Dead Girls Society

by Michelle Krys

  There are a million reasons to get the hell out of this place and forget that the whole thing ever happened. Yet I turn off the engine. It makes knocking sounds as it cools, and my heart thunders behind my ears. I check my purse to make sure my inhaler and cell are still inside, then shoulder it, take a deep breath, and step outside.

  The air is languid and still; crickets chirp loudly in the dark. I spin in a circle and squint at the slithering shadows. A dog barks in the distance, and my heart punches against my ribs. I exhale slowly and feel for the shape of my inhaler through the fabric of my purse.

  It’s okay, Hope. It’s okay.

  The cars are all empty, so whoever they belong to must be inside. Four against one at best…considerably more against one at worst.

  I turn back to the warehouse, hemmed in by chain-link fencing. I’d thought it was completely dark, but now that I look closer, I realize there’s one room on the main floor that shines dully with opaque light.

  I wait a moment, two, three, my heart racing, but no one emerges from the building. They’re waiting for me.

  Go home, I tell myself. Get in the car, drive fast and far. Ethan was right.

  Thinking of Ethan makes a bitter shiver flash through me. Ethan, who laughed at me and told me it was stupid, who might take me to the movies tomorrow if I really want. Who’s probably kissing Savannah at this very moment.

  The fence is taller than it looked from inside the car and reaches several feet over my head. I walk the length of it, looking for an opening, but the only one is a gate bolted shut with a thick padlock. I grip the fence and test my weight with a foot in the chain. Then I grunt my way up.

  It’s easier to climb than I would have thought, and I move quickly up the fence. If only Mom could see me now!

  But by the time I reach the top, I’m huffing for air and my arms and legs feel weak and wobbly. I cough into my arm, the gravelly sound unbearably loud. The wire fencing digs into my hands.

  Almost there.

  I blow out a slow breath to calm my breathing, then take the last step up and flip my legs over to the other side, but my purse strap gets caught on a spike in the chain link.

  I lose my footing and grapple furiously at the fence, but my fingers slip, and then I’m falling. There’s an awful second where I think, This is going to hurt, before my back cracks against the pavement. Hot pain splits up my spine; black spots flash in my eyes.

  The last thing I see is a side door of the warehouse swinging open and a pair of Converse sneakers walking calmly toward me.

  I hear their muffled voices first. From the sounds of it, they’re young, and, thankfully, all girls. I keep my eyes closed and strain to make out what they’re saying. Shoes scuff on the ground. I keep as still as possible.

  “Someone gonna wake that bitch up or what?” a voice says over me.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I pop my eyes open to find a pair of startlingly blue eyes assessing me. The girl has spiky black hair and the wild, unpredictable look of a feral cat. I push up to my feet so fast a wave of nausea hits that threatens to knock me back to the ground.

  “Who are you?” I demand. But even as I ask it, a creeping realization strikes: I know this girl. Hartley Jensen, St. Beatrice’s resident badass. Last year she set the school library on fire. No one knows how she managed to escape expulsion.

  Hartley steps forward, and I resist the urge to step back. I’ve seen enough Animal Planet to know that retreat is a sign of weakness to a predator.

  “Did you do this?” I ask, though I don’t know why. Of course she did. It would be the exact type of thing Hartley would do. Rules mean nothing to her. I don’t think she’s gone a single week without getting detention, and rumor has it she has a criminal record. B&E or grand theft auto, depending on who tells the story.

  “Do what?” Hartley asks.

  “This!” I say, gesturing around. “Did you send me that invite?”

  Hartley tips her head back and laughs.

  “I’m serious. This isn’t funny.” In fact, it’s screwed up—even for her.

  “Relax, Mom. I got here the same way as the rest of you.”

  At the same moment, a girl says, “Leave her alone, Hartley.”

  I wheel around. The girl gets up from the turned-over storage crate she was sitting on, her satin-and-mesh shorts falling around her knees.

  “I apologize on behalf of my very rude friend here.” She reaches out a hand. “I’m—”

  “Lyla Greene,” I interrupt.

  “Oh.” She lets her hand fall to her side.

  “I’ve been to one of your games,” I explain.

  Lyla is the star of the St. Beatrice girls’ basketball team—or at least, she was last year, before she went on leave for some mysterious illness. Watching her play was like watching a star being born. She could net a ball from halfway across the court and already had college scouts coming to her games.

  “Are we really talking about basketball right now?” the black girl next to her says. She’s got her hair pulled back into an elegant bun above the stiff collar of her starched white shirt, which is tucked into a yellow plaid skirt that looks like a boarding school uniform but I suspect isn’t. She looks vaguely familiar, but when I try to place her, I can’t. “How about we stick to the salient point?” she continues. “It’s Hope, right? When did you get your invitation? Was it an evite too? Because maybe we can trace it.”

  And all at once it hits me who she is: Nicole Morgan, the president of every committee possible at St. Beatrice and the girl Ethan was interested in for about five minutes until he realized she was wound tighter than a spring. He’s still haunted by their awkward first—and only—date, to the East End Grill, where Nikki spent the whole hour one-upping everything he said and spinning every conversation so it revolved around her—when she wasn’t worrying incessantly about her impending curfew. “I’m pretty sure she thought she was going to be graded on the date,” Ethan had said.

  “What am I doing here?” I ask, my voice high with tension.

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Who invited us here and why?” A girl steps from the shadows, and now I know who the BMW belongs to. Farrah Weir-Montgomery has her sleek dark hair pulled into a loose braid, and her enviable curves are on full display in a fitted pair of designer jeans and a tank top she somehow manages to make look cutting-edge. She tosses her braid over her golden brown shoulder, and even in the dim, flickering light of the warehouse, it shines. I get the feeling it would shine in the dark. Farrah is the definition of shiny.

  A strange sense of relief pours through me. Seeing her here, a member of high school royalty, from a family who practically owns New Orleans—seeing all these girls I know, even if peripherally—makes the warehouse seem a bit less scary.

  “I got an invitation—an evite, like Nikki said.” I reach for my bag and realize it’s missing.

  “Looking for this?” Hartley holds up my purse, mischief written all over her face.

  “What the hell—give that back!” I leap for it, but she snatches it away, cackle-laughing.

  “Hartley, you’re wasting time,” Nikki says. “Every minute is a minute I don’t want to be here.” She presses a hand against her temple, pacing quickly over the dusty floors. “Oh God, my mom will freak if she sees I’m gone. And I’m volunteering for extra credit at eight in the morning.” She looks at her watch and hisses.

  “Oh, relax.” Hartley tosses my purse to me. I’m not prepared for it, and it smacks me in the chest before hitting the ground. I drop to my knees and frantically sift through my bag, sighing with relief when I find my inhaler undamaged. I send Hartley a withering glare, then set the inhaler aside and pull out my phone, bringing up the invitation on the screen with shaky fingers. “See?” I wave it triumphantly.

  I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t for every one of them to produce their own phones and their own invitations.

  I grab the cell nearest to me and manage to cat
ch the words “wouldn’t want anyone to find out about” at the bottom of the invite before Farrah snatches it back.

  “Find out about what?” I ask.

  “None of your business.” Farrah quickly stows her phone in her jeweled clutch.

  “We all got one,” Lyla points out helpfully. Her accent is real Louisiana. The kind I envied when we moved here, all soft edges and warmth.

  The Bad Girl, the Smart Girl, the Rich Girl, the Sporty Girl, and the Sick Girl. It’s such a strange and random assortment of people, I wonder if we were invited here for some sort of Breakfast Club redux.

  “I got here first and found this.” Lyla holds out a letter. I grab it from her, then wish I hadn’t when I can’t conceal my shaking hands.

  “ ‘Congratulations,’ ” I say, reading aloud. I glance up. Lyla nods, and I clear my voice and continue.

  You have been selected to be a part of a unique and thrilling experience. Over the next two weeks, each of you will compete in a series of dares. The rules are simple: complete the dare, move to the next round. The winner of the game will take home a grand prize of $100,000. Fail the dare, and you will be eliminated. Tell anyone about the game, and you will be punished. Cheat in the game, and you will be punished. Refuse to play the game?

  We think you know what happens.

  Of course, we understand that some of you may have some reservations about the legitimacy of this game. To put your minds at ease and to thank you for coming, please accept this gift on behalf of your grateful Society.

  Which of you is bravest? Who will take home the prize?

  Take the challenge. Play the game. If you dare.

  I swallow and look up, catching the same fear on the other girls’ faces that they must see in mine.

  “It was under this.” Lyla picks up a jar made of dark stone, the lid stamped with the same thorny rose that appeared on the invitations. “I guess we’re supposed to pick out a dare.”

  I drop the letter and rake my fingers through my damp hair, trying to make sense of what’s happening. “So what’s this gift?”

  They exchange a look.

  “All right. Everyone hand it over,” Lyla says. “It’s only fair.”

  There’s a round of groans as everyone pulls out huge wads of cash, then strips some bills from the top. Lyla collects it all.

  “The pin too.”

  Hartley huffs and slaps something onto Lyla’s hand. Lyla comes over to me.

  “Each of us got a thousand dollars and this pin-brooch thing. We didn’t think anyone else was coming, so we agreed to split yours and did rock-paper-scissors for your pin.”

  She hands it over. My lips part as I count the money, then examine the pin. It’s a rose about the size of an old-fashioned coin, made of tarnished silver and sparkly white jewels that look like diamonds. If it’s real, it would have to be worth thousands.

  I should be happy—I could do so much with this money, help Mom pay her bills so the debt collectors will leave us alone for five minutes. But instead a ripple of fear shoots down my spine. Why would anyone want to give us this sort of money? Bribe us to do these dares?

  I quickly shove the money and pin into my purse. I feel better the moment they’re out of my hands. Just touching them makes me feel like I’m risking something.

  “All right, can we get started already?” Farrah says. “Open the jar.”

  I look up sharply. “Wait—you actually want to do this?”

  “No, I just came here to check out the sights,” Farrah says. “So are you out, then?”

  I open and close my mouth before I find words. “I just—I think we need to stop and think for a second.”

  “What’s there to think about?” Hartley says. “If someone wants to give me a hundred K and flashy gifts, I’m okay with that.”

  “Hope is right,” Nikki says. “Going in blind is a good way to ensure failure. What we need to do is think about this like a problem. What do we already know—the known variables—versus what we want to discover—the unknown variables. And then we need to factor in—”

  “Okay, why don’t you sit here with your variables while the rest of us play the game,” Hartley interrupts.

  Nikki harrumphs and mutters that her way would work.

  “But why?” I ask. “Why us? What does the Society get out of this? What happens after we do these dares? Isn’t anyone worried about this?”

  “Maybe we are,” Farrah says. “But maybe we don’t want to find out what happens if we refuse.”

  I remember Farrah’s invitation. Wouldn’t want anyone to find out about…

  “What did your invitations say?” I ask.

  “Like I said before—it’s none of your business.” She pulls her purse close, as if I might lunge for it to get her phone. I suppose if I were Hartley, I might.

  I turn to the rest of the group.

  Hartley gives me two middle fingers.

  Lyla plays with the zipper on her Lululemon warm-up jacket.

  Nikki slashes her arms over her chest and jerks her chin up.

  “You’re being blackmailed,” I say.

  Wind rattles the windowpanes. Something echoes deep in the bowels of the factory.

  “Look,” I say, “this is a good thing. If you all share what they have on you, maybe we can figure out who’s behind this.”

  “Why don’t you share,” Farrah says.

  “I would,” I say, “but I’m not being blackmailed.”

  Farrah rolls her eyes, then pulls a tube of lip gloss out of her purse and quickly slicks some onto her full lips.

  “It’s true,” I say.

  “How convenient.” She pops the tube back into her purse.

  “Fine, then.” I pull out my phone and clear my throat: “ ‘Dear Hope Callahan. You are cordially invited to participate in a game of thrills and dares. That is, if Mommy will let you out of the house. Come to 291 Schilling Road at midnight tomorrow. Tell no one, and come alone. If you dare.’ ” Color fills my cheeks. “There. I shared mine—now it’s your turn.”

  “I never said anything about sharing,” Hartley says.

  “If she’s not talking, then neither am I,” Farrah says.

  “Me neither,” Lyla agrees.

  Nikki gives a tense shrug. So much for known variables.

  I exhale a frustrated breath. “Aren’t you guys worried this could be a trick? What if this stuff is fake?” I say, waving to Nikki, who is still holding her money and pin. “What if that hundred K is nonexistent and we’re wasting our time? Or worse?” I continue. “What if it’s a trap? We could do whatever dare is in that jar and get tossed in jail.”

  “It’s not fake,” Hartley says. “I can tell.” She’s pulled out a lighter and is flicking it on and off, on and off. The grinding noise and flash of sparks put me on edge.

  “From all your vast experience appraising jewelry?” Farrah asks.

  “I’ve had more than a few occasions to get intimate with the richer things in life,” she counters, shutting Farrah down neatly.

  “We should go to the police,” I say. End this whole thing. It would be the responsible thing to do. They’d probably call Mom, and she’d find out I took the car, but maybe I’d get sympathy points for being honest.

  “We can’t,” Farrah says, at the same time Hartley says, “No.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  Farrah presses her lips into a glossy line.

  Whatever it is, it’s clear the person behind this game has a juicy secret on each of them. Something big enough to get them to blindly follow his instructions.

  Except for me. I’m too sick and uninteresting to be blackmailed. All it took for me was the promise of adventure.

  “Look, we all have our reasons for being here,” Lyla finally says. “Let’s just…leave it at that.”

  It occurs to me that I’m the only one considering quitting. If I leave, go back to my apartment, my bedroom, this game will go on without me.

  “Okay,” I say, frus
trated with everything about this situation. “Then let’s play.”

  My chest chooses that moment to squeeze in just the wrong way, sending me into a coughing fit.

  Hartley stifles laughter.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing, it’s just…” She lets her words trail off, fighting to rein in a grin.

  “What?” I repeat.

  She shrugs. “Well. It’s just…you’re obviously not winning the game.”

  It’s as good as a punch to the gut.

  “Why are you such a bitch, Hartley?” Farrah says, but her tone says she agrees with the sentiment, if not the delivery.

  Hartley doesn’t respond, just plunges her hands deep in the pockets of her baggy jeans. I look at the ring of faces around me. Hartley, who couldn’t care less. Farrah, who is recovering from her moment of sympathy. Nikki, who’s too smart to pick a dog in this fight. Even Lyla, who is arguably the nicest one here, doesn’t look convinced. I grind my teeth. I shouldn’t care what they think—especially not jail-bound Hartley. But for some reason I do.

  Before I can think it through, I square my jaw and march over to Lyla, who is still holding the smooth black jar. I yank the lid off and plunge a hand inside. It’s just large enough for my hand to sink in to the wrist, and at the bottom I find a single piece of folded paper. I pull it out, and the others scurry close to read over my shoulder.

  Go to Six Flags in the 9th Ward. Scale the Mega Zeph roller coaster. And take a leap of faith.

  The blood rushes out of my head.

  “Well.” Hartley pins me with a stare. “What are we waiting for?”

  Farrah Weir-Montgomery is in my car. Ethan will never believe it.

  I can hardly believe it. Why did I have to go and open my big mouth when Nikki suggested we all take one car? Why did I feel the need to impress these random girls? So what if Hartley cracked a joke about me running back home to Mommy? Now I’m committed to this harebrained plot.