The Ugly Girls' Club: A Murder Mystery Thriller

by C. A. Wittman

This was rewarded with a thumbs up and a sparkly heart.

  “Come on,” Emma said in a low voice.

  “Why are you whispering? We’re outside.”

  “To get prepared to be really quiet,” Emma made wide eyes at Cat and Cat pointed her finger at her temple, making little circles.

  “I don’t know why I’m whispering, actually,” Emma whispered. The girls broke into giggles. “Wait, shh. Okay, come on. We’re going to go through the yard and use the kitchen door.”

  “Okay, should we tiptoe?” Cat drew her brows together in a fake worried look.

  “Shut up.” Emma gave her a shove, then lifted the latch to the gate.

  “We’re so James Bond right now,” Cat whispered in her ear and Emma had to stop for a moment as a wave of laughter swept through her. “A secret bathing suit mission,” Cat continued as Emma’s shoulders shook, mouth clamped shut. Cat looked left and right in an exaggerated way and then over her shoulder.

  “Stop,” Emma hissed. “You’re going to make me pee my pants.”

  The girls slipped into the yard and climbed the three cement steps that led to the kitchen door.

  Emma tried the doorknob.

  “Come on, it’s not a bomb,” Cat said from her over her shoulder.

  A snort of air shot out of Emma’s nostrils, laughter spluttering from her lips. “Cat, stop, seriously.” The girls collapsed against each other in a fit of half-suppressed giggles. Emma tried to grasp the doorknob but was too weak from the hilarity wracking through her body to lift her arm.

  The door opened and Emma’s mom, Jill Dawson, stepped outside, closing the door with a quiet click. She glared at them from behind square black-framed bifocals, a clipboard under her arm. The sunlight reflected off her neck-length shiny chestnut brown hair. She wore a white polo shirt and black capri pants because it was Saturday. The white Sketchers on her feet were one of three pairs. These were her mealtime shoes, bought for their cushy comfort and silence when walking around the house.

  “It is 12:13 PM, Emma,” Jill said. Her eyes wandered past them to a grey cat that jumped onto the fence dividing the Dawsons’ property from the neighbors’. The cat slunk along the fence line and Jill turned to touch the doorknob three times before refocusing on the girls.

  “This is the 142nd time you’ve disrupted the twins’ mealtime schedule. I told you that I’m gathering pertinent information for the next twelve months about their eating behaviors and—”

  “Okay, Mom. I know,” Emma interrupted. “I just need to get my suit. Didn’t I tell you yesterday I was going to the beach today?”

  “You did not tell me you were going to the beach yesterday. Yesterday, you attempted to leave the house at 3:02 PM, wearing an orange linen top with short sleeves and yellow shorts with green stripes that were too small for you. And don’t get me started on the shoes and the fact that it was only fifty-six degrees outside. We discussed your attire. You changed your clothes to something more appropriate and left at 3:27 PM to go to Cat’s for the night. At no point did you mention a beach outing for this afternoon.”

  “Mom. Fine. I forgot to tell you,”

  “Furthermore,” Jill interrupted Emma. “There are 365 days in the year. That’s 1,095 meals I need to catalog. This is the 150th day and the 409th meal, of which 142 you’ve disrupted. Do you know what percentage of interruptions that is, Emma?”

  Cat had sidled closer to Emma and Emma could hear her breathing in her ear.

  Jill leaned forward, waiting, the rims of her eyes pink from the strain of constantly reading or being on the computer.

  “I don’t know,” Emma muttered, her eyes snaking over to Cat, a blush spreading across her cheeks.

  “It is 34.79 percent of the time, meaning roughly a third of the time, you disrupt meals.”

  Emma threw up her arms. “Mom. This isn’t normal. No one does this. Why can’t you be like other moms?!”

  A small wrinkle appeared at Jill’s brow. “We’ve had this conversation many times, Emma. I can’t be like other moms because I can only be me. I don’t even know what that means, exactly. In fact, we’ve had this same conversation no less than seven times this past week.”

  “Ugh.” Emma made a gurgling noise in her throat and pushed past Jill, opening the door. “I’m going to get my suit.”

  Jill said nothing, her lips pressed tightly together. Cat slipped around her, too, and the girls walked quietly through the kitchen, passing the dining room. Emma glimpsed Myla, Jill’s assistant. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, clipboard before her on the dining table. Two chubby, bald toddlers sat on a sheet spread out on the floor, as if they were at a picnic. An assortment of little white dishes were laid out uniformly, each containing a separate entree. One of the babies held something green and squishy in its fist, shoving it into a drooling mouth. Emma shuddered. She wasn’t especially fond of babies or tiny children. Myla smiled at them, then returned her attention to the twins.

  The girls jogged on tiptoe to Emma’s room.

  “Yeah, my mom’s got nothing on your mom,” Cat said.

  “Shh.” Emma opened the top drawer of her dresser to rummage around for her suit. “If you think we’re in the clear because we’re in my room and the door’s closed, think again,” she said in a loud whisper. She brushed away a tank top that hid the pink Mini Halo vibrator she’d swiped from her dad’s when she’d gone through his things. A sex toy left behind, she assumed, by one of his conquests. Her heart jumped to her throat and she threw a look in Cat’s direction, but Cat was absorbed in her phone.

  “They’re on their way over there,” she said of Nisha and Cassandra.

  Emma covered the vibrator back up and grabbed her suit. Her hands felt clammy and moist.

  “Great,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ve got my suit, let’s go.”

  Chapter 4

  Gumption and Candace sat on the front porch, enjoying the hot Saturday afternoon. Yesterday was cold. In the fifties. Candace sipped from a tumbler of scotch and Gumption held a tall glass of iced tea infused with lemongrass.

  “I just listened to a podcast about cannibalism when I was cleaning the bathrooms,” Candace said, squinting out at the wide sweep of the quiet street. Less than a mile away, the walkways teemed with tourists and locals alike, and Highway One was bumper to bumper with beach traffic. “In Europe, people used to eat the bones, blood, and fat of other people for medicinal purposes.”

  “Yes, I suppose we were all cannibals at one time or another,” Gumption said. She leaned her head against the cushioned back of her porch swing, closing her eyes and enjoying the feel of a warm breeze.

  “It was so common in China that this one author had an entire chapter devoted to the different methods they used to cook human flesh.”

  “Hm,” Gumption said, studying the red and splotchy white patterns behind her closed lids.

  “The servants of royalty and the wealthy would prepare these exotic dishes from human body parts, and the meat of children was considered the tastiest. The cooks would fill dumplings with their minced flesh.” Candace shuddered. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be eating Chinese anymore.”

  Gumption opened her eyes. “My dear, the cannibalism you’re talking of was ages ago.”

  “Not really. About seven years ago in South Korea, they had a crackdown on human flesh capsules that tourists were bringing over in their luggage from China. Dehydrated aborted fetuses crushed into powder and then put into pills to boost sexual stamina. Even here in America, women are eating their placentas. A friend of mine who works at the Health Department said he had a friend who ate her afterbirth.”

  Gumption swirled her tea. The ice cubes made a pleasant tinkling sound.

  “You have a friend who works at the Health Department?”

  “His name is Joey. He only eats raw food. Fruit, mostly.”

  “Is he healthy?”

  “No.”

  “He’s possibly anemic.” Gumption swatted a fly away. “When
I was younger, we called them fruitarians. I knew a woman named Spring who lived on fruit. She had the sweetest smelling farts.”

  “Does she still live on fruit?”

  “No. She dropped dead of a heart attack twenty years ago or more. You’re much better off with heroin than Spring ever was with that ghastly fruit diet. The body needs a variety of different sorts of food to survive.”

  Gumption stared at Candace’s gaunt white profile.

  Candace scratched her arm and bobbed her right leg. She wore a long sleeve shirt, jeans, and socks with tennis shoes although it was eighty-five degrees.

  Candace’s leg went still and she squinted at something across the street. Gumption followed her gaze. The Bakers’ daughter, the one with the interesting face, was coming out of her house. Behind her was a tall black girl with a giant ass and wide, maternal hips that did not match her slim waist and upper body. Gumption had seen the Baker girl with that friend before. Often, she ran around with her and two other girls.

  At that moment, the girls looked Gumption’s way. She raised her hand and waved. The girls froze, then waved back. Gumption motioned them over and they crossed the street, stopping on the sidewalk before the little pathway of round stepping stones that led to the porch steps.

  “You’re Gumption Road,” the black girl said, her mouth hanging open with awe.

  “Yes,” Gumption said. “And this is Candace.”

  The girls studied Candace for a moment, as if not sure what to make of her, and then focused back on Gumption.

  “What are your names?” Gumption asked.

  “Nisha and that’s Cassandra.” Nisha clamped her hand over her mouth and did a bobbing motion with her body before removing her hand. “I’m like a big fan, Ms. G. Big fan.”

  Cassandra nodded in agreement. “Yeah. She’s a total fangirl.”

  “Really?” Gumption said. “How fascinating. I had no idea young people were interested in my work.”

  “No idea?” Nisha echoed, eyes widening. “You’re, like, a hero with girls.”

  Gumption flushed with pleasure. “How delightful.”

  “The way you take everyday toxic heteronormative masculinity and reveal the psychosocial trauma of society through existentialist surrealism is amazing.”

  “Well,” Gumption said. “How remarkably refreshing that some of you are actually awake.”

  “Oh, a lot of us are woke, Ms. G,” Nisha said. “There’s an entire army of us coming for the patriarchy. They think they’re in trouble now. Wait another five years because we’re coming to destabilize, desexualize, exteriorize, anthologize, and cannibalize the anesthetized and tranquilized because women are tired of being fragmentized and marginalized.”

  Gumption took a sip of her tea, staring over the rim of her glass at Nisha.

  “It’s a work in progress, Ms. G,” Nisha said of her rap.

  “I like it, dear.”

  Nisha’s face darkened with pleasure.

  Candace threw her head back and laughed. “Cannibalize,” she said. “We were just talking about cannibals.”

  “Yeah?” Nisha said.

  “Hey, we gotta go,” Cassandra interrupted.

  “Come back and visit,” Gumption said.

  “We will definitely come and visit,” Nisha said.

  Cassandra looked at her phone.

  “And you,” Gumption said to Cassandra. “If you’d let me, I’d like to draw your portrait.”

  Cassandra looked up at her, startled. “Me?”

  “Yes. You have such an interesting look, dear. I hope you’ll consider my proposal.”

  When Cassandra said nothing, Nisha punched her in the shoulder.

  “Ow.”

  “The answer is yes,” Nisha said.

  “Fine. Yes. Most people are interested in my older sister, Sam. She’s the beauty, not me.”

  “I’m not most people, dear. And I wholeheartedly disagree. Your sister has nothing on you.”

  Cassandra blinked back at Gumption in quiet amazement. “Are you sure you’ve seen Sam?”

  “Yes. She is beautiful in a conventional sense.”

  Cassandra blew air up at her bangs and looked at her phone again, a blush spreading across her cheeks. “Sorry. But we have to go.”

  “Tata, darlings.”

  “We should have a dance party,” Candace said, out of the blue.

  The girls peered at her curiously.

  “Wonderful idea,” Gumption said. Candace grinned, her eyes lit with excitement that she normally showed for smack.

  She had a frightening smile with her long, sharp incisors and emaciated features.

  Cassandra thought she looked like an animated corpse. But Nisha came alive over the prospect of a dance party. “I call DJ,” she said.

  “Capital.” Gumption took a sip of her tea.

  “This is going to be a slammin’ summer,” Nisha said.

  “Yes. I think so,” Gumption agreed.

  Chapter 5

  “Why do you think Cassandra’s sister is so secretive about being trans?” Cat said, punching in the code to her scooter.

  Emma shrugged. “I can’t believe she used to be a guy. I mean, you can’t tell. At all.” Emma shook her hair back over her shoulders. “Have you ever noticed that there’s no pictures of Sam as a kid in those pics they have hanging in their hallway?”

  Cat shot her a look.

  “There’s this wedding photo, though—from Louise and Richard’s wedding—and it has Cassandra in it and this guy who I think is Sam.”

  “Really? I never look at those pictures,” Cat said. The girls took off at a leisurely speed, Cat chewing at the side of her cheek, her look thoughtful.

  “Could you tell that Sam used to be a guy?” Emma asked.

  “Nope. I would have never guessed. But, like, being trans is not the biggest deal these days.”

  “Sure, if you live in LA, but there’s a lot of places where trans people are still marginalized.” Emma tossed her hair out of her eyes and the girls picked up speed on their scooters.

  “Yeah. Totally. Here, too, sometimes. But still. She should be proud.”

  The girls took a right on Wilshire Boulevard, the sun beating down on their heads as they flew past stores and pedestrians.

  “Well, maybe she doesn’t identify as trans, but as cis.”

  “You can’t identify as a cis. You either are or you aren’t assigned a particular gender at birth.”

  “Hey, you know what?” Emma said. “I just realized that all of us are cis and, like, straight in our friend group. We don’t have anyone who’s gender fluid, trans, lesbian, bi-gender, um…”

  “Pangender,” Cat called out. “Omnigender.”

  “Wait, aren’t pan and omni basically the same thing?”

  “No.”

  “How are they not the same?”

  “Pangender is when you present parts of different genders and omni is when you’re all genders.”

  “That’s the same thing,” Emma said.

  “No, it’s not. It’s different. Trust me.”

  The girls’ phones pinged and Cat grabbed hers from her pocket, taking quick glimpses at the screen as they whizzed along.

  “They’re there already.” She held down the speech icon and said “Be there in ten,” into the speaker before slipping the phone back in her pocket.

  “Anyway, I bet they’re the same,” Emma picked up with their conversation.

  “We can look it up when we get to the bike shop,” Cat said.

  They fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying the fresh breeze flowing from the ocean and the heat of the sun on their bare arms and faces.

  As Emma ruminated over the conversation, her thoughts drifted back to what she’d said about their group, all of them being cis and straight. Except lately, whenever she masturbated, she fantasized about girls. Was it because of the porn, or was she bi and only now realizing it? She still liked boys, but her fantasies were about girls—well, one in particular: Bl
ue Mars. Blue was part of a trio that she and her friends had nicknamed Pretty Little Devils. Not because the girls were mean or anything. It had to do with the fact that they were drop-dead gorgeous. Once, Cat had made a remark about the Persian one, Suri: that no one deserved to be that pretty, and Nisha had said, “yeah, she’s a pretty little devil.” That’s how it started.

  The Pretty Little Devils were Suri Akbari, Blue Mars, and Valentina Garcia. They were a year ahead, freshmen in high school. Emma’s thoughts lingered on Blue, her womanly figure, cool gaze like she was looking right through you, long brown hair, and full, soft lips. She thought of taking off Blue’s shirt and fondling her breasts the way she’d done with the sex doll.

  “Emma, watch out,” Cat yelled.

  Emma swerved just in time around a toddler, staring up at her with saucer-wide eyes. She barely missed him. His mom lurched forward, swooping him up.

  “You shouldn’t be on the sidewalk with those!” The mother screamed.

  “Sorry,” Emma yelled over her shoulder, face hot with embarrassment as she and Cat slowed their speed.

  “God, Em, pay attention. You almost mowed that kid over.”

  Emma glanced at her hands on the handlebars, heart in her throat, and grimaced as her eyes traveled further to her pudgy belly, pushing up against the steering column.

  “He came out of nowhere,” she muttered.

  “Yeah, basically that’s what happens on a sidewalk,” Cat snapped. “People tend to walk on it.”

  Emma said nothing. She knew she was wrong, hadn’t been paying attention, perving out to Blue, who would never be interested in her in a million years anyway.

  Five minutes later, they saw Cat’s mom Brenda standing outside the bike rental shop on 4th Street, tapping out a text on her phone.

  “Mom,” Cat yelled, waving.

  Brenda looked up, dark sunglasses swallowing up half her face.

  “There you girls are,” Brenda said in her low voice, gravelly from years of smoking. “Nisha and Cassandra are picking out their bikes. And none of you have helmets.”

  “We don’t ride bikes that often,” Cat said as they glided to a stop on their scooters, abandoning them.