He set down Missy’s margarita and a fresh basket of chips, then took Christy-Lynn’s drink order, flashing an Antonio Banderas smile as he turned to leave.

“Good grief,” Dar huffed when Mario was safely out of earshot. “I thought you were going to start stuffing dollar bills down his pants.”

Missy’s mossy-green eyes gleamed mischievously. “Jealous?”

Dar shook her head slowly, like a teacher with an incorrigible student. “Not everyone’s looking for tall, dark, and handsome. Some of us are looking for substance, someone capable of holding a conversation or a settling down with a good book.”

“Ah, yes. Your soul mate.”

Dar picked up her wineglass, glaring petulantly as she sipped. “Go ahead. Make fun. But I’m not the one who married a guy right out of school because I liked the way his jeans fit.”

Missy picked up her margarita, chasing her lime wedge around with her straw. “You’ve got me there. That’s what I did, all right. And all I’ve got to show for it are two beautiful boys I wouldn’t trade for the world.” She glanced at Christy-Lynn then, smiling one of her brilliant smiles. “Oh, honey, don’t worry about us. We’re not fighting. This is how we show our love for each other. We’re different as night and day, but she knows I’ll always have her back, and I know she’ll always have mine. You know how it is with girlfriends.”

Christy-Lynn nodded, but the truth was she didn’t know. She’d heard about the bonds of female friendship but assumed it to be the stuff of movies and cable TV, imagining it involved lots of chardonnay and shoe shopping. But now, as she observed the connection between Dar and Missy, she saw that real female friendship bore little resemblance to such trite stereotypes. It was deeper and messier and quite beautiful in its own way. And suddenly—perhaps for the first time—she felt its absence keenly.

But there were reasons for that.

EIGHT

Monck’s Corner, South Carolina

August 9, 1994

Christy-Lynn’s gaze slides to the girl walking beside her—the new girl. She has a terrible overbite and a head full of wiry red hair. She’s also covered with freckles. None of these things are her fault, of course, but that hasn’t stopped the kids at Berkeley High from slapping a bull’s-eye on her back and labeling her a freak. It isn’t fair. You can’t help who your parents are—or the genes they saddle you with.

She jerks her eyes away as the girl turns to look at her. She’s used to being invisible, to simply not being seen, so it’s a little weird that Linda Neely has suddenly wandered into her usually empty orbit.

It had taken some time for Linda to finally speak, almost two weeks, but eventually, after days of hovering in the lunchroom and in study hall, she had startled Christy-Lynn by blurting out her story. Her family had moved from Norfolk because her father had been transferred to Trident, in North Charleston. She didn’t have any friends, and she was having trouble in most of her classes, especially English. Her father was threatening to send her back to private school—the kind run by nuns—if she didn’t get her grades up by her next report card.

It’s hard not to feel sorry for her. After five moves in three years, Christy-Lynn knows what it’s like to be the new girl, the one everyone stares at and whispers about. The outsider. But over the years, she’s gotten used to it, even gotten good at it if there’s such a thing. Which is why it feels weird to be bringing home a classmate to help her with her term paper. It’s not like she doesn’t have the time—her own paper has been finished for a week—or that she minds really. Words are her thing. She likes the way they feel, the way they taste. It’s just . . . weird. New weird. Awkward weird.

They’re cutting across the parking lot now, past a dumpster overflowing with beer cans and dirty diapers, and cars that haven’t moved in months. Christy-Lynn wonders if there’s any food in the apartment. She doubts it. There’s rarely money for cookies or chips these days. Please, God, let there at least be some real Coke; not the generic stuff her mother brings home when cash is low and there are still five days till payday. Linda Neely might be unfortunate-looking with her freckles and her big teeth, but her Fossil watch and trendy Dr. Martens are clearly not from Goodwill.

They’re climbing the steps now, three slabs of broken concrete with weeds growing out of the cracks. From the apartment above, Reba McEntire’s “Fancy” bleeds through the broken screen, along with the high-pitched wail of a baby. She has always hated the song—just a little too real life for her taste.

There’s a tug on her coat sleeve as she digs for her key. Linda’s eyes are wide, almost disbelieving. “This is where you . . . live? I thought we were just cutting through the parking lot.”

Christy-Lynn is still trying to think of something to say when she realizes the apartment door is ajar. She nudges it open with her knee and peers in. The curtains are drawn, the TV off. Nothing out of place. She breathes a sigh of relief. Not a break-in then. Just her mother, running late as usual and not paying attention when she left for work.

Christy-Lynn holds the door open as Linda steps across the threshold. She’s never brought anyone home, and suddenly she wishes she hadn’t today. The apartment is shabby and small, and the greasy scent of tater tots and fried onions lingers in the air from last night’s supper. She wonders briefly as she lets her book bag slide to the floor what Linda’s house smells like. Fried chicken, probably, or pork chops. Biscuits and gravy. Green beans with ham hocks and red velvet cake.