Free The Rites and Wrongs of Janice Wills by Joanna Pearson Page A

little half-hug squeeze.
    “And maybe it’s not that. Maybe TR’s really, truly trying to be nice — I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. But I’m also not a moron.”
    “I know,” I said again. “But really! As if you’d go with them! I mean, she’s always bringing up your sister and the baby —”
    “So? So what?” Margo interjected, her voice cold. “It’s not like I’m ashamed. Let her bring it up all she wants.”
    “I know!” I said one more time. “That’s not what I mean…. It’s not embarrassing at all, I just think she means to —”
    “Janice,” Margo said. “I don’t need you to protect me or anything.”

    We were silent for a minute. Then I forced a laugh, just to make things feel more normal.
    “Oh, that reminds me. Has TR ever taken her shoes off around you?” I asked Margo. “Her feet smell just like the rotting possum we once found in our garage. Seriously — her feet are like two dead animals! I think she has a legitimate Stink Disorder or something. Maggot Feet. Ha!”
    Margo looked at me again. I hoped it was because I was so hilarious.
    “Wow, Janice,” she said. “Wow. Please never point out my faults to me, will you? You’re deadly.”
    I felt cold all of a sudden, my armpits gone clammy. The list Paul had made for me flashed in my mind, the word “hypercritical” bannering across my mental movie screen.
    “It’s just honesty, Margo,” I said, my voice gone pleading and sharp. “Anthropology requires honest observation.”
    “Janice, you just compared TR’s feet to a rotting animal. How’s that advancing the cause of anthropology?”
    “Yeah, but TR’s said all sorts of stuff! Remember when she said you dressed like a schizophrenic homeless woman?”
    “That’s not the point,” she said.
    “I’m only being truthful,” I said. “Someone has to speak the truth here in Melva, whether it’s complimentary or not.”
    “There’s truth,” Margo said evenly. “And there’s outright meanness. And someday you’re going to have to figure out the difference.”
    Margo turned and walked away. I watched her go, my heart dissolving into liquid nitrogen in my chest.
    Outside under the awning between the gym and main building, I spotted the two FreshLife leaders, Teri and Colin, the handsome guy we’d seen in the Mocha Cellar the other day. Margo waved and walked up to them. I watched through the glass door as they laughed and gestured. Teri looked like a future first-grade teacher: sweet, dumpy, and smiling, always wearing a sack-shaped skirt and Mickey Mouse T-shirt. She was filled with joy for the Lord, and harmless. She was the maiden aunt of Melva High. Colin, however, looked like he’d wandered away from a J.Crew photo shoot.
    They laughed again, and I wished I could hear what was so funny. Being truthful in your observations is
not
the same as being mean, I told myself. Not exactly. So why would
someone
try to make you feel that way when all you’re doing is honing your observational skills and practicing legitimate anthropology?
    Someone walked up behind me and tapped my shoulder.
    “Observing?” Jimmy asked me.
    I turned to gaze at his scruffily handsome face.
    “Do you think we should sugarcoat the truth, Jimmy?” I asked.
    He shook his head. “Absolutely not. No way.” He shuffled some change in his pockets for a moment. “And are you coming to the party tonight? You and Margo? I just want the truth. Don’t sugarcoat your answer.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Definitely.”
    “Good,” he said.
    And momentarily I stopped worrying about Paul and Margo and focused wholly instead on the beautiful arc of Jimmy’s perfect spine leaning against the wall. “Uh, yeah. I’m very much looking forward to it. It should be really nice,” I said, hearing how off my words seemed.
I’m very much looking forward to it. It should be really nice
. I sounded like I was talking to one of the elderly ladies at church.
    Jimmy nodded idly. “Mm-hm,” he