Girl on the Verge

by Pintip Dunn

  She pulled her hair into a ponytail, even though it meant she was showcasing her scar. That’s what the other girls did after a wild night out. After Friday parties with fancy hair and makeup, they always spent their Saturdays—even Saturdays that were the social event of the month—dressed down and casual.

  How did all the other girls know this? It had taken her ages to figure out this particular nuance, but they all seemed to absorb this knowledge effortlessly. It was like they had read some rule book that she had somehow failed to receive.

  She would’ve asked Kan, but she’d heard Kan leave ages ago, presumably to go to the spring carnival the student council was hosting that day. There would be games and prizes and good things to eat. Laughter and fun and ample opportunities for flirting. At least, this was what everyone at school was saying. Everybody would be there, and Shelly would be no exception.

  Even if Kan hadn’t bothered to wait for her.

  Shelly wasn’t surprised, though. Kan had been testy ever since Ethan had come to their house for dinner. Ever since she might’ve found out about their sexting session.

  Shelly wasn’t surprised—but she was disappointed. Kan had promised she wouldn’t let a boy come between them. If she were a true friend, she should be willing to share Ethan. She shouldn’t begrudge Shelly those small touches and moments. After all, Kan had everything, and she had nothing. It was like a king who hoarded his gold and refused to spare a few pennies for the beggar.

  It was well past time for them to switch their roles.

  * * *

  When Shelly arrived at the spring carnival, however, nothing was right. Her hair was perfect. Her clothes were perfect. And yet, her classmates still ignored her.

  They walked around her as though she didn’t exist, eating their cotton candy, tossing colorful pieces of popcorn into each other’s mouths. Everywhere she looked, people were aiming darts at a rack of balloons to win oversized stuffed animals. Or throwing balls at a target to dunk one of their classmates. Or getting henna tattoos on the backs of their hands. They were laughing and talking and having fun.

  Fun. The concept paralyzed Shelly. She didn’t know how to have fun, not really. She didn’t understand it.

  God knew, she tried. She attached herself to a group of girls to whom Kan had introduced her. She laughed when they laughed. Groaned at the same parts of the stories where they groaned. She even handed an attendant two dollars so she could spend a useless five minutes jumping inside a bounce house.

  It wasn’t fun.

  She tried as hard as she could to summon the girl she’d been the previous night. The one who had been the center of attention. The one who was just like Kan.

  She wouldn’t come.

  It was because all the students knew her here. They knew she wasn’t Kan. They knew she was the girl with the zigzag scar on her cheek. The girl who’d kicked Walt Peterson in the chin. And they didn’t admire her, the way Kan said they did. They thought she was a freak.

  The longer she stood there, not fitting in, the faster her breathing came. The people and the prizes and the games began to swirl together and spin around her, like she was in the center of a merry-go-round and couldn’t get off.

  This was . . . wrong. It was all wrong. She couldn’t do this. She had to get out of here.

  Abruptly, she left the group of girls and pushed her way through the crowd. She slammed into a guy, and his popcorn flew into the air, but she kept walking. A girl yelled at her to watch out, but she didn’t listen. She needed something. She needed . . . Ethan.

  She needed his reassurance, his strong arms enveloping her. She needed to wrap his scent around herself, so that it would keep her safe.

  If the boy himself wasn’t available, then his shirt would do.

  She stumbled through the crowd and ran into the parking lot, crossed to the athletic field, and unlocked the concession stand with her copy of the stolen key.

  She kept Ethan’s shirt here, in a tiny closet at the far end of the concession stand, along with a box of things she didn’t want anyone else to find. The closet held an old mop, which nobody ever used, and poster board specials from years past. Nobody ever went inside, so it was perfect for Shelly’s purposes.

  But that day, when she opened the door, Shelly knew immediately somebody had been there. Her cardboard box had been moved half a foot, and the cobwebs that normally dripped from the ceiling were gone.

  Her heart shot into her throat as she rummaged in her box. Thank goodness, all her things were still there. A bundle of envelopes tied together with a string. The core of an apple that she and Kan had shared, passing it back and forth after every bite. One of the rock paperweights from the late Sheila Ambrose’s collection. Photocopies of portraits from the yearbook. And Ethan’s shirt.

  She grabbed the shirt, brought it to her nose, and inhaled deeply. Ethan’s cinnamon scent enveloped her. She had to calm down. It was going to be okay.

  But it wasn’t.

  The door of the concession stand flew open, and Ash strode inside, gorgeous and intimidating in her tight jeans, casual shirt, and high, glossy ponytail. At least, Shelly had gotten the look right.

  “Scoping out the scene of the crime?” Ash asked, her hand on her hip.

  Shelly cringed. She normally had better control over her facial expressions, but she was still rattled by the missing cobwebs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The girl raised her perfectly arched eyebrows. Shelly wanted to ask where she got her eyebrows done. She wanted to absorb every detail about Ash. The tweezed eyebrows. The hair that started dark around the crown and lightened to golden honey at the ends. The expert eye makeup that probably took countless brushes and shades.

  Shelly leaned forward, fascinated. She still had so much to learn, so much to know. This girl could teach it to her.

  But Ash had other ideas.

  “I know you locked Walt in here without his clothes,” she said. “And I know what you’re doing to Kan, too.”

  “I had nothing to do with Walt,” Shelly said, her mind whirling. Ash was probably just guessing. Walt would never tell anyone what had really happened—least of all, the princess of Foxville High. “And all I’ve done to Kan is be her friend.”

  “Oh, really? Isn’t that Ethan’s shirt?” She yanked the black fabric out of Shelly’s hands. “Of course it is. Everyone knows what his black shirts look like. He only wears one every day. Does Kan know you’re sniffing around her boyfriend—literally?”

  “It’s not like that,” Shelly said. “I’m looking out for Kan. I’m researching Ethan to make sure he’s the right guy for her.”

  Ash snorted. “Does research involve stealing his shirt? Does it mean blowing up copies of his yearbook photo and drawing hearts all around him?” She gestured toward the cardboard box where incriminating copies of the photo lay. “Yeah, I know all about those, too. I thought Kan was supposed to be your best friend, Shelly. And you’re trying to steal her boyfriend. Doesn’t sound like a very good friend to me.”

  Little bubbles began to pop in Shelly’s head. As Ash continued talking, the bubbles got bigger and popped harder. “You know nothing about me. Nothing about my relationship with Kan.” Shelly struggled to keep her voice even and her face calm. But the bubbles were interfering. They distorted her voice, pushing and pulling at the folds of her skin.

  Ash’s face hardened. “I know a lot more than you think. Don’t forget, Kan was my best friend before she was yours. And I know she’s not going to be happy with you sniffing her boyfriend’s shirt like it’s some kind of crack. I always knew something wasn’t quite right about you, and now, I have proof.” She took a step closer. “I bet you stole her phone, too, and deleted her messages. Kan said she never received my texts, and I believe her.”

  She reached out and flicked Shelly’s black hair. “What the hell is this? Who do you think you’re trying to fool? You’ll never be half as pretty as she is because you don’t have her inner beauty. I kno
w what you’re doing, Shelly. You’re trying to isolate Kan from her friends. But it won’t work. I’m going to tell her everything.”

  Shelly racked her brain. This was bad. Really bad. She had to stop Ash. But how?

  “You won’t do that,” Shelly said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “If you do, I’ll tell everybody how you begged Brad to take you back. I listened to his voice mail messages. I’ll tell them how you were pleading with him to take you to prom and how he turned you down for a tennis player at the school the next town over.”

  Ash’s cheeks flamed red. But instead of cowering, she lifted her chin. “Go ahead. Say whatever you want. You think I care what anyone in this town thinks? Five minutes after graduation, and I’m out of here. Kan is more important than any of that. She’s a good person, and she deserves to know the truth.”

  She turned on her heel to go. But Shelly couldn’t let her do that. Shelly had been working so hard, so tirelessly, and for the first time in her life, she was actually close to getting what she wanted. A true sister. People who paid attention to her. An identity she could be proud of. She wasn’t going to let Ash take that away from her. She just wasn’t.

  Her eyes flew around the concession stand and landed on the rock paperweight inside her cardboard box. She knew she’d kept it there for a reason.

  Ash was almost at the door. Shelly snatched up the piece of pottery. She zeroed in on the back of Ash’s head. And then she smashed the paperweight right in the middle of that glossy ponytail.

  Chapter 33

  Shelly’s former neighbor tells me to call her Mrs. Watson and invites me to sit on one of the porch chairs. Guess she thinks this story is going to take a while. Or maybe she just wants company. Either way, I’m happy to oblige.

  “Before you sit, would you be a dear and go to the kitchen and pour me a glass of lemonade?” she asks. “You can get yourself one, too, while you’re at it.”

  “Sure.” I let myself into the house. Knickknacks are crammed on every available surface, and books are piled waist high along the walls. I walk into the kitchen, and there’s a pitcher of lemonade on the middle shelf in the refrigerator. Glasses in the very first cabinet I open. Thank goodness. Rifling through someone’s memories is one thing. I really don’t want to rifle through her stuff, too.

  I bring the glasses back onto the porch, and Mrs. Watson downs the drink in a few audible gulps. “I make the best lemonade in the state.” She winks as I settle into the chair opposite her. “It’s so good people say I’m a witch and have laced it with a truth-telling potion. Seems no one can sit where you’re sitting, drink my lemonade, and resist telling me their life’s story.”

  I freeze with the glass halfway to my mouth.

  “It’s a joke, sweetie!” She laughs, splaying her hands on her belly. “There’s nothing in that lemonade but sugary goodness. Besides, I’m the one talking today, not you. I’ll admit, though, I always keep a batch on hand in case I have an unexpected guest. There’s no magic inside, but boy, does it seem to work. That’s probably the only reason Sheila Ambrose confided in me. Our paths didn’t cross much after Shelly got too old for a sitter, but Sheila would come onto my porch a few times a year. When she did, every detail of her life came spewing out.” She sobers. “It was like she was storing up the words, waiting for a friendly ear. I was probably the closest thing she had to a friend, poor dear.”

  She eyes my glass. “Come now. Take a drink. I promise you, it’s harmless. Besides, I can’t be poisoning teenage girls on my porch. What would that do to my reputation in the neighborhood?”

  This doesn’t reassure me. I doubt the neighbors on this street talk much. I bring the glass to my mouth anyway, in a show of good faith.

  I take one sip—and almost spit it back out. “Is this . . . hard lemonade?”

  She roars with laughter. “Told you it had a way of making the truths come out.”

  I set the lemonade down on the porch. “I’m still a minor. And I’m driving later.”

  “You’re as fuddy-duddy as Shelly. Seventeen going on fifty. You two are friends, did you say? I’m not surprised. Well, if you’re not going to drink it, hand it over here, girlie. Can’t let it go to waste.”

  I give her the lemonade and she finishes it off within seconds. She could be a competitive drinker. She wipes a hand across her mouth. “Now, what were we talking about? Oh, yes, Riley.”

  “What do you know about her?” I ask.

  “Well, poor thing never had a chance, not with who her mother was.” She crosses her arms over her belly. “You see, Riley’s mother, Leesa, and Sheila Ambrose had been friends for a long, long time. I used to see Leesa coming ’round when Shelly was a wee thing in pigtails. They smoked pot together back in college, Sheila said. I don’t know if either of them ever graduated, but according to Sheila, Leesa was plenty bright. Street smarts, Sheila called it. She said Leesa could have a five-minute conversation with you and know exactly how to get you to do what she wanted. So, instead of getting a regular job, Leesa’s spent the last twenty years using her God-given talents for grifting.”

  “Grifting?” I raise my eyebrows, not understanding.

  “You know, con games and the like. She’d move to a new town and find a mark. Usually a rich but not too bright guy. The con might take two weeks; it might take six months. But Leesa would worm her way into the person’s good graces—and bank account. She’d walk away with a sizable amount of cash, move to a new town, and start all over again.”

  “She raised her daughter through this?” There’s a sour taste in my mouth, and it’s definitely not the lemonade. “That’s awful.”

  “Yep. Apparently, she made the kid take part in her cons, too. Not that Riley was any good at it. They used to get into terrible rows over it, and finally, when Riley turned seventeen, she put her foot down. She didn’t want to grift anymore. At a loss, Leesa called her old friend, and Sheila agreed to take the kid in.

  “So the three of them lived together—Sheila, Shelly, and Riley—just one big happy family, for a few months. And then, tragedy struck. Sheila killed herself at the church, in a godawful wedding dress, and both Shelly and Riley disappeared. They were both eighteen, so the police didn’t bother tracking them down. Some say they took off for the islands, and others thought they just moved to a new town so they could get a fresh start.” She grips the armrests and leans forward. “You know what I think?”

  “What?” I whisper.

  “I think they’re out there, conning someone else. Riley would’ve picked up lots of tricks from her mom, and she could’ve easily taught them to Shelly.” She looks at me pointedly. “Maybe you and your family are the victims.”

  I shake my head. “No. Just Shelly is staying with us. Not Riley.”

  “Doesn’t mean Riley’s not out there, behind the scenes. Calling the shots.”

  The thoughts whirl in my head. Could Shelly be communicating with an outsider, taking orders from her? For sure. Even in the beginning, when we spent all of our time together, I didn’t keep track of her every movement.

  But there was the matter of the necklace. R & S, best friends forever. If Shelly was working with Riley, why are the two halves of the necklace together? Shouldn’t Riley be wearing the other half?

  “What does Riley look like?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I only ever saw her from a distance. Dirty blond hair. Pale skin. Slender build, like Shelly’s. Kind of nondescript looking. The type that you never remember in a crowd.”

  “Last name?”

  “Jeffries, I think. At least, that was her mother’s last name.”

  “Do you have any idea how I can contact the mom?”

  “Not a clue,” she says slowly. “Sheila said they had a home base somewhere, a cabin on a nearby lake, but that’s all I know. Leesa didn’t even come to Sheila’s funeral, which I thought was a shame. Sheila really cared about her, but she’s probably off running a con somewhere and couldn’t be bothered.”
r />   I stand, my mind still puzzling through the possibilities. “Thanks for the lemonade and the information.”

  Mrs. Watson leans back, her eyes snapping. “Did I answer your questions?”

  “Not entirely, but you helped. A lot. You narrowed down my search.”

  “To what?”

  I look at the older woman. At the empty glasses strewn on the porch. The worn but sturdy furniture. Suddenly, every detail sharpens. I see every drop of lemonade clinging to the glass, every splinter of wood sticking out from the furniture.

  “I need to find Riley,” I say. “She’s the key to everything.”

  Chapter 34

  It was the damn shirt’s fault. Ethan’s shirt. Shelly knew it had been a mistake. She never should’ve taken it in the first place. If Ash hadn’t found it, she wouldn’t have gone to the concession stand, looking for her. She wouldn’t have threatened Shelly—and Shelly wouldn’t have had to do what she did.

  When she got home, her fingers were still trembling, even as she carried the cardboard box. Disgust wrapped around her throat and gagged her. But she wasn’t feeling her own disgust; it was someone else’s. Someone who used to be important. Someone who had, once upon a time, been her entire world. Someone whose name she refused to utter.

  Saying her name would break Shelly’s heart all over again.

  “When you grift, you need to grift with every inch of your body,” the person had instructed. “The tells are in the body parts you least expect. Smile not just with your mouth, but also with your eyes, your nose, your cheeks. Pay particular attention to your fingers. So small, so slight compared to the rest of your body, but in times of stress, they have a mind of their own. If in doubt, wear a pair of gloves. They’ll do double duty in preventing telltale fingerprints.”

  Shelly curled her fingers around the box. She wished she’d brought a pair of gloves, but she hadn’t thought that far ahead. When she’d woken that morning, she’d had no idea the day would turn out like this.

  But Shelly wasn’t the kind of girl who dwelled on the past. She believed in moving forward. The only reason she was here now was because she knew how to recover from tragedy. She had to remember that.