hush up!”
    â€œYour knee is not so hurt I can’t wash your mouth out anymore.”
    I remembered that old tough love routine of hers, and apologized.
    â€œWell, she doesn’t look so good,” said Clarine, sulking a little. “I’ve a mind to call her family.”
    â€œYou do that and things will start to die!” That was Mickey Knight, from the bedroom.

    I hopped back in and closed the door. “Mickey? Are you okay?”
    She was sitting up in bed, brushing her hair. She looked beautiful again, like one of those movie stars who sits up in bed, brushing her hair. “I’m fine. But I don’t understand why your mother doesn’t deep-six that maid.”
    â€œ Mickey” I loved Mickey, but I hated the way she loved to hate Clarine.
    Then I got the whole story out of her. Thomas had told her he was now in love with someone else, a beautiful, sweet girl who was all woman. When the girl turned sixteen he was going to fuck her and marry her, but not in that order.
    â€œDid he really say that, Mickey? Did he use that word?”
    â€œOh, Boyce, don’t be so naive. Of course not. He’s a gentleman.” A little leftover sob escaped from her after that.
    Mickey had pressed Thomas for the name of the girl. Though at first he refused to disclose it, in the end he blurted it out. Naturally, it was Jo, the other Mickey.
    â€œDoes Jo know about this?” I was thinking, you know. Canadian tennis. How that wretched game was going to ruin the neighborhood.
    â€œYeah. She’s home, thinking about it. But I didn’t kill Jo. It’s him I want to die.”
    I didn’t blame her for not killing Jo.
    â€œBut you know what?” she said, putting the finishing touches on her hair. “I’m going to get him back?”
    She would, too. Every boy dumped Mickey for Jo. Just not for long.
    â€œI mean, fear not.”

    After Mickey’s amazing recovery from her alarming emotional breakdown, she said maybe she should rest before trying to make me over. So we sat around talking, for hours.
    By late afternoon, assorted Buicks and visiting cars were doing their standard Saturday comings and goings up and down the driveway. Dusk fell. Down past the long front lawn, the lights came up with the low lamps, cozily leading the way to the house. Mother and Dad ducked their heads in to say good-bye, on their way to a party. Matt came by and said “Hi.” He took one trip around my room, with one eye on Mickey Knight the whole time, and left. Clarine came, and, as if she were feeding something evil in a cage, cautiously slid a tray of sandwiches in along the floor, then quickly closed the door. Lucy, then Luke, came to dutifully kiss me good night. The only one who didn’t stop by was Cabot.
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    It was an almost heroic feat, to sustain a dialogue as long as we did. We punctuated, or accented, it by going from the bed to the vanity table to apply Mickey’s makeup. Leaning shoulder to shoulder at the mirror, the mascara, lipstick, and eyeliner became our alternate tools of expression; our heightened color, blackened eyes, reddened lips, visible evidence of the depth of our search for meaning. And we hadn’t even gotten