Kathleen Hale - No One Else Can Have You

On the other side, Libby is cowering behind a clipboard, fingering the cross around her neck. “Davey Fried, I’m just asking you to be a team player!” she snaps.

“How many times do I have to tell you, I won’t sign it?” Davey shouts at her. He’s leaning against the side of the porch, sucking down a beer. Behind him there’s a twenty-four pack of Milwaukee’s Best, which everyone here calls Beast, and a pile of food—platters, casserole tins, Jell-O molds. Overflow from well-wishers, I guess. It’s swarming with flies.

Davey tosses his now-empty can at my feet. “You’re late.”

Libby clears her throat and glances at me, twirling her necklace around one finger. “I was just telling Davey how, like, everyone in my family went to UW—Madison, including my parents and both my big sisters. But well, my grades aren’t supergood”—she tumbles on—“so, like, I decided to do this Ruth Fried fund for the corn, which my parents said was a really good idea because it showed I’m well-rounded, but, like, I just need Davey Fried to be the first one on the petition otherwise—”

“Hold up,” I say, smiling wide—because if she says “like” one more time I’m going to run away with my arms flailing. Mostly I’d like to ask her how she can admit all her ulterior motives about college and stuff and not feel mortified. It just doesn’t seem fair that Libby gets to go around happy and healthy saying all sorts of weird stuff, and meanwhile here I am with my acid reflux—my muscles tightening up after every stupid thing I say. Ruth once said that the whole reason I’m so thin, probably, is because I’m tense all the time.

“Please just sign it,” Libby whines.

“Fuck your mother, Libby, how’s that?” Davey takes another big sip of Beast. “Sex her right in the butt.”

“Whoa, Davey, come on.” I force a laugh. “That’s . . . it’s unhygienic.”

“It’s gross,” Libby snaps. “It’s disgusting and it goes against the Bible.”

Davey rolls his eyes and barges inside, slamming the door behind him.

“Katie, I just don’t get it.” Libby bats her eyes at me. “The fund is, like, for his sister .”

It’s Kippy , I want to say. But instead I stare at her feet. She’s got on this pair of high-heeled boots and dark jeans, and per usual her whole getup is making me feel embarrassed of my moose-print turtleneck. “Hey, where did you even get that outfit? There’s only one store in town.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s called the internet.”

“Well anyway you’ve got to go,” I blurt.

“What?” Libby gapes at me. “That’s ridiculous—signing my petition only takes two seconds. I don’t know if you understand this, Katie, but it’s my project and it’s an original idea—and it shows initiative—my parents said so.”

There’s a sour taste in my mouth. It’s so weird how people who’ve never lost somebody think they deserve a medal or something for bothering people who have. “You’ve got to go, Libby Quinn. As Ruth’s friend I’m asking you.” My voice is shaky. I look up and she’s glaring at me. “Listen, maybe I can talk to Davey about the petition thing, okay? As far as petitions for dead people go I think it sounds very . . . Well it’s fine.”

“You can’t just, like, take all of her,” Libby snaps. “You’re hogging her memory—and you know she didn’t even like you. She told me once.”

My heart beats in my ears. “Seriously?” Just then Davey comes barreling out of the doorway with a whole recycling bin full of empty Beast cans.

“Libby Queen, please leave,” he says, halting next to me.

“It’s Quinn.” Libby gives her hair a sassy shake. “And no way because my parents say it’s good to stand your ground, and also I brought you that whole Jell-O mold.” Pasta Batman trots up and starts sniffing her crotch and she swats him away. “And also then I had to watch you, like, throw it on the ground, which was totally rude, and also—”

There’s a blur beside me. Davey is dumping the entire contents of the recycling bin on Libby’s head.

“Oh bajeezus,” I hear myself saying.

“Oh my Gah.” Libby blinks at Davey, her mascara running down her cheeks from the dregs of stale Beast, but you can tell she’s trying to hold it together and look like this is no big deal. “All right then. I’m going,” she says, licking a droplet of beer off the corner of her mouth. “But only because I’ve got plans.” She turns and teeters across the gravel on her heels. “I’ll pray for you,” she calls over her shoulder, sounding pissed.

“Why did you do that?” I mumble as we watch her drive away. But Davey doesn’t say anything, and the two of us stand there like that, all silent for a while, which is not what I want. I want to throw garbage on well-wishers, too, and it’d be nice to talk about that with someone who gets it. Who doesn’t think that kind of uproar is weird, even though I guess I’m pretending it is.

“Davey?” Basically all I want to do is talk about feelings, because finally here is someone who probably has a lot of the same ones I do. Only Davey and I have never had a conversation like that before and I’m not sure how to start.

I glance at the flies circling the leaning tower of Jell-O molds and casseroles, and wonder how much other food is piling up inside. “Hey, Davey?”

“You can go now,” he says, plopping down on the stoop. He reaches for another beer. “Seriously, just leave.”

My heart drops, embarrassed. But then I remember that Davey was the one who invited me here and he’s probably having some kind of total breakdown. “I can listen,” I say. “I mean, if you’re having some kind of emotional debacle, or whatever, I actually know a lot of ways we can deal with those.” I start counting on my fingers. “One, my father is a trained psychologist, and two, I have read a lot of important books.” My hands are sweating.

Davey stares at the road. “You’re not safe out and about. You should be at home.”

“But I am safe.” I force a smile. “Because they’ve got Colt, and everything’s back to normal now—wait, you know that, right?”

“Yeah, see, that’s the thing.” Davey takes a deep breath, like he’s about to tell me something terrible. “I just don’t think Colt did it.”

“Have you completely forgotten what kind of guy he was?” I ask Davey, stretching the hem of my turtleneck over my knees for warmth. It’s getting cold, but I’d rather make out with Pasta Batman than go into the Frieds’ house. All those family photos and familiar smells. I’m pretty sure our homecoming photos are still up on the fridge: Colt and Ruth with their arms around each other, and me standing next to them, looking put upon. Marco Baseball noses open the front door and slobbers on my ear, then tries to pet himself with my arm.

“I mean, what about that thing Colt did to my garage door—the graffiti about my mom?” I add, trying to rile up Davey’s protective streak. I push on Marco’s butt, forcing him to sit. “That was pretty dang sick, am I right?”

“Oh, let it go,” Davey grumbles.

My mouth hangs open. “But I thought you hated Colt.”

“Oof, Kippy, come on—you’re smarter than this.”

I squint at him, trying to look for signs of insanity. It doesn’t make sense that he would be on Colt’s side all of a sudden. He and Colt were on the same basketball team and football team before Davey graduated. They weren’t close or anything, but Davey knew enough to hate Colt when he started dating Ruth. I read some of his letters home about it. Are you seriously letting that pissant follow you around? Sis, the boy is bad news. Take it from someone who heard him talk about girls in the locker room. . . .