Lost Girls

by Merrie Destefano

  The four of us girls headed across the broad parking lot that surrounded the warehouse, spotlights searching the skies, while Dylan and Brett and the other Ravens stopped a few steps behind us to discuss something. When I glanced back, I noticed they were all staring at a cluster of gleaming cars lined up on the road, almost like a private valet service. A group of seedy men had descended upon the cars, discreetly thumbing out thick wads of cash, then snatching up keys and climbing behind the wheels of Mercedes and BMWs. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was another side business going on here that involved stolen cars.

  I froze in place, trying to remember something that kept slipping away, something that tightened my throat.

  Dylan met my gaze and seemed to understand what I was thinking. He elbowed Brett and then all the boys jogged to catch up with us.

  Meanwhile, the rave still thumped and glittered, thousands of people dancing at an unending party, the perfect cover-up for the Phase Two event that had just taken place inside a well-guarded room. Even after Dylan was right behind us again, I continued to nervously finger the diamond-studded swan that nestled in the hollow of my throat, wondering how dangerous it was to be walking through this neighborhood.

  “Gold Level is so much better than silver!” Zoe said, enthusiasm in her voice.

  “What do you mean? I still don’t understand what Gold Level is,” I said.

  She came alongside me, looped her arm through mine, leaning her head on my shoulder for a moment, her lavender hair looking like the color of blood under night skies. She was more petite than I was, weighing only a hundred and ten pounds and standing five foot one. The weight classes were becoming more familiar to me now and she definitely fit in with the strawweights.

  “We all started at Silver Level, fighting as individuals. Then, once we got accepted into teams, we each got a patron, and we moved on to gold. Now we have each other—all of us Swan Girls—to back each other up. It’s safer and more fun,” she said.

  “You got that right,” Stephanie chimed in.

  “But there are rumors of another level,” Lauren said in a low, dramatic tone. “Some people say it’s platinum, others say it’s titanium. And you need a special invitation to get inside—”

  “Those are just rumors,” Dylan said. “Gold is as high as it goes. Everybody just wants a greater thrill and a bigger high, that’s all, so they make up stories. But Gold is the place to be. Especially when you’re with the right team.” He and Brett gave each other loud high fives and the Raven team said things like, right on, and amen, and what he said.

  But I wondered. A needle pricked me in the gut, making me uncomfortable, as if I’d just learned a dangerous secret. Something about those cars changing hands behind us and what Lauren had said chipped away at the high I’d been feeling ever since my fight. My feet connected with the ground with solid slaps, no more toe-heel bouncy steps, and the pit of my stomach felt hollow.

  There were illegal things going on here, more than just dancing and drugs. And there might be another level above Phase Two, another venue where the promoters of this event lured fighters away from their teams and their friends, where they’d meet in secret.

  If that was true, it sounded deadly.

  ...

  The crowds thinned as people drifted away from the rave and toward their cars. The sleazy nature of the neighborhood became more evident than it had been when we first drove through. Vagrants and homeless guys staggered about, weaving down cracked sidewalks, clothes rumpled and stained, some wheeling shopping carts, some struggling to carry all their earthly possessions in their arms. I winced as we approached Lauren’s Mini-Cooper and saw one of the homeless wretches leaning against it. The stench of urine and liquor wafted from him, and he lifted his head from his chest to gaze at us with world-weary eyes.

  “Ewww,” Lauren said. She stopped and refused to walk any closer.

  The other girls stayed at her side. Dylan was still behind us, so I wasn’t afraid. That is, until the homeless guy started ambling away from the car, shuffling toward us. The closer he got, the more I noticed the ropes of muscles that bulged beneath his clothes and the way a dark intelligence flickered in his eyes when he glanced up at me. It looked like he was going to pass us, his eyelids thudding closed as if he was barely awake, like he was going to swerve around us toward a nearby alley and then pass out.

  But just when he was a few steps away from me he lost his balance and had to shuffle to the side quickly to keep from falling.

  His shoulder brushed against mine, pushing me a step backward.

  “Careful there, mister,” Dylan called out a warning.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled loud enough for everyone to hear. Then his head dipped closer and I thought I recognized him, that unusual accent, those piercing eyes. When he spoke again, it was just a rough whisper that only I could hear.

  “Make sure you keep this with you in the future.”

  His hand touched mine, just a brushing of flesh against flesh, and then he clumsily regained his balance. He coughed, spit on the ground, causing the other girls to turn away, saying things like gross and yuck.

  A second later he was gone, a shadow blending in with midnight, slipping into the hidden recesses of the alley. The thunk of metal as his foot kicked a can and then nothing.

  Nothing except my iPhone resting in the palm of my hand.

  I shivered, pulled my arms closer, tucking the phone into my pocket, hoping that no one else had noticed it. All the while, I struggled to catch my breath, and my mind fought against what had just happened.

  My father had found a way to return my cell phone to me. He knew I snuck out. And I had a feeling that homeless creep was the same guy I’d seen on the Santa Monica Pier seven years ago.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  There weren’t any lights on in my house when I got home, but I knew Dad was in there, awake and waiting for me. The other girls were still running in high gear, all chattering and laughing and passing a joint around the car. At first, I thought about protesting. Then I realized that if I walked in the front door smelling like marijuana it wasn’t going to make this any worse.

  I pulled down the visor and stared in the passenger side mirror, grimacing at what I saw. My right cheek was swollen and red, my lip was cut, and blood had dripped down my chin. Fortunately my other injuries were hidden beneath my clothes, bruises on my arms and my rib cage where Komodo/Sammy had pummeled me repeatedly.

  “Holy shit,” I murmured.

  “What’s up?” Lauren asked, her eyes narrowing as she sucked down another hit from that dwindling joint. The girls had all relaxed a bit since they started smoking. This must have been what Lauren meant earlier, when I saw her in the school parking lot. Weed took the edge off Pink Lightning and got rid of the headaches. I wondered if Lauren, Zoe, and Stephanie struggled with night terrors and tremors like I did, or if that only happened during withdrawal. I still didn’t know what that drug did, but I guessed it improved performance when we were fighting. Maybe it improved mental clarity or memory, too. If so, that might be the reason why my grades had gotten better in the past year.

  “My face,” I said. “I can’t go in the house looking like this.”

  “Nobody’s awake,” Zoe said, sitting up to lean against my seat. “Just slip into bed and put on some makeup in the morning. You should have some stage makeup in your kit, the one you keep in the closet.”

  I frowned. Is that what that box was? Even so, I wouldn’t make it to my room before running into someone. “My dad’s already up.”

  “Here.” Stephanie had been digging through her purse ever since I pulled down the mirror. I thought she was looking for another joint. “Turn around and face me.” She had a makeup kit unrolled on her lap, slender brushes and jars of powder and tubes of concealer and pots of blush. “Lean closer. You’re a four, no, wait, a three.” She pulled out a numbered tube and squeezed a dab of flesh-colored paste into her palm. Alternating between her finger and a brush,
she smoothed makeup over my cheek and lips, dusted them with powder, then added some color. After that, she combed my hair, teasing it a bit and following it with a spritz of spray. “Check it out. Look in the mirror again.”

  I studied my reflection, turning my face from side to side. I looked pretty good, completely different than before. My cheek was still swollen, but my hair and the makeup covered it up. My lips looked completely natural. I grinned.

  “Blame it on ballet practice,” she said as she began to pack away her kit. “We all say we were injured during sports.”

  But as soon as that statement slipped from her lips, I knew I wasn’t interested in ballet—not like I was before. With every punch I’d delivered back in the ring, blood had rushed through my veins like dark music and my muscles had been singing. It felt like I’d been singing this song all my life, but only understood what the words meant tonight. Part of it reminded me of ballet, how all my muscles needed to work together, how I needed to be limber and flexible and strong, how I had to push through the pain and when I did, it was as beautiful as any dance. Except this was a dance that could deliver broken bones and cracked teeth, it could make my opponent bleed and wince and cry. Something about that last part, the bleeding and the pleading, frightened me. Not because I didn’t like it.

  Because I did. Maybe too much.

  I thought about the bruise on Dylan’s cheek. He said he’d been wrestling, but had he really been injured in a Phase Two event?

  Stephanie seemed to be the only one telling me what I wanted to know, so I decided to ask a question or two. “Do the boys take Pink Lightning, too?” I asked, wondering if Dylan and Brett were taking the same stuff we were.

  She shook her head. Lauren and Zoe had lost interest in our conversation and were passing the last of the joint between themselves.

  “They take Blue Thunder. It makes them stronger, but it also makes them more aggressive. Probably why Dylan and Brett got into a fight at the party. Sometimes they can’t control it. Side effect, I guess,” Stephanie said. She was slipping her kit into her purse, then applying a fresh coat of pink gloss on her lips.

  “What is it? Amphetamines, steroids, muscle memory drugs?”

  She shrugged and yawned, stretching her arms in front of her. “I don’t know. Maybe a combination of all three?”

  “Is there really such a thing as muscle memory drugs?” Zoe asked with a tilt of the head.

  “I don’t know. It just seems like that’s what this stuff does—oh, holy freaking crap.” The light over my front door just flicked on and it blinked three times. “I’m being summoned. To my death.”

  Lauren laughed. “Like your dad’s gonna punish you. He’s never done anything. Not in the whole year you’ve been going to raves and Phase Two.”

  I gave her a dirty look. It wasn’t like I wanted to get grounded, but nobody disses my dad. Nobody. “Shut up.”

  She raised her hands, palms up, but there was still a smirk on her face. “Blame it on the drugs, girlfriend, but this all seems funny to me right now. You just about got creamed by Komodo, then managed to wipe the stage with her sorry ass, and now you’re pissed because your dad hasn’t been beating you, too? You need to know what it’s been like in some of our homes. We’ve all got a reason for fighting, some more than others. For us, fighting isn’t just a game. It’s a way to survive.”

  There was something in her eyes, something like a combination of pain and defiance. Her chin was lifted, but there was a slight tremble to her lips. She averted her gaze from mine to stare out the window.

  “Does your dad, does he—” I said.

  She waved her hand, dismissing the subject. “Not tonight, Odette. Not unless you’ve got about three hours and two boxes of Kleenex. Just go inside, okay?”

  The other girls got so quiet I could barely tell if they were still breathing. The presence of unspoken pain hung between us and it made my chest ache that I couldn’t remember my closest friend’s secrets, all the things we had confided with each other between whispers and hugs.

  “I’m sorry,” I said and I slid my hand across the seat to take hers. She gave me a half-smile, but didn’t pull her hand away. “I don’t remember everything, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care.” I swept my gaze to include Stephanie and Zoe in the backseat. “I care about all of you.”

  Only Zoe acknowledged me with a nod, her eyes shining with tears that hadn’t fully formed yet. For an instant, I thought I saw her face covered with bruises, barely hidden beneath thick makeup and, when the image faded, I realized it was a memory.

  ...

  We’d been standing in the girl’s bathroom at school when Zoe confided that she’d been raped by her older brother’s best friend when he spent the night. I held her, listening while she cried and told me details. I wanted to go kick his ass, but I knew she needed more than that. She needed healing and strength. She needed a friend. I tried to get her to talk to the school counselor, but when she refused, I convinced her to skip school instead.

  Together we went to that same spot in the woods where I now take Kyle, and I taught her how to fight and defend herself. She picked up my moves really fast, developing her own style that was both beautiful and lethal. With her spins and kicks and her lithe, delicate build, she looked like a woodland fairy come to life—except she was a magical creature ready to defend her kingdom to the death.

  A couple of weeks later, the two of us cornered the prick who had raped her. He was alone, smoking a cigarette back behind the school bleachers during fifth period. I let her do most of the work—I was just there for backup and to give her the confidence she needed. He was surprised to see us, and a lecherous grin spread across his face when he first saw Zoe, as if she’d come back for more of what he had to offer. Then his head cracked back with her first spinning kick, his grin disappeared, and after a few well-placed punches, he was on the ground, sobbing, begging her to stop.

  Just like she’d begged him.

  We heard later that he pissed blood for a week.

  Zoe was the first one that I invited into the Silver Level of Phase Two. I wanted to make sure she always knew how to defend herself—whether I was with her or not—and that she knew she’d never have to feel helpless again. She’d gone on to become one of the best fighters in her weight class, a girl who looked as innocent as Bambi but had the ability to take down her opponents in a matter of seconds.

  ...

  Emotion caught in my throat. On the surface, it may have looked like we joined this club for the thrill it gave us and that may have been partly true. But there were other reasons, good reasons, powerful Stay Alive To Fight Another Day reasons, none of them more important than the others.

  These girls were more than a team of athletes or sparring partners. They’d been there for me, every day, throughout the past year. I’d do anything to protect them.

  They were my emotional backup system. Just like Molly had been before I mysteriously ditched her.

  And I’d do anything to protect them.

  Chapter Thirty

  The minute I walked through the front door, I got grounded, my cell phone confiscated. Dad made sure I knew there would be no phone calls, no texts, and no visitors for the entire weekend. That meant I couldn’t tell Molly about the rave or the teen fight club hidden inside, and I couldn’t talk to Dylan or Lauren about what had happened.

  On top of that, Dad already had a cruel and unusual punishment planned that would run through both Saturday and Sunday, one that would ensure I’d be too tired to sneak out again. Early Saturday morning, he corralled both Kyle and me when we were barely awake and he shuffled us into the SUV and started driving. Kyle slumped in the backseat, looking as guilty as I felt.

  “I get why you’re punishing me, but what’s up with Kyle?” I asked, a sullen tone in my voice. I chewed on a cinnamon bagel as we drove, wondering if he was taking us up into the mountains for another round of survival training. I didn’t know what to expect until we ended up in the parki
ng lot of a private gym. A frown settled on my brow and I swung around to face Kyle. Had he told Dad that I taught him a couple of martial art moves?

  “Did you tell Dad?” I asked.

  “I was worried about you, okay?” Kyle confessed, his chin jutting out and his gaze flicking away from me to stare out the window. “You’ve been acting all spooky lately, like the other night when you almost passed out in the garage.”

  “Remind me to never help when you complain about guys picking on you at school.”

  “Whatever.”

  “That’s enough, both of you,” Dad said. “Get out, we’ve got work to do.”

  We both slunk out of the car, avoiding each other, standing on opposite sides of Dad as we headed toward the gym. Once we were inside, he made us do half an hour of stretching and warming up. Then the real punishment began—eight brutal hours of martial arts training mixed with bare-knuckle boxing. He knew techniques I’d never even seen before and, time after time, I ended up flat on my back, the wind knocked out of me.

  I think part of him felt bad, or maybe conflicted, about what he was doing, although I understood his motives. He wanted Kyle and me to be able to fight.

  It didn’t take long for him to realize I had injuries from my fight last night, even though I never told him any details. He wrapped my ribs with a thick bandage and warned Kyle not to hit me there, telling him that if he cracked or broke one of my ribs it could puncture my lungs.

  Kyle stared at me with his mouth open, his face flushed, something like fear or concern in his eyes.

  After that we focused on kicks and jabs, careful not to touch each other. Even so, it was still a merciless workout that left me aching and moaning by the time we left. Once we got home, Kyle continued to avoid me, squirreling himself away in his room, glued to his video controller, the volume on his Xbox turned way down. He was probably trying to fly low, under Dad’s radar.

  TV and video games were off-limits for me, however. Instead I got plenty of time to catch up on my homework. Dad hired some college-age nerd that lived down the street to come over both nights and work as my tutor, both of us sitting in the dining room with a virtual library of textbooks and spiral notebooks fanned out across the table.