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Tildy, not even the queen herself.
    Not that I said any of this out loud, because I
wasn’t
brought up to talk ugly. But for the record, the prissy outfit Mrs. Lawson was wearing
was
ugly, a powder pink skirt with a matching powder pink jacket. She looked like an eraser.
    “I need some creamer for my coffee,” she announced in her snooty way of talking. She arched her pencil thin brows, and I realized she meant for me to go get her some.
    “Oh. I’ll see if they have any in the kitchen,” I said, scurrying off.
    I returned with a single-serving plastic container, which she regarded with displeasure. “Never mind,” she said, her pink lips folding in on themselves. “I’ll go without.”
    She enjoyed making people feel inadequate, and she was good at it. Today, I had a fire in my belly, however. Plus, if I was going to find out what happened to Patrick, I was going to have to talk to a lot of people I’d just as soon not. I might as well start with prune-faced Mrs. Lawson.
    “So, um, you know Patrick, right?” I said. “Tommy’s friend? Who got beat up a week ago?”
    She didn’t respond.
    “He’s still in the hospital, and . . . I was wondering if maybe we could send flowers.”
    Mrs. Larson’s expression remained impassive. I fought not to fidget.
    “Or a balloon bouquet?” I tried again. The Buy-Low sold shiny silver message balloons that said things like THINKING OF YOU and GET WELL SOON ! “Maybe we could pass around a card for everyone to sign?”
    “I suppose you want
me
to pay for them,” Mrs. Larson said.
    “We could take up a collection,” I said. She was trying to make me feel small, and she was succeeding. But I wasn’t going to let her make me retreat back into my shell.
    She sipped her coffee and grimaced.
    “It’s just so horrible, what happened to him,” I pressed on. “Is there any new information, do you know?”
    “Well, it obviously had to do with his . . .
lifestyle
,” she said.
    I bit the inside of my cheek.
    “I don’t want the boy to
die
,” she went on, as if she were speaking of a mutt that uglied up the neighborhood. “But he might just up and do it anyway.”
    “What have you heard? Has Sheriff Doyle learned anything? Has he discovered any, you know, clues?”
    “Grandmother, there you are,” Tommy said from behind us. My chest tightened because I’d recognize his voice anywhere.“I put everything we need into your car. I’ll set it up this afternoon.”
    My instincts said
bolt
, but I was rooted to the floor.
    Mrs. Lawson’s face brightened.
“Tommy,”
she said. “Now why in the world aren’t you wearing that new dress shirt I bought you?”
    She smiled at me for the first time. “You know my grandson, don’t you? My precious Tommy?”

 
    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