Get Dirty

by Gretchen McNeil

  Room B was three doors down on the left, and Bree could hear an undercurrent of movement from within as she approached. Chairs being positioned on a carpeted floor, bags being unzipped, jackets being stowed. Bree took a deep breath as she paused outside the room. Here goes nothing.

  Seven or eight chairs had been circled up in the middle of a windowless conference room. Dr. Walters hadn’t arrived, but four other girls had already taken their seats, leaving an empty chair between each of them. Bree had been hoping to avoid a neighbor, but no such luck. Without making eye contact with anyone, she chose an empty seat on the far side of the room, between a tiny blond who was fiddling with a smartphone and a curvy Hispanic girl who sat with one leg tucked underneath her and her arms draped over the back of the chair. The body language was an unmistakable “You can’t break me!” and Bree hoped that sitting next to that kind of personality might take the spotlight off her.

  Her immediate neighbors ignored her, and the other two girls, both brunettes, stared at the floor and the ceiling respectively, then switched almost simultaneously, as if they couldn’t be zoning out in the same direction at the same time.

  “Good morning, ladies.” Dr. Walters breezed into the room wearing a gauzy floral skirt that billowed around her as she swirled into a chair. “And how is everyone this afternoon?”

  Murmurs of “good” and “fine” filled the room, but since Bree felt neither, she remained silent.

  Dr. Walters didn’t seem particularly interested in anyone’s response as she settled herself on the opposite side of the circle, notepad in hand, and smiled. “Bree, it’s good to see you.”

  All eyes turned to Bree, as if the other girls just now noticed that she was there.

  “Welcome to your new therapy group, as mandated by the Juvenile Detention Department of Santa Clara County.” Dr. Walters gestured to the brunette on her right, then continued around the circle. “This is Kaylee, Emma, Heather, and Jacinta.”

  Bree hoped she wouldn’t be tested later.

  Dr. Walters glanced at her watch. “We’ll give our late bird just another minute,” she said, “before we start without—”

  Just then, a tall girl with dark auburn hair rushed into the room. “Sorry I’m late, Dr. Walters,” she said breathlessly.

  Dr. Walters turned to Bree. “And the last member of our group is Tamara.”

  Only Bree didn’t need Dr. Walters to introduce the latecomer. She knew her face only too well.

  It was Tammi Barnes, DGM target number six.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  TWENTY-SIX

  BREE MISSED EVERYTHING DR. WALTERS SAID FOR THE NEXT ten minutes. All she could do was stare at Tammi Barnes.

  It was a mission Bree remembered well, one of the most satisfying DGM had ever pulled off. Tammi was captain of the cheerleading squad, a model student, friendly and outgoing with teachers and faculty, the center of a large and inclusive group of friends—and an unholy she-bitch to the young cheer wannabes who crossed her path. DGM discovered that Tammi was behind a hazing ritual for all the incoming JV cheerleaders, which involved forcing freshman hopefuls to give blow jobs to the varsity football team in order to make the squad. Football players filled out scorecards, which were circulated throughout the student body, and every guy at Bishop DuMaine knew which girls got an A, and which got an F.

  The revenge mission was a tough nut to crack. Tammi lived a seemingly perfect life with her mom, stepdad, and two sisters. She never got into trouble, never stepped out of line, and as far as everyone knew, never kept any secrets. She was, however, very proud of her dance skills. Tammi grew up in Beverly Hills before her mom remarried and moved the family to Palo Alto. She claimed that while in LA, she’d been some kind of dance prodigy, studying with top teachers and in demand for music videos, television, and film. Tammi would readily tell you that the only reason she wasn’t a professional dancer already was because her strict mom wouldn’t let her go to a single audition until she turned eighteen.

  And that self-mythology remained unchallenged until DGM dug up proof to the contrary. The Tiny Dancer Hip Hop Academy in Hollywood, California, maintained an online database of their students, past and present, including a thirteen-year-old Tamara Barnes. Margot had managed to hack into the site and download a video of Tammi dancing in the academy recital. DGM submitted the video to a website called “Dance or Dud?” where viewers rate and share dance videos. The truly awful video of Tammi Barnes doing her interpretation of Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” routine quickly became one of the most watched, and lowest rated, hits on the site.

  And DGM made sure that everyone at Bishop DuMaine knew it.

  But Tammi Barnes deserved the shame. She was a ruthless bitch, even more dangerous than Amber because she had a decent brain to go along with her power, and a chameleonlike ability to hide it. But now, here she sat in Bree’s juvie-mandated group therapy session. What the hell had happened to her?

  “Shall we get started?” Dr. Walters said. “Remember, anything shared in this session is one hundred percent confidential. If you are caught trying to use any of the information you learn here outside of group therapy, you will be in violation of your parole and/or probation. Do you understand the parameters of this agreement?”

  “Yes,” everyone mumbled. This time Dr. Walters was paying attention, and looked right at Bree.

  “Yes,” Bree said quickly, realizing her silence wouldn’t cut it.

  “Good.” Dr. Walters flipped a few pages into her notepad, and took up her pen.

  “Tamara, we made some excellent progress at the end of the last session, so I’d like to pick up where we left off.”

  “Okay,” Tammi said with an affable smile.

  “We’d been talking about your stepfather, and the verbal and physical abuse you’d witnessed in your home. Can you tell us about that?”

  Tammi sat very still. “I think I mentioned my stepdad had a gambling problem?”

  Dr. Walters nodded.

  “Right,” Tammi said. “Well, by last summer he’d lost all of our savings, and was about to lose the house. So he bet a load on game seven of the NBA finals.” She shook her head and laughed quietly to herself. “He swore he could make up for the losses. He just needed one big score to get even and then he’d quit.” Tammi dropped her eyes to her lap and fell silent.

  “And what happened?” Dr. Walters prompted.

  Tammi shrugged without looking up. “He lost.”

  The story only got worse from there and Bree found herself cringing as Tammi related in dispassionate detail how her stepfather had come home hours later, drunk and angry. Tammi had corralled her sisters in their bedroom, hoping he’d just pass out. No such luck. She could hear the argument escalate from the kitchen, listening as her mother tried in vain to calm him down. Then the telltale thump, as her mother hit either the ground or the wall from the impact of his fist.

  “My sisters started to cry,” Tammi said, staring into the middle of the circle. “I tried to soothe them, keep them quiet, because I didn’t want him to hear and come after us. More banging from the kitchen. My mom was pleading with him to stop and suddenly, something snapped in me. Who was this asshole? What gave him the right to hit my mom?”

  “What did you do then?” Dr. Walters asked.

  Tammi swallowed. “I grabbed my sister’s softball bat from her closet. One of those metal ones with a rubber grip. I slipped off my shoes so he wouldn’t hear me coming, went down the back stairs and through the laundry room. Came up behind him. I didn’t even look to see if my mom was okay, didn’t wait for her to tell me to stop because, of course, that’s what she would have done. I just swung at his head as hard as I could.”

  Bree fought back tears. Last year, Tammi Barnes had represented all that was awful about Bishop DuMaine: the powerful student who humiliated those weaker and less fortunate
than herself. DGM had dug into Tammi’s past to find that little nugget on which to base their revenge against her, but they hadn’t discovered this terrible secret about her family.

  Would it have mattered? If they’d found out that her stepfather was a monster, would it have changed the fact that she forced a dozen freshman girls to blow football players? Maybe not, but perhaps it did explain why Tammi was such a bitch at school. She was trying to exert power in the only place she felt she had any.

  Tammi looked up at Dr. Walters, her eyes tight with confusion. “He didn’t die, but I wanted to kill him. I really did. Is that bad?”

  “We’re not here to judge what’s good or bad,” Dr. Walters said. “Only to discuss how we feel, and find ways to manage our emotions going forward.”

  “I felt angry,” Tammi said. “Really angry. And then as he lay unconscious, my mom screaming over his body, I felt strong for the first time in life. Like I’d taken control.”

  “And where do you think that feeling came from?” Dr. Walters asked. “You’ve mentioned before that you’d always felt powerless in regard to your stepfather. What changed for you that day?”

  Tammi stared back at the center of the circle, silent. Dr. Walters waited patiently, and Bree held her breath, desperate to know the answer. Game seven of the NBA finals would have been mid-June, just weeks after the DGM prank against Tammi her senior year.

  “Something horrible happened at school,” she began at last.

  Bree clenched her jaw. Had what DGM did to her sent her over the edge and somehow landed her here?

  Tammi paused and glanced up. “Actually, no. It wasn’t horrible. I mean, it was at the time. I was totally humiliated.” She smiled sheepishly. “But I was a bitch at school. Like, the worst. I don’t blame anyone for getting back at me. I deserved it.”

  Bree’s jaw dropped. Tammi Barnes was taking responsibility for her actions? It was as if Bree’s world had changed in an instant. Before, DGM targets were criminals that had evaded prosecution, and DGM was the Mossad going after Nazis. It was almost impossible to wrap her head around the idea that Tammi might actually be a victim herself.

  “So this event at your school . . . ,” Dr. Walters prompted.

  “I think it showed me that people can fight back when they feel victimized. That I could fight back. So when I picked up that softball bat, it was like I was acting on behalf of others. I didn’t care what happened to my stepfather, I only wanted to make sure that he couldn’t hurt anyone ever again.”

  “Thank you, Tammi,” Dr. Walters said. “I know it’s been a difficult few months for you, after your mom kicked you out of the house. How are things in the group home?”

  Bree’s mind raced. This was their fault. As much as she’d been a bully at school, at home, Tammi was a victim, and the action DGM took against her had been a catalyst for her to take action. Tammi had only graduated from Bishop DuMaine a few months ago, and since then, had defended her family by braining her stepfather, been arrested, kicked out of her house, and sent to live in a group home. All because of what DGM did to her.

  “Bree, did you hear me?”

  Bree’s head snapped up. She was lost in her own thoughts, oblivious to everything else.

  “Huh?” she replied lamely.

  Dr. Walters sighed. “We’re giving our ‘I feel’ statements about Tammi’s story. How did it make you feel?”

  “Oh, right.” Bree licked her lips, which had suddenly gone bone-dry. “I feel . . .” Guilty? Responsible? Like a total asshole? “I feel sad.”

  It was the lamest response known to man. “I feel sad” was the therapy equivalent of “I’m good, how are you?” It meant nothing in the grand scheme of things because, hell, who in that circle didn’t feel sad?

  And yet it was the best word to describe how Bree actually felt at that moment. Sad for Tammi, sad for herself. Bree realized that she and Tammi had more in common than she’d ever imagined. They were both bullies, and they were both victims.

  “I think,” Dr. Walters began after scribbling some notes on her pad, “that we can all understand your ‘I feel’ statement, Bree. Since this is your first session, let’s talk a bit about why you’re here.”

  Bree’s sadness vanished, replaced by white-hot panic. She was there because she’d admitted to being DGM. How was she supposed to talk about that with Tammi sitting right next to her?

  “Go on,” Dr. Walters said. “Remember, everything you say here is safe. I don’t report to the courts or to your parents.”

  That so wasn’t Bree’s concern.

  “Right,” she said, trying to think how she could possibly get through this without mentioning DGM. “I’m here because—”

  A trio of soft beeps emanated from Dr. Walters’s watch. “Ah, I see we’re at time already.”

  Saved by the bell. Literally.

  “Next session is tomorrow, and we’ll pick up where we left off. Bree, be prepared to share your story.”

  Well, shit.

  Olaf was waiting in the exact same spot he’d been an hour before when Bree had walked into her therapy session. He didn’t say a word as she followed the other girls out of the room, merely held the door open for her and stepped aside, ushering her into the bright afternoon sunshine.

  It was as if her therapy-mates had vanished the moment they left the building, so desperate were they to get the hell out of there. A flurry of car doors and revving engines, then Bree and Olaf were the only ones left. But as she followed Olaf to the car, she realized that wasn’t entirely true. Tammi stood at a bus stop in front of the medical building.

  “Hey!” Bree said, flagging Tammi down. “Do you want a ride?”

  She wasn’t sure why she did it. Guilt, curiosity, a sense of responsibility for Tammi’s fate. More likely, a deep, desperate need to know how Tammi’s life had turned out.

  Tammi turned and stared at Bree for a few seconds, then her eyes shifted to the black SUV and the mammoth beast who drove it.

  “Is that your dad?” she asked.

  Bree snorted. “No. Just a driver.”

  Tammi continued to stare at her. “You went to Bishop DuMaine.”

  Tammi Barnes recognized her? That was about as surreal as the Queen of England recognizing the fifth stable boy at her least frequented castle. Again, that didn’t gel with the stuck-up, self-absorbed bitch Bree remembered from school.

  “Yeah,” Bree said. “I’m a junior.”

  “I graduated in June,” Tammi said.

  I know.

  Tammi blinked rapidly. “I’m staying off Newbridge Street. Is that too far?”

  “Nope,” Bree said, without consulting Olaf. “Come on.”

  Tammi climbed into the backseat and gave Olaf the address. Without responding, he entered it into the GPS, and eased the SUV out of the parking lot.

  “Nice car,” Tammi said, gazing around at the leather seats and top-of-the-line technology.

  “It’s my dad’s,” Bree said, as if deflecting the ownership of something so ostentatious.

  “Does the driver come with it?”

  Bree smiled. “Package deal.”

  “Oh.”

  They fell silent. Only the sound of the local news radio station murmured in the background. Bree tried to think. She wanted to ask about Tammi’s family situation, about what happened to her after the DGM prank, about what was going to happen going forward, but she was at a loss how to begin. She knew more about Tammi than she could ever admit, which is what happens when you spend a week crouched in someone’s backyard, sifting through their recycling. But apparently, the one thing Bree didn’t find out was the most important of all.

  “So what do you do now?” Bree asked, desperate to initiate conversation. “That you’ve graduated, I mean.”

  “I’m on probation,” she said. “So I have to check in, and come see Dr. Walters three times a week.”

  “Fun.”

  “And I work at the mall. A little boutique place that sells accessories and s
tuff.”

  The kind of place you would have spent all your money at a year ago.

  “Sounds cool,” Bree said lamely.

  “Not really. But I don’t mind. At least I’m not relying on anyone. I can take care of myself and no one can tell me what to do. It’s a good feeling.”

  Bree nodded. She could appreciate the point. Never in her life had she felt free, not from the expectations of her father nor the shame of her mother. On the flip side, she’d never had to work, never had to earn her own money. Would it be liberating or terrifying to tell her parents to fuck off once and for all?

  “That’s pretty brave,” Bree said with a smile. “Being on your own.”

  Tammi raised an eyebrow. “Brave? Brave is when you have choices. I don’t have any.”

  Olaf eased the car to a stop at a red light and Bree felt ill. Tammi was right. She didn’t have a choice. While Bree had all kinds of options, and what had she done with them?

  “I guess you’re—”

  “Could you turn that up?” Tammi interrupted, pointing to the radio on the dash.

  Without a word, Olaf cranked the volume.

  “The senior at St. Francis has been missing since yesterday. Wendy Marshall was last seen in the Menlo Park area driving a black 2012 Lexus IS 250, and the police are asking for anyone with information on her whereabouts to contact them immediately. This is Valerie Fujiyama for KGO News.”

  “Wow,” Tammi said. “Do you remember her from school?”

  “Yeah,” Bree said as she slumped back in her seat, her hands trembling. “I think so.”

  Wendy Marshall, DGM target number one, was missing. That had to be a weird coincidence, right?

  “Here’s my place,” Tammi said. Olaf stopped in front of an early-twentieth-century craftsman in desperate need of a gardener, some gopher traps, and a coat of paint. A rusted swing sat on the porch and the garbage bin on the side of the house was overflowing. A far cry from the four-bedroom ranch that Tammi used to call home.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Tammi said. “See you tomorrow.”