TOMMY WAS A SNAKE-IN EVERY SENSE OF THE word. A snake and a jerk and a gay-bashing redneck, meaning he made jokes about how Patrick better not hit on him, how Patrick ran like a fag, how a man's a-hole was for "exit only." Tommy wasn't alone in making jokes like that, of course. Black Creek was no haven for a boy who was "light in his loafers," as Aunt Tildy put it.
And yet, Tommy was Patrick's friend. That needed saying, too. Patrick was part of Tommy's posse, though I wondered how much of a part. I suspected Tommy kept him around for sport. Tommy preyed on the weak, as I knew.
Seeing him in the fellowship hall made me want to curl up like a roly-poly. He was none too happy to see me, either. I read it in his face. First there was puzzlement, like why was I making nice with his highfalutin grandmother? Then a flicker of what almost resembled shame, though no doubt I interpreted it wrong. He had every reason to be ashamed, and then some, but more likely he was just embarrassed to be seen as his grandmother's little helper.
"Cat," he said.
I didn't reply. I stared at his cut-down army boots and hugged my ribs.
"Cat thinks we should send flowers to the hospital," old Mrs. Lawson said. "To your friend. Patrick."
Her lips pursed, and I figured there must be a bit of a struggle going on inside her. Jesus said love the sinner, hate the sin, and while I knew old Mrs. Lawson was incapable of loving Patrick, surely she didn't hate him, did she? A bangedup boy nearly the same age as her precious Tommy, lying in a coma with no one to stand up for him?
Tommy said nothing. I lifted my gaze, because I had to see what battle of conscience-if any-was playing out on his features.
"Who do you think hurt him?" I heard myself say. My words were made of stone, as cold and unforgiving as the outcroppings of granite that rose above the banks of the creek our town was named for.
A flush crept up his neck. "How the fuck would I know? And if I did, wouldn't I say?"
"Tommy," old Mrs. Lawson scolded.
I watched him. He was good looking, the snake, even in oil-stained jeans and a stupid shirt that said 4 stroke, whatever that meant.
But Tommy didn't look good right now, not with his face twisted up.
"Sorry, Grandmother," he said gruffly.
"You're going against your raising," Mrs. Lawson said. As if to excuse her grandson's behavior, she faced me and explained, "Tommy was with him earlier that evening. That makes it especially painful, of course."
Of course.
"I've got to go," I said, turning on my heel.
"What an odd child," I heard Mrs. Lawson murmur.
Then, from Tommy, "She ain't a child, Grandmother."
"Isn't a child," Mrs. Lawson corrected, and I was out the door.
