"I had no idea," she said from my bed, where she was lying, flipping through a copy of Critical Theory Since Plato—you know, just a little light reading—she'd brought over, "you'd actually grown breasts. I mean it. You aren't an A cup anymore. When did that happen?"
"Ruth," I said, "what about on my back? Do you see one on my back?"
"No. What are you now, a B?"
"How should I know? You know I never wear a bra. How about on my butt? Anything on my butt?"
"No. Is there something between a B and a C? Because I think that's what you are now. And you really should start wearing one, you know. You could start to sag, like those women in National Geographic."
"You," I said to her, "are no help."
"Well, what do you expect me to do, Jess?" Ruth turned grumpily back to her book. "I mean, it's a little weird, having your best friend ask you to check her body for entrance and exit wounds, don't you think? I mean, it's a bit gay."
I went, "I don't want you to feel me up, you moron. I just wanted you to tell me if you saw an exit wound." I pulled on a pair of sweats. "Get over yourself."
"I can't believe," Ruth said, ignoring me, "that Michael's going to Harvard. I mean, Harvard. He is so smart. How can someone so smart fall for Claire Lippman?"
I pulled a sweatshirt over my head. "Claire's not so bad," I said. I knew her pretty well, see, from detention. Not that she ever got detention, but they held detention in the auditorium, and Claire always had the lead in whatever play the drama club was putting on, so I'd watched most of her rehearsals when she played Emily in Our Town, Maria in West Side Story, and, of course, Juliet in Romeo and Juliet.
"She's a really good actress," I said.
"I highly doubt," Ruth said, "that Michael admires her for her talent."
Ruth always calls Mike Michael, even though everyone else calls him Mike. She says Mike is a Grit name.
"Well," I said, "you got to admit, she does look good in a bathing suit."
Ruth snorted. "That slut. I can't believe she does that. Every summer. I mean, it was one thing back before she hit puberty. But now … what's she trying to do? Cause a traffic accident?"
"I'm hungry," I said, because I was. "You want something?"
Ruth said, "I'm not surprised. You hardly touched your lobster."
"I was too excited to eat then," I said. "I mean, come on. I got electrocuted today."
"I wish," Ruth said, to the book, "you'd go to a doctor. You could be hemorrhaging internally, you know."
I said, "I'm going downstairs. You want anything?"
She yawned. "No. I gotta go. I'll just stop by Michael's room to say congratulations one more time, and good night."
I thought it would be best to leave the two of them alone, you know, in case there was a romantic interlude, so I went downstairs to forage for food. The chances of Mikey ever even looking twice in Ruth's direction are like nil, but hope springs eternal, even in the heart of a fat girl. Not that Ruth is that fat. She's just twice the size of Claire Lippman. Not that Claire is so skinny—she's pretty hippy, actually. But boys seem to like that, I've noticed. In magazines, they make out if you're not Kate Moss, your life is over, but in real life, boys—like my brothers—wouldn't look twice at Kate Moss. Claire Lippman, though, who's gotta be thirty-four, twenty-four, thirty-eight or so, they drool over. I think a lot of it is how you project yourself, and Claire Lippman projects herself like she's got it on, you know?
Ruth doesn't. Project herself with any confidence, I mean. Ruth's problem is that she's just, you know, a big girl. All the crash diets in the world aren't going to change that. She just needs to accept that and accept herself and calm down. Then she'll get a boyfriend. Guaranteed.
But probably not Mike.
I was thinking about how weird bodies are while I poured myself a bowl of cereal. I wondered if the star-shaped scar was going to stay on my chest. I mean, who needed that? And where was that exit wound, anyway?
Maybe, I thought, as I poured milk over my Total with raisins, the lightning was still inside of me. That would have been weird, huh? Maybe I was walking around with it buzzing inside of me. And maybe, like Ruth said, I could send it shooting at people. Like Jeff Day. He so deserved it. I thought about shooting bolts of lightning at Jeff Day while I read the back of the milk carton. Man, would that put a crimp in his football career.
When I got back upstairs, Ruth was gone. Mike's door was closed, but I knew she wasn't in there, because I heard him typing furiously on his computer. Probably sending E-mail to all his dweeby Internet buddies. Hey, guys, I got into Harvard! Just like Bill Gates.
Only maybe, unlike Bill Gates, Mike would actually graduate. Not that that had mattered, at least in Bill's case.
The door to Douglas's room was closed, too, and no light spilled out from under it. But that didn't stop me. Douglas was at his window, a pair of binoculars to his head, when I came barging in.
He turned around and went, "One of these days, you're going to do that and you're going to end up seeing something you really never wanted to see."
"Already saw it," I said. "Mom used to make us take baths together when we were little, remember?"
He said, "Go away. I'm busy."
"What are you looking at, anyway?" I asked, going to sit on his bed in the darkness. Douglas's room smelled like Douglas. Not a bad smell, really. Just a boy smell. Like old sneakers mingled with Old Spice. "Claire Lippman?"
"Orion," he said, but I knew he was lying. His room has a view straight into Claire Lippman's, two houses away. Claire, exhibitionist that she is, never pulls down her blinds. I doubt she even has blinds.
But I didn't mind Douglas spying on her, even though it was sexist and a violation of her privacy and all. It meant he was normal. Well, for him, anyway.
"Not to tear you away from your lady love," I said, "but I found an entrance wound."
"She's not my lady love," Douglas said. "Merely the object of my lust."
"Well, whatever," I said. I pulled on the neck of my sweatshirt. "Take a look at this."
He turned on his reading lamp and swiveled it in my direction. When he saw the scar, he got real quiet.
"Jesus Christ," he said after a while.
"Told you," I said.
He said, "Jesus Christ," again.
"There's no exit wound," I said. "I had Ruth check me, all over. Nothing. Do you think the lightning is still inside me?"
"Lightning," he said, "does not just stay inside you. Maybe this is the exit wound, and the bolt came in through the top of your head. Only that isn't possible," he said, to himself, I guess, "because then her hair would be scorched."
It was possible, though, that he wasn't speaking to himself. He could have been speaking to the voices. He hears voices sometimes. They were the ones who told him to kill himself last Christmas.
"Well," I said, letting my sweatshirt snap back into place. "That's all. I just wanted to show you."
"Wait a minute." I had gotten up, but Douglas pulled me back down onto his bed again. "Jess," he said. "Did you really get struck by lightning?"
"Yes," I said. "I told you I did."
Douglas looked serious. But then, Douglas was always serious. "You should tell Dad."
"No way."
"I mean it, Jess. Go tell Dad, right now. Not Mom, either. Just Dad."
"Aw, Douglas …"
"Go." He pulled me up and pushed me toward the door. "Either you do it, or I will."
"Aw, hell," I said.
But he started to look funny, all pinch-faced and stuff. So I dragged myself downstairs and found my dad where he usually was when he wasn't at one of the restaurants—at the dining room table, going over the books, with the TV in the kitchen turned to the sports channel. He couldn't see the TV from where he sat, but he could hear it. Even though he looked totally absorbed in the numbers in front of him, if you switched the channel, he'd totally freak out.