Page 83 of My Girl
“She wasn’t a mother,” I say.
I bend down. I hold his hand and the gun to his temple. He blinks at me, the life draining from his eyes.
“They’ll figure it out,” he says. “They’ll know you did it.”
I smile. “I don’t care.”
I pull the trigger.
His body falls limp. More blood spills onto me.
I examine the area. Gage is here somewhere.
As I check the house, my bloody footprints leave a trail behind me. Gage isn’t in his bedroom, the closet, or even Mr. and Mrs. Galloway’s bedroom upstairs. He must be exactly where he thinks I won’t check: the basement.
Even at ten years old, Gage is scared of the basement. He’s never been locked in there, and yet he knows the possibilities. The unknown is always scarier than the reality.
The rats are quiet, hiding from Gage. I keep the lights off, letting my eyes get used to the dark basement.
His shadow crouches in the corner. Hiding like that, I see the baby inside of him. The little kid who used to look up to me.
He knows better now. Mrs. Galloway made sure of that.
“Come out, Gage,” I hum.
He lurches forward, smacking into me. The force knocks the wind out of my lungs. I’m stunned, but not long enough to let him escape. I wrestle him until I’m on top, and I beat his head into the cement. He stills.
Eventually, his eyelids flutter awake.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Tears fill his eyes. He’s probably telling the truth. But what is he sorry for? Is he sorry that he never tried to use his beloved status to protect me? “Roddy, I’m sorry. I’m?—”
Sorry is a word, and words can’t save you.
“I’m not,” I say.
I shoot him in the forehead.
I leave Mrs. Galloway near the rock for now. Then I drag Mr. Galloway to the basement, leaving him and Gage in a pile. Mopping up the blood trail takes forever.
No one checks on the house. The silencer must have done the job. Our house is out on the edge of town. Hardly anyone goes this way to begin with. I’m lucky that way.
I change my clothes into one of my better outfits, then I go to town, waiting for my look-alike to come out of the arcade. The boy heads to his car.
“Hey,” I say.
He waves. “What’s up?”
“You smoke, right?” I ask. “I need a ride. I’ll give you some weed.”
His eyes scan the street before turning back to me. “Where do you live?”
“The north side,” I say.
He waves over to his car. “What kind of weed is it?”
His car crawls through the town. He says something about one of the girls from school—some bitch he’s asking out to the football game or something—and I pretend like I know who she is.
His car pulls into the driveway, right next to Mr. Galloway’s car. Gage’s new uniforms are still in the back.
