The Pretty Ones

by Jamie Lee Fry

  We were so close. Jenny was more like a sister to me than an aunt, and being an only child, I ate up all her attention. I was lonely when she wasn’t around. She really was my best friend. I say Mike and Zoey were my best friends, but they were my high-school besties and we stuck together because we were slight outcasts and it was convenient for us to all be friends at school. But Jenny, she was my confidant. I looked up to her. She was sixteen when I was born but despite the age difference, she totally got me.

  She left such a void in my life. Life isn’t fair sometimes.

  I feel the darkness coming back, and I have to shut it down before it takes control. It was easier to forget in Iowa, with my shield of distance. I wish I had planned better and stayed there.

  I have to shut down this tunnel I’m heading toward. I can’t do this today. Sorry, Jenny.

  I hug the frame and give it a sweet kiss. I miss you, Jenny. I put her picture back in its proper place and grab my phone. I want to text Quinn.

  Quinn, hey girl. Thinking of you. I want to talk about what happened that night. I miss you.

  I delete it.

  CHAPTER 04

  Charlie

  August 2012

  A familiar feeling of the sun burning along my face tickles me awake. My mouth parched from the dry heat of the high-desert air, a huge change from the Midwestern humid summers. I desperately reach for the cup of water on my nightstand and chug the entire glass. The lukewarm contents soothe my dry throat.

  I felt satisfied with the work I did on my bedroom yesterday, and I need to keep busy today, but I’m not sure what to do with my time. I’ve got nothing but time these days.

  OK, Charlie. Today you have to do something productive. This is the best pep talk I can muster up. I force myself out of my queen-sized bed and slip my feet into my fuzzy blue slippers and head for the kitchen.

  Looks like the parentals are at work.

  My stomach grumbles, and I try to recall the last thing I ate. Nothing comes to mind. I really need to start taking better care of myself. How did I survive the last four years? I’m clearly winning at adulting.

  I grab the bread from the pantry, undo the twist tie, and plop two slices into the toaster. As I wait for my breakfast, I space out and lose a little bit of time. The ejection of the toast startles me and pulls me back to reality. The smell of nearly burnt toast fills the air. I grab the butter but opt to forgo the peanut butter because it feels like too much work.

  I’m picking at my breakfast when my phone starts ringing upstairs.

  I rush through the kitchen and down the hallway. It’s still ringing. I have a chance to answer it. I run up the steps and as my feet hit the landing, the ringing stops. Shoot.

  One missed call.

  Quinn.

  I wait impatiently for a voicemail.

  Nothing.

  I’ve been waiting for this call all summer and I miss it by just seconds. You got to be kidding me. Just my luck.

  I pace the room. Do I call her back? It has been an entire summer without her. I can’t explain it, but really need her right now. I’ve been a mess without her.

  I decide to wait fifteen minutes before I call her back. I don’t want her to think I’ve been sitting by my phone the past three months, waiting for her to finally get in touch.

  The phone rings multiple times before I get her voicemail. Dammit.

  I stumble for my words. I should have prepared them before calling.

  “Um, hi, Quinn. Um, I saw you called. I missed it. Obviously.” I laugh nervously. “I haven’t heard from you all summer. I was happy to see you called. You can, um, call me back. I would love to talk to you. OK, bye now.” I end the call.

  Ugh. I’m so mad I missed her call. I stare at my phone, willing it to ring again.

  Nothing happens.

  CHAPTER 05

  Charlie

  August 2012

  I wake up in a fog. Once again, my memory a blur. The flavor of death coats my mouth. I smack my lips to create some movement and saliva, but my efforts are futile.

  Comprehension arrives a moment later. Shit! I did it again. The familiar street, the same tall trees, the sage-green house.

  I’m parked outside Liam’s old house again. Shit.

  Before I can even give way to a single coherent thought, I turn my car on and yank the steering wheel toward the street. A half-empty bottle of vodka rolls off the seat and hits the floor. Crap, crap, crap. What is going on with me? I drive my car down a couple of blocks and pull over on a side street. I move the bottle into the trunk and then get back into my car.

  I bang my hands furiously against the dashboard and scream in horror. “Come on, Charlie, come on, get a grip. Get a damn hold of yourself, girl!” I pinch the skin between my pointer finger and thumb to see if I feel anything. I need to know if I’m dreaming or if I’m really here in this moment. A sharp tingle runs down the middle of my hand. OK, I feel something, so what does that prove? Am I losing my mind? How did I get here again and when did I decide it was a good idea to drink? I can’t recall a single memory from last night. I glance down and I appear to be wearing Jenny’s OSU sweatshirt. I don’t remember putting this on. Where did this sweatshirt come from?

  An obnoxious rattle jolts my attention to my armrest. Something inside is rapidly knocking back and forth. I need this noise to stop now. I can barely think straight as it is. I don’t need any distractions. I open the console and I see my phone vibrating inside. My attempt to silence the call fails as I accidentally hit answer instead of silence.

  I impulsively holler, “What?” into the phone. My response startles and disappoints me immediately. I sink deeper into my seat. Fear of not knowing who I rudely spoke to unnerves me.

  “Excuse me. Um, Charlie? Is that you?” A soft, recognizable voice expresses confusion and concern.

  Oh my goodness. It’s Quinn. Poor timing. This is not how I imagined reconnecting with her.

  Say something, Charlie. Speak, dammit. I take a deep breath to gather a little bit of composure.

  “Oh, hey, Quinn. Yes, it’s me. Sorry, I didn’t realize it was you calling,” I say, careful with my words. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and mess this conversation up. I need Quinn now more than ever, but she needs to believe I’m OK before I unload everything on her.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time? Are you doing, OK? You sound off,” Quinn says with worry in her voice.

  It is nice to hear she is concerned but I choke back the words I really want to say. I take a deep breath in an attempt to gain a little bit of composure.

  “No, no, it’s all good. I’m glad you called back. How are you?” I reply with a generic response, but what I really want to say is I feel like I’m stuck on a loop like I’m in Groundhog Day. Oh, and I may or may not be drunk right now and I’m losing my mind. But I don’t say any of that.

  “I’m doing well,” she responds, unphased by my monotone response. “I took a summer internship in Seattle, but I’m back in Portland now. I thought we could meet and talk. Can you head over here tomorrow?” Quinn asks.

  “Ah, sure, that sounds nice. Should I meet you at your parents’ house?” I hear the lack of energy in my voice.

  Put on a better show, Charlie. Quinn can usually see through my bullshit. She’s bold and brass when she needs to be.

  “Oh, no, don’t go there. My parents are busy doing some remodeling at our house and it’s a mess. Let’s meet downtown. I’m sure you will want to hit up Powell’s bookstore, so why don’t we just meet there. Let’s say noon?” Quinn says.

  “That sounds good,” I respond, with a little more pep in my words.

  “Hey, Charlie? Are you sure you’re doing, OK?” Quinn asks.

  “Yah, I’m doing fine. I will fill you in tomorrow,” I say. I want to tell Quinn nothing has been the same since I saw her last, but instead, I opt for a simple, “See ya tomorrow.”

  “OK, Charlie. See ya tomorrow.” Quinn says and ends the call.

  An
d just like that, the conversation I have been waiting for all summer is over. No word about what happened that fateful night. Zero mention of the evening I don’t remember.

  CHAPTER 06

  Charlie

  August 2012

  My anxiety was high yesterday after Quinn called. I was excited but anxious about seeing her again. It was all I could think about. It didn’t give my mind the space it needed to sort through my other issues. I can save that for my return from Portland. One problem at a time is all I can handle today. It also looks like the job hunt will have to be postponed as well.

  It was nearly eight thirty when I realized Mom and Dad used up the last of the coffee and left me none. How dare they? Don’t they understand my codependency with coffee? They didn’t even bother to leave me a note. I will need to make a stop for some on my way out of town. I now have less time to dillydally around, so I better get out the door or I will be late. Nothing irritates Quinn more than tardiness. It’s OK for her to be tardy, but no one else.

  ***

  I must have been on autopilot as I find myself in the Coffee Loon parking lot across from my former high school. Old habits die hard, don’t they? The school looks smaller than I remember. Maybe the trees grew taller? The ancient-looking juniper trees line the entire perimeter of the property creating an uninviting atmosphere.

  I’m grateful my time there is over.

  During my junior and senior years, I escaped nearly every lunch break and walked over to the Coffee Loon for a midday snack and pick-me-up. I looked forward to my little break each day, but now I can’t bring myself to get out of the car. This once happy escape is now coated with dark memories. Memories of lunchtime coffee dates with Liam.

  That was before he . . .

  No, Charlie, don’t go there. Not today.

  I immediately shut down the dark thoughts that are about to invade my memory.

  Thankfully, our growing and booming town has more than enough room for a second coffee shop on the street. I spot a new sign at the end of the block.

  Cuppa Mud Coffee House.

  Score. Someone is looking out for me today.

  I walk down to the end of the street toward the new café.

  “New beginnings,” I say under my breath and step inside.

  Empty burlap coffee sacks hang on the walls. Simple but effective decor. Only a couple of small tables for two line the windows, suggesting they would rather have you take your coffee to-go. Only one of the tables is occupied. A girl with an open laptop facing the rear of the store. I’m greeted with the pleasant scent of homemade blueberry scones and freshly brewed coffee. I didn’t plan to order a pastry, but now I’m enticed to do so. I step up to the counter and an older woman with her hair slicked tightly back in a bun welcomes me. Her name tag reads Darla. Darla smiles, her teeth coffee stained.

  “Hi, dear, what can I get for ya this morning?” she asks.

  “I would love one of your blueberry scones and a large Americano,” I say with certainty.

  “Room for cream in your Americano?” Darla asks.

  No, black is good. Fill ’er up,” I say.

  “I like your style. That’s how I drink mine, too. No frills,” Darla says, looking pleased with her comment.

  I chuckle. “I worked at a coffee house in college, and I couldn’t get through my shift and the following classes without at least one of these bad boys per day.” I think Darla’s enjoying our banter.

  She smiles and continues with the small talk. “Which coffee house did ya work at?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t around here. It was called the Java Hut in Iowa.” I respond.

  “Never been there myself, but I had an uncle who lived in Iowa for a short stint. He always complained about the weather. I never went for a visit. Why would I? He made the place sound miserable. He eventually moved to South Carolina. Now that’s a place to visit,” Darla says.

  “I get it. Cold winters, hot summers. I understand why he left.” I reach for some napkins and tuck some into my pocket for the drive.

  “That’ll be eight dollars fifty, hun.”

  I hand her a ten. “Keep the change,” I say.

  “Thanks, dear. Coffee’s just about up, scone will be a sec. Got some fresh ones ’bout to come out of the oven. Best scones in Bend, I tell ya.”

  The barista hands Darla my coffee and she hands it over to me. “Here’s your coffee, doll. Big plans today?”

  Darla’s chattiness doesn’t seem to create a sense of urgency, but I glance behind me anyway to make sure I’m not holding up the line. A man in khakis and a button-up shirt is standing off to the side assessing the menu like he’s never been to a coffee house before. His pointer finger resting on his chin as if he’s in deep thought. I imagine he’s going to order a frilly drink. Mocha perhaps. I used to love guessing people’s drink orders before they placed them. I was pretty good at it, too.

  “Heading to Portland to see a friend,” I respond back.

  A second worker comes out from the back and hands Darla my scone in a little white bag.

  “Here ya go, dear. Have a good drive. Weather’s supposed to be nice today,” Darla says.

  “Thanks. See ya next time.” This is the most I’ve interacted with someone in days. I appreciate Darla’s kindness. I will definitely be back.

  The man behind me doesn’t even give me a second to step out of the way. He’s already at the register, standing next to me, ready to place his order.

  I take my time exiting the building, walking slowly so I can hear his order.

  Darla says, “What cha having, sweetie?”

  “Mocha frap with extra chocolate sprinkles, please,” the man says.

  Yep. That’s what I thought. I still got it. I giggle as I walk out of the building.

  Breakfast. Check. Coffee. Check. Three hours alone in a car with my thoughts. This won’t be good.

  CHAPTER 07

  Charlie

  October 2008

  The air is cool and damp. Fallen leaves cake the sidewalk. None of the businesses have swept yet—it’s too early. The wind is brisk as it whooshes past me. I retreat further into the doorway. A couple of freshly fallen leaves dance by. I check my phone again for the time. 4:01 a.m. Gavin is late. In the two months I’ve worked here, I’ve never had to wait outside; Gavin’s usually here by now with the lights on and ready to bark orders.

  The Java Hut is situated on a busy street in the pedestrian mall. Although, a mall it hardly is. I’ve been told this area used to be a busy shopping center in the eighties, but now it’s a blend of University of Iowa buildings, restaurants, obscure shops, and bars. Our block is oddly curated with a bookstore, a candy shop, comic-book store, an upscale restaurant, and finally ends with a late-night burrito joint, that stays open until three in the morning. Sometimes when I come into work, I see the tired souls of the late-night restaurant workers ending their shift and walking to their cars. I feel so bad for them. They have to serve drunk college kids all night, and I’m sure they get little respect from any of them. I once saw a drunk guy puke in their garbage can and then on the floor. This drunken act was not uncommon. I was delighted I was lucky to work at a coffee shop, even if I started at 4 a.m. I was notably exhausted all the time, and school had been kicking my butt already. High school was a cakewalk compared to college life.

  The entire street behind the Java Hut is more consistent, as it is home to more bars, taverns, pubs, and dance clubs than any one college should have. I’m not sure how any college student survives four years here. I haven’t had much time to party yet. Being a freshman who lives off campus doesn’t help.

  I’ve made no real friends yet. I pretty much just know my co-workers, and I wouldn’t call us friends. They have invited me to a couple of parties; I have only gone to one but left early. They are pleasant at work, but outside work, I’m invisible to them.

  I check the time again. Only a few minutes have passed. I want to text Gavin, but I never got around to saving his phone numb
er in my phone. The store phone list they gave me at orientation is still sitting in my work locker. A lot of good it’s doing me there right now. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

  The morning is quiet. I’m always in too big of a rush to take notice how calm downtown can be this early in the morning. It’s very peaceful, but the darkness at this hour creates an eerie feeling at the same time. Downtown comes to life around 8 a.m. with college students, professors, and locals rushing about preparing for their day, creating an entirely different feel. Everything is rushed and busy and loud once the day gets rolling.

  “Come on, Gavin. Where are you?” I mumble out loud to myself and I see my breath float by. My teeth begin to chatter, and the wind picks up. I’m feeling anxious now. I check my phone for the third time. 4:10. I want to leave but I know the second I do, Gavin will show up and I will be the one in trouble for missing my shift. I’m now alert to all the little noises of the street. The ticking of a crosswalk alerts a twelve-second countdown. Trees are rustling in the wind. I’m getting more and more irritated with Gavin’s tardiness and I’m about to leave when I hear a rattle from a few store fronts down. I carefully peek around the corner to see what’s creating the obnoxious noise that’s out of place for this time of morning. A bum emerges from an empty doorway and is now coming down my side of the street. He’s pushing a cart with one hand while the other hand tightly grips a brown bag. He stops and takes a sip from the contents of the bag. I assume it’s alcohol. As he gets closer, loose cans rattle louder against the metal cart. I tuck myself further into the doorway. I’m pressed hard against the cold glass door. The bum stops again, now directly in front of me. He doesn’t take any notice but pulls another swig. His tattered brown jacket and ill-fitting pants flap in the wind, wafting a smell of urine, cigarettes, and stale booze. A chill runs down my entire spine. I want to vomit, but I hold my composure. He continues on without noticing me. He whistles his way down the street and the clanking of his cans get louder as the sidewalk gets rougher and uneven until it fades back out as he lurks into another doorway.