Countdown to Killing Kurtis

by Lauren Rowe

  But I don’t lean in. “Buttercup,” I whisper, my heart aching. “I want you to call me Buttercup.”

  Chapter 15

  16 Years Old

  1,294 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  “Later?” Wesley mouths at me as I brush past him in the kitchen. I don’t know why, after all this time, Wesley even bothers to ask if I’ll meet him later. Just about every day, during free time at the house, right after homework and chores, I meet him over yonder at the big oak tree near the ridge. And there, I let him kiss me. Over and over and over. What’s suddenly gonna be different about today? Nothing, that’s what. Every day is Happy Kissing Wesley Day as far as I’m concerned. That dopey boy should know that by now.

  And, anyway, there’s no reason for Wesley to wonder if today might be different from the last, because every day around here is same-ol’, same-ol’—just one long, blurry waiting game. And the thing that irks me the most is that, according to Mr. and Mrs. Clements, all that sameness is on purpose. As Mrs. Clements likes to tell me, it’s her “God-given mission” to “instill” a sense of “predictability” and “stability” and “structure” into the lives of us kids “whom the world has forgotten.”

  Mrs. Clements always makes a point of saying whom, like she’s super proud of herself for knowing when to use whom instead of who, like it makes her some kind of genius or something. I swear, that woman has her nose so high in the air, she could drown in a rainstorm. Well, let me tell you, Mrs. Clements can gussy up her “God-given mission” all she likes, but I know the simple truth. She just plain likes to tell us kids what we can and can’t do.

  Honestly, every day around here is a special kind of hell. I can’t wait to get my butt out to Hollywood to find Daddy and live like a queen. But I can’t go yet, not when I’m only sixteen. If I leave now, Mrs. Clements would undoubtedly report me as missing or tell the police I’m a runaway. And I don’t want anyone, least of all the police, knowing who I am and looking for me and snooping into my business.

  No, as hard as it is, I’ve got to wait to make my move ’til I age out of the foster care system. I’ve only got a year and change to wait, and then I’m heading out west. Once I age out, I’ll be free as a bird and no one will be able to tell me what I can and can’t do, ever again. But until then, I’ve got to bide my time and wait patiently like any diligent and rule-following young lady would. And it sure does help that I’ve got Wesley to keep me company while I wait to age-out.

  But the sameness of everything, the routine of it all, the fact that I’ve got to do as I’m told every single day of my life? It makes my blood boil. Every single morning, at the exact same time each day, I’ve got to get up and get my butt over to an actual school. Daddy would be furious, but there’s no way around it, at least for now.

  At least it’s not a real school, though. It’s a “continuation school” for “at-risk kids” and “kids with special problems.” I’m not quite sure how I fit into that rubric, seeing as how the only thing I’m “at-risk” for is losing my mind from boredom, and my “special problem” is that I’m trapped in a classroom with small-minded teachers handing out multiple-choice tests. But whether I like it or not, it seems my lack of formal education before now makes me “special” in the eyes of the deep thinkers at the school district.

  My saving grace in all this sameness and rule following, besides getting to spend time with Wesley, of course, is that school’s only a part-time endeavor for me, since I tested through the roof in reading and writing and problem-solving and “analysis,” whatever that is. Even though I’ve got to go to school in the mornings to listen to dumbass-teachers talk about useless things like the Pythagorean Theorem and cell mitosis and the War of 1812, Mrs. Clements agreed to a home study program for me for everything else. Thanks to that small mercy, for a few hours each day, when everyone else is out of the house at school or work, I get to stay at the house, all by myself, and lie on my cot and read and read and read. If it weren’t for that time alone with my books, I’d probably go a little bit crazy, to tell you the truth, what with Mrs. Clements always wanting to chat me up and make sure I’m “doing okay.” But even though I’m about to blow a gasket at any given moment, I never let anyone know it. I let them think I’m everything they want me to be—just like Marilyn did.

  Sometimes, though not very often, I lie in my cot when I’m all alone, and I cry buckets of tears. I’m not sure exactly why. I reckon it’s because I miss Daddy. I can’t even remember exactly what he looks like anymore. I try to picture the exact curve of his lips, or the slant of his sideburns, or the particular twinkle of his eyes, but I just can’t bring it to mind. And that makes me cry big, soggy tears.

  Sometimes I think about how Jeb looked at me just before he fell to the ground, convulsing. And I feel awfully bad about that. I don’t feel bad that he’s dead, of course, because there could be no other ending to poor Jeb’s story, I’m sorry to say, but I don’t like to remember how Jeb looked at me in that very last instant, like he knew it was me who sent him to meet his maker. I reckon I just liked it better when Jeb thought I was good and kind, just like how Mrs. Monaghan thought about me, too. And how Mrs. Clements thinks of me now. I like it when people think I’m good. Because, honestly, I am. I just had to do one bad thing, that’s all—because I had no choice. I reckon the bottom line is I don’t mind Jeb opening himself up a worm farm in the ground so much as I don’t like him knowing he opened it up on account of me.

  As I throw my banana peel into the trash can in the kitchen, I nod almost imperceptibly at Wesley—really, it’s more of a conscious blink of my eyes in his direction—to confirm that, yes, I’ll meet him later today during free time for our usual round of kissing and talking. Of course, I will. Meeting with Wesley’s the only good thing I’ve got in this whole, wide world and I wouldn’t miss our time together for anything.

  After I’m sure Wesley’s seen my subtle nod to him, I march straight out of the kitchen without another glance so that Mrs. Clements doesn’t suspect a thing about Wesley and me. Mrs. Clements watches all of us kids like a hawk, and me in particular ever since we got “so close” at Mother’s “tragic” trial almost a year ago, and there’s no doubt in my mind she’d have a problem, a big problem, if she ever found out about all the kissing Wesley and I do (and especially how much I enjoy it). I mean, Wesley and I live under the same roof, after all, so she’d probably think we’re doing a whole lot more than kissing, even though we aren’t, and I’d like to keep Mrs. Clements thinking I’m good and pure, if I can. Keeping her thinking that way about me let’s me keep thinking that way about myself, I reckon.

  And, anyway, no one, not even me, could ever understand Wesley and me. Since I’m a full year older than Wesley, and since girls tend to develop earlier than boys, I look like a full-blown woman while Wesley still looks like a gawky boy. And it’s not just the age difference and uneven development that make us a higgledy-piggledy pair. Even if we were the same age and developed equally, we’d nevertheless be an affront to the natural order of things, him and me. I mean, Wesley’s just... Wesley.

  Sometimes, when Wesley and I are kissing, I suddenly think to myself, this is like Marilyn Monroe kissing Scooby Doo. Or, better yet, we’re like a sports car kissing a wheelbarrow, or a cheetah kissing Goofy. Or, I reckon most accurately, we’re like Marilyn kissing Goofy. Because Wesley really is just a big, dopey, cartoon-like puppy, and I’m a legendary beauty for the ages. And yet, I never feel so darned good as I do as when I’m kissing Wesley under the big oak tree and he’s telling me his stories and promising to take care of me forever and ever—oh, and, of course, telling me I’m the prettiest girl in the whole wide world, too.

  Of course, Wesley’s right about that last thing. I’m damned pretty. Actually, over the past year, I’ve watched myself blossom into the most stunningly gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen, just as jaw-droppingly gorgeous as Lana when she walked into that malt shop and got herself discovered in Hollywood, just as awe-i
nspiring as any picture of Marilyn I’ve ever seen, even the one of her in the billowing white dress.

  All I need is platinum blonde hair and I’ll be a ringer for Lana and Marilyn. Well, and some big boobs, too. My boobs aren’t quite as big as I’d like them to be, to be perfectly honest. But my skin is clear; my eyes are big and blue; my cheeks are high; and my lips are as full and pouty and luscious as can be. I’m stunning to look at is what I am—it’s an objective fact. Whenever Mr. Clements is watching his baseball on television, I can plainly see in no uncertain terms that I’m as beautiful as any of the models in the commercials, even the ones in bikinis selling beer.

  Mrs. Clements knows I’m pretty as a picture, too. A million times, she’s said to me, “Charlene, you are just the most beautiful thing. One day, honey, you’re going to have the world at your feet.” And every time she says that, I always say the same thing back to her: “Why, thank you, Mrs. Clements. I sure do hope so.”

  Chapter 16

  18 Years 6 Months Old

  559 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  “Oh... hello,” Kurtis’ crusty old secretary says when I waltz through the front door of his office. She looks nervously back at Kurtis’ closed door. “Um, is Mr. Jackman expecting you?”

  “Hello, Mildred,” I purr. “No, Kurtis isn’t expecting me today. I’m here to surprise him.” And, of course, to tell him I’m sick and tired of waiting for my final “good-girl-who-conveniently-forgot-her-shirt” photos to come out in his stupid girlie magazine—the ones with the full-frontal boob shots he says are gonna make me a star.

  When Kurtis saw those pictures come back from the photographer, I swear he lost his marbles. “These are even better than I thought they’d be,” he said, his voice dripping with desire. “These pictures are gonna be bigger than anything we’ve ever done before, baby.”

  Right after that, Kurtis got right to work planning some sort of “special double issue” featuring me, but it’s been taking forever and a day. “Soon,” he keeps telling me. “Be patient. It’s going to be worth the wait.” But I’m tired of waiting. If this photo spread’s gonna make me into a legendary movie star like Kurtis keeps promising, then let’s get crackin’ already.

  It’s quite obvious Kurtis thinks he can distract me by throwing wads of cash at me for endless shopping sprees, and sending flowers to me all the time, and buying me new books to read out by his pool, but honestly I don’t care about any of it. What he doesn’t realize is I’ve been waiting around for one thing or another my entire life, and I’m done waiting. I begin marching toward Kurtis’ office door. “I’ll just go in and surprise him,” I flutter brightly.

  “No,” Mildred shouts, much too loudly for the small room. She leaps up, her eyes bulging with panic. “Mr. Jackman’s in a meeting. He said no interruptions.” She looks like I’ve threatened to toss her favorite puppy out a thirty-story window.

  Mildred’s agitation has the opposite effect on me than she intends. In a heartbeat, I lunge toward Kurtis’ office door and fling it open. Kurtis instantly snaps his scowling face toward the suddenly wide-open door, clearly ready to berate whoever has dared interrupt his “meeting,” but when he sees me, his face instantly contorts into an expression of faux-happy surprise.

  Lord have mercy.

  Kurtis is standing face-to-face with a buxom brunette. They’re both standing together on his side of the desk, which isn’t a natural sight.

  Damn, this woman’s got the biggest boobs I ever did see.

  His face is flushed. So is hers.

  The woman smooths the front of her dress. Holy hell, it’s clinging to her curves so tight and short, I can see all the way to Christmas.

  Kurtis pushes that big-boobed, dark-haired hussy out of his way and strides across his office to greet me, tucking his shirt into his pants as he goes.

  I clench my jaw. Kurtis is never unbuttoned or untucked.

  “Baby doll,” Kurtis booms, reaching for me. “What are you doing here?”

  I stand stock-still, my eyes fixed on that woman, the gears in my mind click-clacking away. I’ve seen this woman before. I’m sure of it. A sparkling heart-shaped pendant around her neck catches my eye, and, instantly, I remember where I’ve seen her before. This woman is Bettie Paigette—Bettie Big Boobs.

  I turn my gaze to Kurtis, anti-freeze and molten lava simultaneously filling my veins.

  Kurtis clears his throat. “Bettie, I think that about covers everything,” he says stiffly. “Just tell Johnny to get you whatever you need.”

  “Sure thing, Kurtis.” She looks at me, suppressing a smirk. “Uh... Mr. Jackman, that is. Thanks.” She touches the pendant around her neck and smiles at me.

  Kurtis clears his throat again. “Okay, then, that’s all,” he mutters.

  Bettie passes Kurtis on the way to the door, swinging her hips and flashing him a mega-watt smile as she goes—but Kurtis doesn’t return Bettie’s smile. His face remains etched in stone, even as his cheeks are turning beet-red.

  And that does it. Even if I were dumb as a box of rocks and somehow hadn’t figured out what was going on before now, Kurtis just gave himself away by not returning Bettie’s smile. Because Kurtis Jackman never fails to return a smile, especially from a woman. He’s a back-slapping, belly-laughing, wide-smiling, never-met-a-stranger kind of a guy who’ll do just about anything to get people to like him, especially the pretty people. If Kurtis and Bettie Big Boobs had honestly been engaged in some sort of “business meeting,” then Kurtis sure as hell would have returned that woman’s smile with ease. But he didn’t. And, therefore, they weren’t.

  Bettie Big Boobs shuffles past me toward the door, not even gracing me with a glance, and Kurtis, yet again revealing the depth of his duplicity, lets her leave without even an introduction.

  The moment Bettie’s gone from the room, Kurtis wraps me in a bear hug. I can smell her on him. “Hello, baby. Did you get the flowers I had delivered to the house today?”

  Yes, I got his flowers, the same as always—red roses surrounded by buttercups. I’m sure that man single-handedly keeps Hollywood Flowers in business the way he keeps sending them to me. But I don’t give a crap about flowers right now. I stare him down. “Kurtis Jackman, what the hell’s going on between you and that woman?” If I were being true to myself, I would have used words with a little more backbone than “hell” and “woman,” but Kurtis thinks I’m as sweet as a bee’s behind, and, even in my current state of rage, I’d like to keep him thinking that way.

  “What are you talking about? Bettie works for me, baby. Down at the club.” His face flashes indignation, but I’m not buying it for a second. Clearly, this man would piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining.

  I don’t speak for a long moment, letting Kurtis squirm in the silence. “Kurtis Jackman, don’t you lie to me,” I finally whisper, suppressing tears.

  Kurtis actually looks like he’s considering confessing his sins to me, but then, in a heartbeat, his expression makes a U-turn and it’s clear he’s decided to stick with his story. “We were having a business meeting,” he declares.

  “A business meeting about what?”

  He pauses, apparently wondering if the answer to this question is gonna help him or hurt him. “Um, Bettie’s gonna be in one of my films.”

  I slap Kurtis across the face. Hard. “You’re making a movie with her?” Tears instantly spring out of my eyes. I turn to leave the room.

  Kurtis grabs my arm. “Baby, no.” His cheek is blazing red where I slapped him. “I mean, yes, I’m making a movie with her—but not a legitimate movie, not like the movie I’m making for you. She’s gonna be in one of my adult films.” He grins like this explanation makes everything all better. And, honestly, if all these two were up to was making a porno together, it actually would make everything all better because I couldn’t care less how many pornos Kurtis makes or with whom. The man spends money like it’s water, and I reckon it’s gotta come from somewhere.

  But a porno�
�s not all that’s going on here. No, what’s really going on here is Kurtis is screwing Bettie Big Boobs. And that’s not okay. In fact, that’s a whole big bunch of bullshit. If Kurtis thinks he’s gonna get away with screwing Bettie Big Boobs even as he woos me and whispers sweet nothings into my ear and tries to lure me into his bed and licks my lady-parts and begs me to save him and make him good, then he can go hug a root. I am Charlie Wilber’s Daughter, after all.

  Even more importantly for my destiny, though, Kurtis sleeping with Bettie Big Boobs and making a movie with her, porno or not, is an unacceptable combination. Kurtis is a weak-willed man with the disposition of a gosh-dang thermometer. At any given moment, I’d guess he’s one good screw away from deciding that Bettie Big Boobs, not me, should star in the epic, mainstream feature he’s been dreaming about making his whole life.

  I suddenly have a horrifying thought. “Good lord, Kurtis Jackman. Did you buy that woman her necklace?”

  He looks confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “That heart-shaped necklace she was wearing.” I touch the diamond cross with the big ol’ diamond star that’s looped around my neck—my most prized possession. “Tell me the truth right now. Was that heart-shaped necklace she’s wearing a gift from you?”

  Kurtis scoffs. “Are you crazy? She works for me.” He rolls his eyes. “So now you think every woman who happens to be wearing a necklace must have got it from me? Should we go see if Mildred’s wearing a necklace today, too—and ask her if I gave it to her?”

  I don’t know how to reply. Maybe he’s got a point. Maybe I am getting a wee bit paranoid here. But who could blame me? Lately, I feel like I’m living in a pressure cooker and I’m about to blow. These past six months, keeping Kurtis interested in me while still avoiding consummating the Big Deed itself, has started to drive me certifiably insane. Even if I enjoy all our fooling around, which I do, and then some, it’s lately gotten harder and harder keeping that man happy and coming back, while still demanding he keep his pecker firmly out of my drawers.