Dangerous Girls

by Abigail Haas

  “I’m sorry,” I sob, tears coming fast now. “I’m sorry I wasn’t looking out for her, that I couldn’t stop this. I miss her too,” I add, pleading. “She . . . She was like a sister to me, and now, now I’ll never get her back!”

  My eyes blur with tears. I wait for the producer to call to cut, for them to stop rolling, but nothing comes. They keep filming, watching me weep, counting the long seconds as my body shakes with grief.

  This is what they wanted, I realize, too late. They don’t care about my story, or presenting the other side. They just want to see me crying, and begging, and broken. They want a show.

  BEFORE

  “Crushed by an elephant or trampled by bulls?”

  “Umm, trampled. You’d go quicker. Every hair in your body plucked out one by one or all at once?”

  “Shit. Uh . . . all at once. I’d get doped up on painkillers and get it over and done with. You?”

  “God no, can you imagine, a bikini wax all over your body?”

  “You’re such a pussy, you can’t deal with any pain. Remember you cried that time Elena did your eyebrows?”

  “Did not! I have a very sensitive forehead! Oww!”

  • • •

  “Pass me that.”

  “Drowning or gunshot?”

  “Depends . . . Where’s the bullet hit?”

  “Stomach. It’s slow and painful and you bleed to death.”

  “Drowning, then. It only takes a few minutes, right?”

  “Yeah, but you’re suffocating. And then your eyeballs explode.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true. I saw it on some Discovery Channel show. The pressure builds up and squeezes all your insides out.”

  “You’re so dumb. That’s only if you’re really deep—diving or something. Or in space.”

  “Would you still bleed to death in space?”

  “What? You’re crazy.”

  “Shut up, I’m serious. There’s no gravity, right? So why would the blood come out?”

  • • •

  “See?”

  “Why are we even talking about this? It’s morbid.”

  “You’re telling me you haven’t thought about it? Come on, how would you do it?”

  • • •

  “Pills, I guess. There’s a bunch left from when . . . Mom . . . I wouldn’t even feel it happen.”

  “Coward. You’ve got to feel it, all the way to the end. It shouldn’t be a get-out-of-jail-free card, you know? You should have to earn it.”

  “So how?”

  “A knife, I guess. Slice my wrists, bleed out all over the new cream carpets. Give my mom something to complain about.”

  “Elise!”

  “What? It’s the point. One final fuck-you.”

  “But you wouldn’t.”

  • • •

  “No. I’m just messing with you. Besides, who’d hold your hand for Elena at the salon if I’m gone?”

  DAY 196

  Elise’s mother, Judy, comes to visit me in prison the week before the trial begins.

  I’ve already taken my sleeping pill, so I drag, disoriented, as the guard leads me down the hallway, past the interview rooms, and up into a part of the prison I’ve never been before. “Where are we going?” I ask, confused, but he doesn’t reply, doesn’t say a word at all as we climb a flight of stairs. There are no bars here, I notice, looking around: The walls are painted a soft peach, the flooring, polished and new. If I didn’t know any better, I would think it a school or office building: someplace productive, where things were made and minds molded, not the opposite, a place that takes time away from us, day by day.

  He knocks, once, on a door at the end of the hallway. It opens, and I’m ushered inside the room, an office. After so long with the basic plastic furniture and metal fixtures bolted to the floor, it’s a shock to see the décor here: a plush rug, bookcases, framed pictures on the wall. Warden Eckhart sits behind a wide wooden desk; he gestures for me to step farther into the room. My heart leaps with expectation, just as I hear a gasp behind me. I turn. Judy is sitting on a narrow sofa, her hands folded in her lap. She rises, staring at me with horror. “Anna . . .” The word trails away.

  “Judy?” My voice tilts upward, a flight of hope. “What’s going on? Did they drop the charges?” I look around, but there’s no sign of Gates or my dad. Wouldn’t they have called them in, if I was being released? “Where’s my dad?” I demand. “Did something happen? Is he okay?”

  “Oh, yes, he’s fine.” Judy blinks, her face falling. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

  “This is just a quick visit,” the warden interjects. He looks between us. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

  He exits with the guard, leaving us alone. I don’t move. They didn’t put me in handcuffs, I realize, absently rubbing my wrists. This is as free as I’ve been in weeks.

  “Oh, Anna, sweetheart . . .” Judy sinks back down onto the sofa. “Look at you.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I walk slowly to the other chair and sit. It’s the first time she’s spoken to me since my arrest. She’s never visited me, or written, or even looked in my direction during the bail hearing or our pre-trial motions. I’ve seen her in the courtroom, her head bent, holding on to Charles’s hand as if to save her from drowning. I know how she feels, but I haven’t had that luxury—someone to cling on to, to stay above the surface.

  “I don’t understand,” I say softly, my fingertips tracing the fabric of the cushions, rich and brocade. “Why . . . ? Why are you here?”

  Judy looks down. “I guess . . . I had to see you, before it all begins.”

  It. The reality of the situation hovers between us in the small room, full of unspoken words like, “death,” “murder,” “killing,” “accused.” I can’t say them out loud any more than she can right now, so I don’t say a word; I just study her, feeling strangely detached, as if there’s more space between us than just these few short feet. A canyon, an ocean. Her face is worn and tired, even beneath the slick of makeup, and she’s wearing one of her usual pantsuits in crisp navy, but it hangs around her thin frame, draped and oversized. I have to fight the urge to go sit beside her on the sofa, to hug her casually the way I’ve done so many times before.

  She left me too.

  “I’m not supposed to be here.” Judy finally speaks, giving me a nervous smile. “Charles, he told me not to come. The lawyers, too.”

  I don’t reply. There was a time when she was more of a mother to me than my own, somebody to ask how my day in school was, how things were going with Tate. I wound up crashing at Elise’s most Friday nights through last spring and summer—it made sense, when we were out until dawn, but the truth was, Saturday mornings at her house were my favorite place in the world. Judy would make cinnamon French toast, and confiscate Elise’s cell phone, and we would all wind up sitting around the table out in their glass-covered conservatory, drinking English tea and sharing the new fashion magazines that arrived with the newspapers. Elise always rushed her food down and then demanded to be released, like it was a terrible burden to be trapped in such tranquil domesticity, but those brief mornings held a sweetness for me that I can still taste, even trapped in my tiny cell, with Saturdays bringing nothing more than an extra apple on my breakfast tray; grapefruit juice instead of orange.

  I wait for Judy to explain why she’s come, but she just sits there, looking anywhere but directly at me. Then she seems to remember something, and rummages in her expensive leather bag. “Are you hungry?”

  “It’s late,” I reply, still confused. “They bring dinner at six.”

  “I brought you . . .” She holds out a bar of chocolate to me, covered in a familiar blue wrapper. “It’s that Swiss make; I remembered it was your favorite.”

  I pause a beat, then slowly reach out to take it. “Thank you,” I say politely.

  “I remember, when I came back from that conference in Zurich”—Judy gives me a weak smile—“and brought al
l that candy. You girls nearly made yourselves sick, eating it in one night.”

  I nod. I don’t know what to do with the chocolate, but I doubt they’ll let me take it back to my cell, so I slowly unwrap it, sliding my finger beneath the crisp paper wrapping and then scoring my fingernail down the crease of the foil. The bar breaks with a snap. The candy is smooth on my tongue, creamy and sweeter than the American brands that Lee used to bring me.

  I offer her a square. She takes it.

  “They had a memorial, at the school,” Judy says hesitantly. “There was one after the break, but this was for the unveiling. They built a lovely fountain in the side courtyard. They said that was where you all liked to sit, at lunch. In the shade there.” Judy stares at the piece of chocolate, still in her hand. “Charles wants me to start a scholarship in her name. Fund someone’s tuition. Or maybe a charity foundation. To honor her.”

  “Elise would have loved that,” I murmur, sarcastic. Then I stop, horrified. “I . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “No, you’re right.” Judy meets my eyes and then, to my amazement, she begins to laugh: a tiny twitch at her lips that spreads until she’s gasping, a hollow sound ringing out in the small room. “It’s all wrong. I kept thinking, all through the ceremony, that Elise would hate it.” Judy shakes her head. “You know they had the choir sing that song, that awful one about being in the arms of angels . . .”

  “Sarah McLachlan?” I ask.

  She nods, trying to control herself. “They were all so sad, and all I could imagine was Elise making that face of hers, you know the one, where she’d just roll your eyes at you.”

  “As if you were beyond saving,” I finish, “and she deserved a medal just putting up with you.”

  “That’s the one.” Judy smiles at me, shaking her head. “I swear, I got that look every day of her life.” She takes a tissue from her bag and dabs at her eyes, the laughter fading away. “Nobody knew her like us.” She says it quietly, but I feel the words strike through me. “Everyone comes around saying what an angel she was, how perfect, how precious. But they don’t know. Nobody does, except you.”

  Her eyes meet mine again, aching and lost. This is why she’s here, I understand it now. This is her only way to feel close to Elise: the memory of her, as she really was. Not the girl on the front page, or the glowing paragraph in her obituary. But the daughter who screamed in a rage because Judy had looked at her phone again; the friend who curled, sandwiched between us on the couch those late nights when Judy got back from the hospital and found us, still awake, watching bad reality TV and eating Doritos. We were poisoning ourselves, she’d warn us, plucking the remote and bag of chips from our hands, but inevitably she’d wind up tucked under the blanket too, interrupting to ask who this one was, and why was she mad at the other guy?

  I’m her only link to Elise now. We’re coconspirators in the crime of loving her daughter.

  “She hated me.” Judy’s voice cracks. “We fought, right before she came away. Did she tell you that?”

  I shake my head.

  “She was threatening to defer college,” Judy says, and clutches her tissue tightly. “Go out to California, or Europe, or volunteer in some godforsaken tribal village. Not that she would have done it,” Judy adds. “You know she couldn’t bear to be without her creature comforts. But still, I let her get to me, every time. She always knew just the hurtful things to say. . . .” She trails off for a moment, then shakes her head. “We were screaming, all night. And then I went to work in the morning. I didn’t even say goodbye.” Judy swallows back her tears, but her hand shakes. “The last time I saw her, and I didn’t even wait to say good-bye.”

  She looks at me, plaintive, wanting something. Absolution.

  I exhale, suddenly clear. I can give her that much, at least. “It doesn’t matter,” I tell her gently. “She loved you. I know she didn’t like to show it, but none of the fights, none of that matters. You know that; you have to know.”

  Judy’s eyes meet mine, hopeful this time. “I just hate to think of her . . . If she thought I didn’t care . . .”

  “No, I promise. She loved you, both of you. She didn’t even mention your fight,” I reassure her. “She didn’t give it another thought. She was having fun. You know how she is.” I pause. “Was,” I correct softly.

  Judy nods, and some of the tension in her body seems to ease. She takes a long breath, her expression smoothing out, peaceful now. “Thank you,” she says softly, and rises to her feet.

  I blink. “But . . . You’re going?”

  “I should get back.” Judy pulls on her jacket.

  “You’re not going to help?” My voice twists. “But, if you talked to the judge, if you explained to him that you know me, and I would never . . . You could do something!”

  “It’s out of my hands now.” Judy looks away, and I see for the first time, the flicker of doubt in her expression; the shadow drifting in the back of her eyes.

  Doubt.

  It strikes me like a dull blow, blood ringing in my ears as if from far away. My stomach drops, my body turns ice-cold. If Judy can doubt me—if she can think I’m capable of murder, after all the time we’ve spent together—then what hope do I have in court tomorrow, with Dekker snapping at my heels, and the judge sitting so icy and remote?

  I push the fear down, desperate. “You didn’t ask me,” I say. She glances up, caught. “You didn’t ask me if I killed her.”

  I thought it was because she believed me, unquestioning. She wouldn’t be here otherwise, would she?—Alone, bringing candy and memories?

  She has to believe me.

  Judy shrinks back, looking anywhere but me. “Anna, let’s not . . .”

  “No. Ask me,” I demand. “Do it.”

  Judy pauses, as if gathering her strength. She takes a breath, and then looks at me straight-on, with fearful eyes. “Did you . . . kill her?”

  “No!” My voice breaks. I reach for her, pleading. “No, I promise you. I never . . . You know I loved her. It’s all a lie.”

  “Then everything will be okay.” Judy cups my cheek for a moment, then steps back. “Just tell the truth and be yourself. It’ll all work out.”

  My mouth drops open, helpless, as she knocks against the door. The guard steps inside. This time, he has the cuffs waiting.

  “Judy, please.” My voice breaks. She smells of vanilla, and family, and lazy weekends wrapped in fluffy bathrobes and somebody else’s slippers. She smells like home.

  “Look after yourself, sweetheart,” Judy says, not meeting my eyes, and then she’s gone.

  NOW

  She was wrong, they all were. Telling the truth doesn’t make a difference, nor does being true to yourself. If it did, I wouldn’t be here now, awaiting the verdict that’s going to decide the next twenty years of my life.

  The next twenty birthdays and Christmases, the next twenty first days of summer, and last nights of fall. One thousand and forty Mondays. Seven thousand three hundred days of waking up here, penned in under an endless blue sky.

  Except I won’t. I can’t.

  Looking back now, I see how naive we all were. I stepped into that courtroom believing I’d have a fair shot—a chance to state my case and be heard, the way you’re supposed to. But the real truth is, it’s all a performance. The trial is no different from the Clara Rose Show, in its way, only instead of a film studio with lights and cameras, we have the courtroom as our stage. The lawyers and witnesses are all actors; the judge is our audience, and whoever can sell their version of the script—make you believe it, whether it’s fiction or fact—they’re the one who wins. It’s that simple. Evidence is just a prop; you can ignore it and look the other way, and even the script doesn’t matter when some supporting actor can improvise their scenes and steal the whole show.

  Maybe if I’d known that, I could have played my part better, maybe even stopped it from getting this far at all. I guess it’s too late for that now.

  Dekker knew it, th
ough; he knew it from the start. What else was he doing, by leaking police reports and crime-scene photos weeks before even the trial date was set? He was setting the stage for his story, like a movie trailer cut with the juiciest scenes so people would go in already expecting the big showdown, anticipating the final twist. Watching him in court was like watching a conductor, like the time Elise’s parents dragged us out to the symphony. There was a tiny man up above the orchestra pit, waving and swirling that baton, painting whole landscapes in the air with every breath, making the music lift and fall, steering us effortlessly through the song.

  Dekker wasn’t half as elegant as that tuxedoed man, but his power was just as strong. He carefully steered the performance, bringing in each new section of the chorus with a well-timed flourish: a scandalous photo, words of a fight, testimony of my anger and partying . . . He led our audience deftly through the script along his chosen path so that they would end the show with only one obvious conclusion in their minds: My guilt.

  The curtain’s down now, but I won’t forget so easily: The performance never ends.

  CLARA ROSE SHOW TRANSCRIPT

  CLARA: . . . and a few times, even outright lying, or at least contradicting a lot of the testimony and statements we’ve already heard about the case.