Chapter Twelve: September
Laurie's hand fiddles with the hem of the dress. The main strip scrolls past the passenger window. A patrol car passes them and Laurie thinks she may have seen Sheriff Bracket driving it and Annie in the backseat.
Her breath fogs up the glass that holds the reflection of her brother. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
Laurie doesn't think to turn her head. But, he must know he was being watched. Hadn't he been watched all his life? Shouldn't the feeling of scrutiny be as easy to him as breathing?
When the car comes to a stop in front of her school, Laurie collects the purse held between her feet, reaches into the bag and pulls out the lipstick. It's her mother's, the deepest shade of red, and as she applies it to her lips, there is movement in the corner of her vision.
She flinches when Lynda knocks on the window.
"Hurry up, loser!"
In her clutch is the hand of her newest toy, Joey McKeirnan. A year younger than them, but the smartest in their class. Laurie can tell there's alot going for him. Good grades. Plenty of allowance. Teacher's pet. Too bad— really — that Lynda got to him first.
But, so what?
What's it to Laurie if her breasts aren't as big?
Or if her hair isn't as shiny?
Or if her knees weren't as knobby?
Her mother always said puberty was a cruel transition to adulthood. Laurie will grow out of it one day.
Lynda drags Laurie out of the car before she can cap the lipstick which presses against her chest, misses the fabric and falls forgotten in the console in the front seat.
"Oh no!" Lynda exclaims, her brow momentarily creases. "Sorry."
But she doesn't look regretful. Lynda only turns away with Joey, whips him around so fast his head is the last thing to turn. They briskly walk away and Laurie scrambles to grab her things out of the front seat.
Michael's hand reaches towards her chest, and Laurie instinctively freezes. She stares at him, staring at her chest. His thumb rubs into her sternum, smearing the lipstick.
More red. A crimson streak on her skin.
Part of her wishes the dress didn't have such a stooping neck. She wishes it covered more skin. Certainly, she wouldn't feel as exposed.
When her brother pulls his hand back and replaces it on the steering wheel, Laurie knows he's waiting for her to close the door.
With paint stained lips pursed into a thin frown, she does.
And the family Volkswagon pulls away.
She can't tell if her brother watches her using the rearview mirror. Laurie doesn't know the feeling of being watched very well.