Dead Girls Society

by Michelle Krys

  “Ethan?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “I see.”

  “It’s not like that,” I say at her knowing tone. I don’t add: I wish it were.

  “He has a girlfriend. Anyway, he came over tonight to try to convince me to stay away from this guy.”

  “Tucker St. Clair.” She says his name like it’s an institution. “Yeah, everyone’s talking. So how did that happen?”

  I decide I’ll be mortified later. “He asked me to be his partner for this assignment. I said yes.”

  “And you thought you’d work on a little extra credit together,” she teases.

  I punch her in the arm, and she laughs.

  “It’s really new,” I say. I want to add more, but I start to feel like I’m making something out of nothing.

  “Well, have fun with it,” she says.

  “You sound like my sister. She wants me to invite her over to his house. Like I’m sure he really wants a thirteen-year-old to come over.”

  “I wish I could say I relate. My sister is a year older than me, and I spent my whole childhood trying to hang out with her and her friends. When I was seven, I tried to join her slumber party, and she told me to go away, so I told her friends that she still wet the bed sometimes.”

  “You didn’t!”

  She laughs, still delighted with herself. “She didn’t talk to me for three weeks.”

  “You deserved it! Does your sister go to St. Beatrice?”

  She frowns unexpectedly. “No, actually. She was being bullied, so she had to drop out. My mom started homeschooling her.”

  “Oh my God. That’s awful.”

  She nods, and I notice that her eyes are shining.

  The radio comes into focus. I desperately reach for something to say, but by the time I think of anything remotely appropriate, the moment has passed and the warehouse looms before us.

  It’s my second time here, and I’m not alone now, but the place is just as foreboding as the last time, heavy with expectation. Years of overgrowth choke the building, as if it grew right out of the earth. Or was expelled from it like a tomb.

  “Hartley’s here,” Lyla says, nodding at the bike parked outside. But no Farrah. No Nikki.

  Lyla grabs on to the chain-link fence, and I follow her lead. This time I climb over without horrifically embarrassing myself.

  It’s weird entering the warehouse awake this time. I crane my neck and squint to make out my surroundings. We enter the main room. Exposed pipes climb walls tagged with graffiti. There are faded red storage crates everywhere, and a thick coat of yellow powder—wheat, maybe?—dusts the cement floors.

  My eyes stick on the jar sitting on an upturned box in the center of the room.

  Just then, Hartley saunters in from the shadows of a darkened hallway, hiking up her baggy, low-slung jeans.

  “Where were you?” Lyla asks. I don’t miss the note of suspicion in her voice.

  “Taking a little tour to see if anyone was hiding somewhere. If you must know.”

  “And?” I ask, glad she was brave enough to wander off in the dark.

  “Place is empty. The floors I checked, anyway. I only went up to the first three, but there was dust everywhere like no one had been there in a really long time. Only footprints I saw were my own. No cameras I could find either. If the Society is watching us, it’s gotta be some high-tech FBI-type shit they’re using.” She rakes her hand through her spiky black hair. “No Farrah?”

  “No Farrah,” Lyla and I confirm together.

  “Figures. All right. Well, it’s midnight. Let’s do this.”

  We circle around the jar. Hartley does the honors and pulls the top off, plunging her hand inside to pull out a single folded paper. Just like last time.

  “Hey, bitches.”

  We spin around as Farrah flounces into the room in a strapless emerald-green baby doll dress that shows off miles of sleek, golden leg. She could walk onto a runway in Paris and not look out of place.

  “Could have waited for me.”

  We blink at her for what feels like minutes, until Lyla says, “You came.”

  “Of course I came. The rules were pretty clear on a few points, participation being one.” Her boots clack across the floor, and then she yanks the paper out of Hartley’s hand. She scans it, then raises her eyes to Hartley. “They can’t be serious.”

  Lyla grabs the paper.

  “Read it out loud,” I say.

  “ ‘One down, four to go. Ready for the real fun to begin?’ ” Lyla reads. “ ‘Go to Honey Island Swamp and look for the sign. You’ll know the one.’ ”

  She looks up.

  The Honey Island Swamp is a marshland in St. Tammany Parish that’s famous for its alligators, wild boars, bears, and snakes. Getting in that water would be a death sentence, and no sane person would do it, not even the New Orleans natives who take pride in not being scared of gators.

  “This has to be a joke,” Farrah says.

  “I don’t get the feeling the Society has a sense of humor,” Lyla answers.

  We take Lyla’s car.

  Hartley and Farrah argue the whole way. Topics include whether or not Farrah was shitting her pants at the hospital last week, if Katy Perry is a bimbo or the ultimate feminist, if So You Think You Can Dance is a crappy reality show or legitimate television, and who’s the biggest idiot of everyone in the car.

  We hop onto I-10, which becomes a long-ass bridge across Lake Pontchartrain, and then it’s mile after mile of water that turns into one continuous stretch of swamp and pine forest, all of it sitting still in the breezeless night air, the moon carved into a steel-blue sky. Eventually we leave the highway, and the road narrows and turns to gravel. There are a thousand and one swamps closer to the city than Honey Island, and it makes me wonder: why this one?

  At some point we all get sick of talking to one another, and everyone silently taps away at their phones. Except for me. I’m the genius who didn’t bring one. Hartley pulls her phone out of her pocket, and I see a flash of ink on her inner wrist. I squint and lean in closer to see.

  “What’s your tattoo of?” I ask.

  She twists her arm to show it to me. “It’s an angel. My little brother died when I was ten.”

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

  Hartley smiles sadly, looking at the tattoo. “I wanted a reminder somewhere I could see. I drew it myself, so it’s kind of not the best, but I think it’s special that way.”

  “That’s so sweet.” After a beat I add, “What happened to him?”

  Hartley’s smile wilts.

  “You don’t have to tell us,” Farrah says from the front seat, her voice surprisingly sympathetic.

  “No, it’s okay.” Hartley takes a deep breath. “He drowned. He was in the bathtub, and my mom wasn’t paying attention, and he slipped under the water. Paramedics resuscitated him, but he was brain-dead already, so they pulled the plug.”

  Jenny pops into my head, and tears prick my eyes. I can’t imagine how I would feel if anything like that happened to my baby sister.

  “That’s horrible,” Lyla says.

  “Yeah, it is,” Hartley agrees. “He was the sweetest boy. He didn’t deserve the life he got. Between my dad and everything with him, and my mom trying so hard to keep my dad happy, it just wasn’t good. He’s in a better place.”

  I instantly feel bad for every uncharitable thought I’ve had about Hartley Jensen. She looks different in this context—her tough exterior a shield against her tough life. I guess you never really know someone’s truth.

  “I’m so sorry,” I repeat.

  She clears her throat. “They knew, you know. Whoever’s behind this game.” She answers my raised eyebrows. “It was my gift. After Six Flags. A headstone, engraved with his name. We couldn’t afford anything when he died, just this placeholder thing. I tried to make it nice with flowers and stuff, but I always wished we could have done better for him. And then two days ago…it was just there.”
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  “That’s kind of creepy,” Lyla says. “They were watching you.”

  But Hartley shakes her head. “I don’t care. He deserved something nice.”

  The Society knew this about Hartley—knew her dark, personal family secret that no one else, or at least very few people, knew about. That narrows the pool of suspects down greatly. It seems insensitive to theorize right now, but I can’t be sure Hartley will open up later, and it’s critical.

  “Who knew about your brother?” I ask gently. “Anyone at school?”

  “No one,” Hartley answers. “I never talk about it, not even with Kaz and Marcus and Dil,” she says, referencing the group of Goths and stoners she hangs out with. “But I did an essay on him last year for English, and Mr. Bowing thought it was so good he asked for my permission to read it to the class. He didn’t say it was my paper or anything, but afterward everyone was trying to find out who wrote it and I never said anything, so I think they figured it out.”

  Shit. My shoulders sag.

  A car speeds past, kicking up a cloud of dust. No one talks for at least three minutes before Lyla breaks the silence. “Is your mom okay?”

  “What?” Hartley meets Lyla’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “Your mom. After what happened with your brother. Is she all right?”

  Hartley lifts a shoulder. “I guess. I mean, she functions. But we don’t, like, interact a lot or anything. I guess she feels like a fraud, acting like a mom after what happened. Like she lost her right to be a parent or something.” She’s taken out her lighter and is grinding it on and off, sparks flying from her hand.

  “That sounds like my mom,” Farrah chimes in unexpectedly.

  “Your mom?” Lyla says.

  I’m equally perplexed. Judy Weir-Montgomery is the epitome of supermom. She’s never missed a school event, even though she has a busy career in politics alongside her husband, and she rarely shows up anywhere without a megawatt smile and a tray of fresh-baked brownies.

  “Don’t be fooled by how she acts in public,” Farrah says. “She’s not like that in real life. I mean, she’s not mean or anything, we get along, but she’s always treated me more like a coworker than a daughter. I don’t remember a single time she ever gave me a hug. And when I was little and would scrape my knee, she’d just give me a brisk pat on the back and do this face like she couldn’t wait for the crying to be over. I don’t think she ever really wanted to be a mom.”

  “Wow. She seems so together,” I say.

  “Those are the people you have to be suspicious of,” Hartley says. “No one is that happy.”

  “Not unless they’re on drugs,” Lyla says.

  “Trust me, my mom is on a lot of drugs,” Farrah says. “Prozac. Xanax. Ativan. You name it. Her medicine cabinet is practically a pharmacy.” She sucks in a quick breath. “Oh my God, don’t tell anyone I told you guys that.”

  “Here we go again,” Hartley says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Farrah asks.

  “It means we all shared something personal,” Lyla says.

  I tune them out, thinking about my own mom, my own complaints: somehow “she cares too much” doesn’t seem valid after what the other girls have revealed.

  Farrah practically makes us all sign nondisclosure agreements about her mom, and conversation fizzles out after that. It’s a relief when we finally reach the swamp.

  Lyla parks in the empty lot outside a small clapboard-sided cabin, and we file outside.

  Despite its stillness, the swamp feels like it has a heartbeat. Twisted cypress trees dripping with Spanish moss reach through the sludge water like the gnarled fingers of an old woman. Crickets and bullfrogs sound from the dark, and the air is thick with heat. A chill chases up the back of my shirt, despite the humidity.

  Not long after I moved to New Orleans, Ethan and I were walking around the park near his house, drinking Slurpees, when a gator crept out of the reeds around the pond. I screamed and jumped on a picnic table. When Ethan got control of his laughter long enough to talk me down from the table, he explained that gators were nothing to worry about so long as you followed some basic rules: don’t feed them; don’t swim in grassy, murky water; don’t go swimming at night, when they feed; and don’t take chances during mating season (whenever that is).

  We’re breaking at least three of his four rules tonight.

  Hartley jogs up to the cabin and climbs the patio steps.

  “What are you doing?” Farrah asks, arms hugged over her chest. An owl hoots, and her whole body tightens.

  “Checking things out.” Hartley cups her hands around her face to peer into the darkened windows of the cabin. It’s amazing how one conversation can change so much. Here she is, checking out all the dark corners, trying all the locks. Before, I’d have assumed she was looking for an opportunity to make trouble. Now I know it’s exactly the opposite. She wants to know where trouble might come from.

  “See anything?” Lyla asks.

  “Lots of pamphlets. And a shotgun.” Hartley tries to raise the last window. Locked.

  “Guys.” Farrah’s standing on the grassy embankment below the cabin. We go over to see what she’s looking at. Beneath the wooden stilts that support the house, there’s a small, steel-framed boat turned upside down in tall grass, surrounded by gas cans and tarps and stacks of lumber. “Think this is for the dare?” she asks.

  “And what? We have to row across the swamp?” Hartley says. “Not very challenging. Besides, the card said, ‘Look for the sign.’ I don’t see a sign here.”

  Farrah rolls her eyes, pulls a tube of gloss out of her purse, and mechanically lacquers her lips.

  Hartley watches, absently licking her own in response, then schleps off toward the water. “Hey!” she calls. “Come look at this.”

  She’s standing at the edge of the swamp. I don’t see it right away. And then my eyes adjust and find the stick jutting out of the water six feet from the shore. Above it is a handwritten sign that says ENTER HERE, with an arrow pointing down.

  “What does it mean?” Farrah asks, taking a mincing step back.

  “Enter here,” Hartley says. “Pretty self-explanatory.”

  “You think there’s some sort of an entrance?” Lyla asks. “There?”

  “No way,” Farrah says. “They wouldn’t make us.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Lyla says.

  “There’s one way to find out.” Hartley reaches back and pulls her T-shirt over her head, revealing a black sports bra and a surprisingly toned stomach.

  “Jesus!” Farrah shields her eyes.

  “You’re going in there?” I ask, which is dumb, because it’s Hartley: of course she is.

  “Why not?” She yanks off her Converse sneakers, then starts to undo her belt.

  “Would you do everyone a favor and leave your clothes on, please?” Farrah says.

  “I’m not going swimming in jeans,” Hartley states. “You act like you’ve never seen a girl naked before.”

  “You’re getting naked?” Farrah shrieks.

  “Relax, princess. If it’s going to get you too hot and bothered, I’ll keep my underwear on.” Hartley drops her jeans into the grass.

  We all fall silent as she approaches the shore. She steps into a patch of moonlight, and I gasp. Farrah turns away.

  Across Hartley’s back is a patchwork of bruises. Some are yellow and faded, nearly healed, others violent purple-black rings that look as if they pulse with pain. There are silvery marks across her shoulder I can’t be sure aren’t cigarette-butt scars.

  Who did this to her?

  I’m suddenly not so sure I want to know.

  “Problem, girls?” Hartley asks tersely.

  I swallow hard, glancing at Lyla, whose face has gone stony. “No.”

  “Good.”

  She violently slaps a bug off her shoulder, then crouches forward and slips under the water. Bubbles pop on the surface, the ripples from her entrance dissipati
ng until the water is completely still again. The sounds of the swamp come into sharp focus: chirp, croak, ribbit, shhh. We don’t talk. Don’t breathe. I can’t believe she went in there. She’s been under for so long.

  Just as I have this thought, there’s a splash across the swamp. I squint and see Hartley pushing up on a reedy little island in the distance. But as soon as we see her, she disappears again, back under the water in our direction. Before long, her head breaks the surface near the stick marker, just feet from us.

  “Easy-peasy,” she says, as if we can’t tell that she’s pale and gasping. She climbs out of the swamp on Bambi legs, sloshing muddy water across the shore.

  “What was it?” Farrah asks.

  “A tunnel,” Hartley says, shaking out her hair. “It was too dark to see, but I think it was made of roots and steel and shit. Definitely man-made.”

  “So you just had to enter the door and crawl across?” Farrah asks hopefully.

  “More like swim. And hold your breath,” Hartley adds.

  So it’s filled with water.

  If there was ever a challenge for me to fail, it would be this one. I suddenly feel sick.

  “So you have to hold your breath that whole way?” Lyla looks from the marker to the island, barely visible in the distance.

  “Well, you don’t have to.” Hartley winks.

  Lyla drops her sweater into the grass. I’m mute with shock as she kicks off her sneakers, then unceremoniously pulls down her mesh basketball shorts and drags her T-shirt over her head. I realize she must be used to undressing in front of other girls as part of the basketball team.

  She reties her blond ponytail, then unclasps her necklace and adds it to the pile of clothes at her feet.

  “Wish me luck,” she says.

  “You’re doing it?” I ask, though it’s glaringly obvious.

  “She didn’t seem to have a problem, right?” She flashes me an uneasy smile. I nod, hoping my trepidation doesn’t show all over my face. Mud squelches as Lyla steps to the edge of the pool. She stares out at the oily water, clenching and unclenching her hands at her sides, and none of us breathes a word. Owls distantly call to one another. Frogs croak in the bulrushes. And over it all a chorus of crickets rings out into the dark.