The False Friend (26 page)

Her face had become strange, as if it were a hand liable to grab whatever came within reach. It was an expression of terrifying possibility, which Celia realized she had sighted just once before, on a girl with the same sharp chin, in the last moment that their brief friendship had known.

Mrs. Pearson sat very still, and Celia found herself counting the same way she used to after a lightning flash, in order to gauge the distance of the storm.

Djuna’s mother blinked several times. Her mouth twisted into something that was nearly a smile. “I’m so glad you came, Celia, but I don’t want to keep you any longer. I’m sure your mother has made all sorts of plans. Please, take the cookies. I made them especially for you.” She blew a short puff of air at Celia, then leaned back as if having extinguished a candle.

“Oh,” Celia said, rising from her chair. “Thank you, Mrs. … Thank you, Grace.”

“You’re very welcome. And do take care backing out of the drive. It’s not a terribly busy road, but another car on it can be so damn hard to see.”

Celia crossed the living room as quickly as she could. The outside quiet felt reassuring now and she inhaled it in slow, deep breaths. The darkening sky above the tree line was electric blue. Celia was not immediately able to fit her key into the car’s ignition but once she had steadied her hand, the engine turned. She backed out carefully, just as Mrs. Pearson had instructed, and slowly made her way to the county road.

Celia rolled down the windows and let the air pound around her, the sound of it filling her ears. Her bag was almost packed, her ticket waiting. By this time tomorrow, she and Huck would be home.

T
hat afternoon in the woods, it was warm and her shirt clung to her back. Her face had yet to be shaped by an individual nose; her skin was still unlined velvet; her shoes waited to be outgrown. She was out of breath from running, and with every step brambles scraped her arms. She thought of all that she was ready to say to Djuna, and how if that didn’t end things between them, they could compare scratches to see who the brambles had hated more. Celia left the woods, and Djuna’s anger wafted back to her from the road’s edge in waves of sour air tinged with exhaust. The brown car was not Mrs. Pearson’s Volvo, or any other car that Celia knew. When Djuna turned, her face was equally unfamiliar. It was a face of terrifying possibility, ready to pull, or to be pulled in. It was a face capable of anything.

Thanks to Nathan Englander, David Gassaway, Ellen and Mark Goldberg, Saryn Goldberg, Tim Kreider, Adrienne and Michael Little, Lisa Rosenthal, Anthony Tognazzini, Ellen Twaddell, and Michael Wilde. Thanks to Wendy Schmalz and Bill Thomas. Thanks to Hannah Miriam Belinfante, cataloger for the NYPL Dorot Jewish Division, for her research assistance; and to Melanie Chesney, Performance Auditor Director for the state of Arizona, for so generously sharing her time and knowledge. Thank you, Jason, from beginning to end.