He leans against the door, eyes darting nervously to the side. The air between them is hot, the silence brittle. “I mean—” He coughs. “It’s not the worst rumor that’s ever been spread about you.”
Claude forces herself to speak. “Sorry, Kyle,” she says through gritted teeth. “Desperate and disgusting aren’t really turn-ons. See you on Monday.”
She leans past him and undoes the lock. “Oh, come on,” he whines, flipping it back. “You pity-fuck Jamie Schill on the daily. I’m not more desperate than him.”
She brings her knee up, slamming his erection with as much force as she can. His mouth opens in a silent wheeze. She hopes she kicked him hard enough that his parents find him here when they come home. “Go fuck yourself, Kyle Landry.” She unlocks the door and storms down the hall. “Nobody’s going to do it for you.”
She does up the button of her shorts as she thunders down the stairs. She opens the front door before she remembers her keys. They’re in her coat, and her coat is in the front room. As she storms in, two girls look up from the couch but turn away from her when they determine she’s no one interesting.
“My mom won’t let me hang out there,” the brunette says. “She’s already caught wind that it’s where everyone goes to smoke.”
“Huh. What about the woods?” says the blonde.
The brunette laughs. “Right now? Ever since the police said someone might be in there, she’s been flipping her lid. She checks every major newspaper and the Adams West blog before she takes me to school in the morning. If she catches me in the woods, I’ll be way more grounded than if she catches me smoking.” She shrugs. “Best place to do it is here, frankly.”
“So Kyle Landry can clean up the mess?” The pale girl raises her eyebrows.
“He’d deserve it,” Claude mutters, finally picking up her coat.
She walks quickly down the front drive, but now that her head is beginning to clear, she realizes: there’s something else to do before she goes home. She still has twenty minutes before she enters the danger zone, and that should be just enough time. She hops into Janine and pulls away from the Landry house with a screech that will hopefully wake the neighbors.
The Breakfast Club sits right off main street, right next to the Eternal Christmas store, whose animatronic Santa hasn’t stopped waving from the front window since 1965. Claude flips off the machine as she goes by—Santa waves—and heads inside.
The restaurant has its usual late-night clientele: a couple of homeless guys perched over a cup of coffee, Lorne’s taxi driver waiting for his next call, a few students between parties. One of them shouts, “Claaaaaaude.”
She ignores him. She’s not in party mode now.
The diner’s decor is cheap plastic everything, from the linoleum on the floor to the stools at the bar that still, miraculously, have stuffing to leak. Rumors circulate every year that it’s going to be shut down, replaced by a chain diner or a fancy coffee shop, but Claude doubts anyone will reuse the place. The walls are stained yellow from the days when you could smoke inside. Pictures splattered with old ketchup are framed by cracked gray wood. The faux-tile floor is so faded no one knows what the original colors were. They just have gray and darker gray now.
Still, nothing in Lorne beats the Breakfast Club for a late-night meal.
She goes up to the bar and takes a seat, scratching at a dried mustard stain on the counter. The unimpressed waitress takes her time refilling a guy’s coffee, then comes over. “Two breakfast burritos, please,” Claude says. “To go.”
The woman heads over to the register. “Anything else?”
“Don’t you want extra guac on yours?”
Claude turns. Seriously? Why does Jamie need to be here, now? Why does she need to suddenly remember that he has a dimple on either side of his mouth when he smiles? Why does he have to be smiling at all, and not in a judgy or cruel or even suggestive way?
Stupid boy, looking happy to see her.
The waitress taps her long nails on the register, looking bored. “Extra guac on both, please,” Claude says.
Jamie slides onto the stool next to her. She expects a subtle jab about two burritos, and she readies the defenses. Instead, he just says, “You think Mr. Yamotov will let you make up your calc quiz?”
The quiz today. She’d skipped calc but forgotten about the quiz. “Probably. He loves to say that anyone can do math, so he’ll be all eager to prove it.”
“I don’t know if anyone told you, but we have a paper due in APCoGo on Monday.”
Claude tries not to smile. “You told me, Jamie.”
“I did?” His eyes widen a tad too much. “The aliens have erased my memory again! See, this is why JLH should make tinfoil hats part of their dress code.”
Claude gives in and smiles. For a moment they’re quiet. Then she says, “I bet if there were aliens, half the staff at JLH would be one.”
“Like who?”
Claude twists her mouth. “Mrs. Willingham. That’s why she confiscates our phones every morning. Can’t have a phone signal disabling her human projection.”
“Yes. Yes. Also, Mr. Pendler. Like he always says, ‘Okay, humans!’ like he heard gender neutral is the new way to go but he doesn’t know how to do it?”
“Yes. And Principal Mendoza, because every principal is an alien.” Fact of life.
“And Mr. Darrow. No human on earth is that ready and chipper in the mornings.” Jamie’s grinning. He has a bit of cilantro stuck between his teeth. He has dimples and a carefree smile and no smirks, no judgments, no pleading—
She wants to kiss him. And then put her head on his shoulder and listen to him ramble instead of thinking about jail and her mom and the party and stupid Kyle Landry, who would have sexually assaulted her if she hadn’t kicked him. She wants to put Jamie on the couch with a blanket and make him watch Miracle on 34th Street. She wants to stop jumping through his window at night and walk up to his front door like a normal person.
She can’t. She’s made a colossal fuck-up of her life and she can’t ask Jamie to be a part of that, even though he’d say yes.
Maybe. She did say no to him already, and he hasn’t brought it up again tonight. And isn’t it nice that someone can respect your boundaries? whispers the voice in the back of her head.
The waitress slaps down two foil-wrapped burritos. Claude jumps and fumbles for her wallet. She’s not at the Breakfast Club to flirt with Jamie. She’s not even here for herself.
“I’ll see you on Monday,” she says without looking up.
“Awesome,” Jamie replies, as though he really does think it’s awesome. Then, to the waitress: “Could I get some fries, please?”
Something alarming twinges in her chest. Something like regret.
No police cars tonight at Anna’s Run, though the area’s still marked off by tape. Claude slides plastic bags over her Docs, tying them at the ankle, then ducks under the tape.
The wood is pitch black. Trees and shadow are indistinguishable from each other, and Claude has to find the flashlight on her phone to keep from straying into bushes and tripping on roots. The river’s rush drowns out other sounds—the sounds of passing cars, the sounds of night birds. Claude’s mind floods with stories of hikers who were followed by mountain lions, and more than once she whips around, but it seems that mountain lions are more sensible than humans when it comes to Anna’s Run.
She breathes in deep, picking up the scent of juniper and cold water and woodsmoke. She must be going the right direction. She goes deeper into the woods, walking as they become impossibly dark, until her flashlight is an insignificant token against the night. She comes to the muddled crime scene of the bridge.
Water sprays in cold droplets. Winter cannot freeze and tame Anna’s Run. Claude steps out onto the creaking wood, leaning away from the broken railing on her left. Her breath can’t reach to the bottom of her lungs until she’s on safe ground again. The river roars—in approval? In anger? Desperation for another sacrific
e?
She clears the police tape on the other side and keeps going.
The smell of smoke becomes stronger. The air seems a little grayer, the woods a little lighter around her. And then she starts to see the first slivers of red and orange, reflections of a campfire.
The fire blazes high. A tent is set up next to it, large enough for two. Claude steps into the circle of light. She so shouldn’t be doing this.
“Hello?” she says.
A shadow falls across her path. She gasps and spins, holding the burrito like a weapon.
But when she sees who it is, she sighs, half laughing in relief. “Thank god it’s you.” She offers the burrito. “Hungry?”
OFFICIAL POLICE RADIO TRANSCRIPT ORDER CODE 31225 JLPD TEAMS ON DUTY 1, 3
DISPATCH: Car Oscar Golf 311, are you receiving?
OG311: Car Oscar Golf 311 reading loud and clear.
DISPATCH: We’ve got a billing address for that phone.
OG311: Go ahead.
DISPATCH: Wenby Court, number 133, residence registered to William and Bronwyn Sayer.
OG311: Jesus. We’re on our way. You unlocked the phone yet?
DISPATCH: Negative. We’ll keep you updated.
OG311: Roger, Dispatch. Headed there now.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
DATE: December 7, 2018 9:31 P.M.
SUBJECT: Devino Scholarship
Dear Miss Gwendolyn Sayer,
It is my pleasure to inform you that you have been selected to receive the prestigious Devino Scholarship. The decision was based on your academic record, your eloquence in writing and speech, your moral integrity, and your commitment to extracurricular activities that enrich the community around you. Congratulations.
Representatives of the Devino Fund will be in touch shortly after the new year to confirm your financial status. If you choose for any reason to reject the scholarship, please let me know before the beginning of winter break so that the scholarship can go to another deserving participant. The scholarship cannot be deferred—if you decide not to attend college in the fall 2019 semester, you will forfeit the scholarship entirely.
I am very proud that we had not one but two incredible students at Jefferson-Lorne in competition for this prestigious scholarship, and that despite incredibly difficult personal issues, you’ve shown your mettle and gone after your dream. However, as much as I know it’s an achievement you deserve to boast to the world, the school board and I have agreed at this time that it would be best to postpone the formal announcement, out of respect for Emma Baines and the ongoing case.
Have a good weekend.
Regards,
Gabriel Mendoza
Principal, Jefferson-Lorne High School
21
The Desperate One
The Sayers arrive late for dinner, and Mum gives Gwen surreptitious glares through the rearview mirror the whole way. Gwen keeps her arms folded and her mouth shut. She meant to apologize the minute she came through the door, but before she had the chance, Mum had practically pushed her back out into the cold again, with Dad on her heels. “Adelaide’s waiting for us, and I promised I’d help with the baby.”
She’d forgotten about dinner with Dad’s niece Adelaide.
The Sayer family grew up in Lorne, but Adelaide moved into her husband’s mobile home when she got married, which means she lives a whole twenty minutes outside the city limits. The Sayers pull into Juniper Park just past seven and park in front of Cousin Addy’s single-wide. A lopsided snowman sits outside the neighbor’s house. Little twinkle lights line the top of the mobile home, but they’re not turned on.
Mum’s scowl evaporates as Addy opens the door. “All right, Adelaide? Lovely to see you.”
“Thanks, Bronwyn.” Cousin Addy and Mum hug. The smell of chicken and onions and garlic wafts from behind her. Her apron is stained with baby food and dinner. She hugs Gwen’s dad, then Gwen. “How goes, Gwen?”
“Great,” Gwen lies. “Where’s Eric?”
“Eric has a new job.” Addy’s tired smile takes on new life. “Night security for First Bank in Fort Collins.”
Both Addy and Eric attended JLH, like Gwen. Unlike Gwen, neither of them won a scholarship to get out of town. Eric took night classes while Addy worked two jobs and had three children. Addy and Eric do what they can to keep their mobile home looking nice, but the linoleum peels away from the corners of the rooms, and they didn’t get permission to paint over the orange fleur-de-lis wallpaper put up by a previous tenant. They’ve hung a big poster of the northern lights over it. It clashes horribly.
Laundry is piled up on the couch; Addy’s sister-in-law, Catarina, sits next to it, folding. She uses her pregnant belly as a shelf, and waves at the Sayers as they come in. They make the rounds, hugging and kissing and exclaiming over Catarina’s swollen feet. “It’s a boy,” Mum says.
“I don’t know about that,” Catarina replies. Her brown skin is sallow with fatigue. “I been drinking water like I’m living in the desert. Girls are thirsty.”
“It’s in the way you carry. It’s a boy.” Mum smiles.
Next they have to dote on baby Toby, screaming with joy from his high chair. Gwen loves the kid, but god, he’s giving her a headache. Addy and Eric started soon out of high school.
But that’s Lorne. There’s nothing to do here but work and have sex. And what little work you do get might not be enough to pay half your rent in the trailer park.
Mum goes into the kitchen to take care of the food. Gwen squats next to Toby and Dad goes outside to where Addy’s other two kids, Margaret and Lionel, are making an army of tiny snowmen.
“You heard back yet from NYU, Gwen?” Catarina calls from the couch.
Gwen pauses in the middle of feeding Toby a sliver of green cabbage. “Uh, no. Another week and I’ll start to worry.” She applied early decision and she’s second-guessing herself. Now Dad has started disappearing from their lives, and Emma has disappeared from everywhere, and everything seems to be coming down at once.
She’ll get through this. She will. And she’ll get her scholarship and buy her parents their big house and maybe she’ll get Addy a cottage with foundations, one that won’t wash downstream in the next flash flood.
“How about the scholarship? I’m so proud of you,” Addy says.
“It’s not official yet,” Gwen objects.
Addy waves her hand. “Everyone knows you deserve it.”
Gwen can’t really muster the right kind of smile. “Thanks.”
They crowd around the folding table to eat. Margaret and Lionel stomp in from the snow with loud exclamations. Margaret tackles Gwen.
“You’re freezing,” Gwen shrieks as Margaret’s hands slip under her shirt and latch onto her back.
“Me and Li made a snowball army,” Margaret says, sticking out her tongue.
“What’s a snowball army?” Gwen asks.
“It’s a bunch of little snowmen that quickly become snowballs,” says Dad. He’s smiling like he doesn’t have to think about anything tonight. Gwen sort of hates that it’s so carefree. He could show some of that at home, if he ever actually came home.
They wrangle the kids into their chairs. Addy serves a warm soup. As she sits down, Gwen can see how her body sags. Gray hair streaks either side of her temple. She tells Margaret off for splashing her spoon in her soup and admonishes Li for slurping.
If Gwen stays in Lorne, this will be what twenty-five looks like for her. She can’t. She promised Lizzy she’d get a prestigious job and move her parents into a house where the pipes never freeze and they can afford to change the fuse box. She loves Addy, but she doesn’t want to spend her days making coffee that she can’t afford for Heather Halifax or Claude Vanderly or any of the other soon-to-be alumni of JLH. She doesn’t want two or three jobs just so that she can live alone. She doesn’t want to get married, and especially not to a boy, and she doesn’t want to be out in a town like Lorne.
She helps wash dishes listlessly. She got the scholarship. All she has to do is make it to graduation. As she stacks the plastic plates into a neat pile, she prays silently—to God, who may or may not exist, to the Mari Lwyd, who might be a version of Mary or might be harmless fun, like Mum always says. Six more months. Six months of peace.
Gwen’s not big into gods, so she’s not surprised when her prayer protects her for all of half an hour. She’s reading a children’s book of fairy tales for Margaret and Li when the wail of sirens can be heard from outside. Mum’s brow wrinkles.
“Don’t worry,” Addy says from where she sits, nursing Toby. “They come through twice a night. There’s some meth heads who keep trying to cook something up in the middle of the park.”
The sirens draw closer. Something in Gwen’s chest constricts. They stop outside Addy’s home and switch off.
Catarina and Addy exchange looks. Nobody speaks.
The knock comes hard and unforgiving, and everyone jumps.
“It’s fine,” Mum says, though she’s paler than normal. Addy opens the door.
Gwen recognizes the policewoman—Muñez from school. Well, shit.
“Miss Gwen Sayer?” Muñez looks right at her. “Could we trouble you to come with us?”
“Why?”
“We have some follow-up questions in the Emma Baines case,” says Officer Cline.
Gwen stands. Catarina leans forward and grabs her wrist. “You don’t have to say anything without a lawyer, Gwen. You don’t have to go unless they’ve got a warrant.” She glares at Muñez.
Gwen shakes her off with a humorless smile. Catarina should’ve become a comedian. As though they had money for a lawyer. “I’m happy to help,” she says tonelessly.
“I’m coming,” Mum says, standing too. “Don’t you dare put cuffs on her.”
“We have to follow procedure, ma’am.” Muñez puts her hand on Gwen’s shoulder and turns her toward the door. “If you want to come down to the station, you’ll have to drive yourself.”
“Don’t,” Gwen mumbles. It’s not worth it. They don’t have winter tires on the truck.
The Good Girls Page 15