Dead Girls Society

by Michelle Krys

  When we’re done eating (those of us who haven’t just picked at our salads and complained about bloating, not naming any names), the tables are cleared, and lively jazz music floats from a band playing in a corner. The dance floor fills surprisingly fast for a place full of geriatrics.

  “Care to dance?” Tucker’s eyes are bright under the harsh lighting. Mom would murder me. Anything that causes sweating might throw my salt levels out of whack and is strictly off-limits. But if I can complete the tasks set out for me by the faceless Society, then surely I can dance for High Society.

  I push back my chair and set my napkin on the table. Tucker takes my hand and leads me out to the dance floor.

  “I don’t know how to dance like this,” I admit.

  “You don’t need to. Just have fun.”

  He spins me out, away from him, and then whirls me back in, like one of those old snap bracelets I had as a kid. I can’t help laughing.

  “See?” he says.

  He whirls me around the dance floor, the room a blur of color. I’ve never noticed it before, but Tucker has the barest hint of a limp. I wonder if he wouldn’t if his dad had let him heal properly after surgery before shoving him back onto the lacrosse field.

  Tucker beams at me.

  After three up-tempo songs the band switches to a slow number. I smile uncomfortably at Tucker, and he pulls me in close. I wonder if Ethan is watching this. Probably not. I’m sure he’s dancing with Savannah.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder. I spin around, and there he is.

  “May I cut in?” Ethan asks.

  Everything inside me liquefies.

  “Oh, um, okay, I guess,” Tucker says, but Ethan’s not looking at him. His eyes are locked on me. I don’t think I could look away even if a natural disaster struck.

  Tucker disappears into the crowd, and Ethan pulls me close, wrapping his arms around my waist. I lace my own around his neck, aware of every single place he touches me, every inch of space he doesn’t.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” I say.

  “Ditto.”

  We don’t say anything after that. The keening sound of a sax stretches out in our silence. Ethan pulls my hips close, and the small gap between us disappears. The warmth of his hands travels through the thin material of my dress. I go boneless, my insides breaking apart, floating to the surface, like I’m made of helium and could fly away.

  Someone bumps into me, apologizes profusely, but I don’t look over, barely register it happening.

  Ethan’s chest is flush with mine, and I imagine I can feel his heartbeat through the layers of clothes separating us. He smells like the fancy cologne he wears only on formal occasions, and I long to lay my head on his chest.

  My fingers toy with the ends of his hair before I even realize I’m doing it. We’re so close. If I looked up, we’d be kissing. I want to be kissing. I want to feel his lips, taste his mouth. Erase the heat between my legs by pressing myself against him.

  As if he can hear my thoughts, his hands fist into the back of my dress and he drags me against him, impossibly closer, and I take in a sharp, high breath, intoxicated by the smell of him, by his nearness, by the feeling of our bodies together.

  The song comes to an end. Guests clap lightly, break apart, and I’m pulled back to reality.

  I’m suddenly aware of how inappropriate this must appear. I glance around and catch sight of a flash of yellow in a far corner. Savannah. And she’s looking straight at us, tangled together like lovers.

  I quickly force a respectable distance between Ethan and me and clear my throat. My face is blazing red.

  The band starts up a lively tune.

  “Is something wrong?” Ethan asks.

  Savannah’s gaze sears into my back, and a hot flood of shame washes over me. “Um, I—I have to go.”

  “What?”

  “I need to use the bathroom.” I let go of Ethan’s neck and push through the crowd before he can stop me. I’m dizzy, weak, but not for any of the usual reasons.

  What was that? Did Ethan feel the same way I did, or was I imagining the chemistry between us?

  Tucker materializes in front of me. “Hey, you. Looked like you were having a pretty good time out there.”

  “What?” I feign ignorance. “I have to use the bathroom.”

  “Oh. Okay. It’s right over there.” He points to a set of doors at the far side of the room.

  “Those will be packed,” Farrah says, leaning over from a conversation with Clayton, Amber, and Sadie. She points to a corridor on the second floor. “There’s a quieter one up there, at the end of the hallway. Can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks.” I tell Tucker, “I’ll be right back.”

  I weave through the tables and up the spiral staircase, praying I don’t trip on the long train of my gown.

  Past the balcony, the corridor reaches out into darkness. I look for a bathroom sign, but when I don’t see one, I start peeking behind unmarked doors. Meeting rooms, smaller reception areas, offices. No bathroom. I start to wonder if I misunderstood Farrah’s directions when I turn a corner and there it is. Finally. I sigh with relief and slip inside.

  I hardly recognize the girl in the mirror. She’s flushed and beaming and…ludicrously happy, despite how wrong the dance with Ethan was. I press my hands over my sides, where his hands just held me. It’s hard to believe it actually happened.

  And it happened in front of all those people. In front of Tucker and Savannah. The smile melts off my face. It was a shitty thing for us to do. I’m going to have to make it up to Tucker, apologize or something. I can’t spend any more time pining after someone who doesn’t belong to me.

  With that thought in mind, I slip into a stall and lift my dress to sit on the toilet. It occurs to me then how strange it is that I’m the only one in here. Sure, people are busy dancing and mingling, and it isn’t the main bathroom, but I didn’t pass a single person in the hall, and aren’t restrooms usually crowded at events? Farrah can’t be the only one to know about this one.

  Maybe rich people don’t pee in public or something. Just as this thought occurs to me, the door creaks open. A slide, whirr, tink sound from outside the stall.

  “Hello?” I call out.

  No answer.

  My heart beats faster. “Who’s there?”

  There’s a quiet hissing noise. An acrid smell reaches my nose, and wisps of smoke rise above the door. I whip my panties up and burst out of the stall. A small silver ball sits on the tile floor, emitting pressurized white smoke from a hole in the top. What the…?

  I run to the door and pull on the handle, but it won’t open. Panic slices into me. I violently yank on the door with both hands. But no matter what I do, it won’t budge.

  Someone has locked me inside.

  “Help!” I bang on the door. “Someone get me out of here!”

  The air grows thick with smoke. I cough and reach for my inhaler in my purse, shooting back two quick hits.

  The smoke billows out, filling the room. I try the door again. Still locked.

  I sink to my knees and search for a pocket of clean air. But the space is full of smoke in seconds, the air so hazy with it I can’t see my own hand in front of my face. My lungs tighten as if a vise is being screwed around my chest. I begin to wheeze, my airway turning into a straw. The pain in my chest sharpens. I can’t draw in enough oxygen, enough air. Stars flash in my vision. I slug on the inhaler over and over, only pulling it away from my lips to weakly call for help.

  The door crashes open. I just register that it’s Tucker before he scoops me into his arms. Fresh air assaults me as we burst out of the bathroom. I suck in a big, gulping breath, smoke stinging the back of my throat.

  Tucker deposits me on the carpet and grabs my shoulders. “Hope! Are you okay? What happened?”

  “Someone locked me in.” I cough and grab my throat. It feels like it’s on fire. “Smoke bomb.”

  Tucker clenches his jaw, then blows out a breath
. He takes out his phone and types something. A moment later his friends are jogging down the hall toward us. Farrah freezes when she catches sight of me, her face a mask of mute horror. She takes a small step back.

  “Oh my God, what happened?” Clayton asks.

  Everyone is circled around me now, looking down at me with big, worried eyes. Everyone except Sadie. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and she smiles at me smugly, as if I’m nothing more than an upturned beetle.

  My eyes narrow on her.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Someone locked me in that bathroom,” I say. “With a smoke bomb.”

  “So what? You think I did it?”

  I pin her with a glare that says yes, I do think you did it.

  “I was with Mike the whole time,” she says. “Ask anyone.”

  I expel another cough, and Tucker helps me to sit up straighter.

  “All right,” Tucker says. “We can figure out who did it later. Right now I need to get her out of here. Can someone bring the car around to the service entrance?”

  Clayton jogs off down the hall, and relief pours through me. I just want to get out of here. Get away from all this. I want Mom to beat on my back until I can breathe right, and I want to feel the heavy drag of Edna, my physio vest, around my shoulders. I want to be at home in my familiar apartment with my familiar family and my familiar problems. Somewhere my vulnerability isn’t on display like a badge for everyone to see.

  I’m always annoyed with Mom for babying me as if I’m some fragile bird, but the truth of it is, I am fragile. One more minute in there and I would have passed out. Three more and I could have died.

  Tucker leads me through back hallways until we reach the service entrance. Dull streetlight shines an orange circle on the cracked pavement. A garbage bag flaps against the side of a chipping, stained Dumpster. I shiver as it occurs to me that someone attacked me—someone wanted to hurt me—and I didn’t even call the cops.

  No one even suggested it.

  Clayton pulls around the convertible. He hops out and tosses the keys to Tucker. I climb inside, and Tucker shifts into drive.

  My phone buzzes in my purse.

  I dig it out and find the home screen full of texts from Ethan, wondering where I went. And at the bottom, a text from a blocked number.

  Cheaters *always* get caught. Don’t make me tell you again.

  Sound funnels away.

  Someone from the Society was here. At the event. Someone I shook hands with, danced with, talked to.

  I drop the phone into my purse as if it’s on fire.

  “Hope?” Tucker’s voice pierces the fog. “Are you okay?”

  I look across at him. The bright lights of the electronic dash carve sharp angles into his face. There’s a deep frown etched into his brow. But is it real? He knew I was going to that bathroom, and he was the first to arrive.

  I swallow. “Sorry. I’m okay. I’m fine.”

  The car purrs to a stop in front of my apartment. Tucker hops out, leaving his door hanging wide, and gives me his arm.

  “I’m good from here,” I say. “You should get back. Your dad will wonder where you went.”

  “You were attacked, Hope. I’m walking you in.”

  “Seriously. My mom would just freak out and never let you near me again. Just go.” I push him toward the car. He looks pained, but I wave and climb the steps, and he finally gets back in his car.

  I take a deep breath before I go inside, ready for all hell to break loose. Then I twist the doorknob.

  “Hope? Is that you?” Mom says as I enter. She rounds the corner of the living room. She pales when she sees me.

  “I’m fine, I’m okay,” I start, but I don’t know why I bother. I saw myself in the mirror, I know how I look.

  “Jenny!” Mom calls. There’s a panic in her voice that sets my nerves on edge. It’s the voice she uses only in dire emergencies.

  “I’m okay, Mom. I just got tired, that’s all.”

  “Yes?” Jenny appears in the living room in a pair of plaid boxer shorts and a T-shirt.

  “Call Dr. Aguiar on her after-hours number,” Mom says. “Tell her to meet us at Children’s.”

  “I don’t need to go to the hospital,” I start, but my protest is weak, unconvincing. I guess after all the craziness, it feels so good to be taken care of that I can’t even fight it anymore. The next thing I know, I’m bundled in the back of the rental car as Mom screeches through traffic toward the hospital.

  Dr. Aguiar is there when we arrive. Her hair is uncombed, and she isn’t wearing any makeup. I feel inexplicably guilty.

  “Nice dress,” she says by way of hello.

  I sort of forgot I was still wearing Farrah’s gown. I must look utterly ridiculous in the ER, full of piss-drunk people and snotty, crying kids. But I don’t change, no matter how dumb I must look. The hospital gowns are bad enough, with their wide-open backs and paper-thin material, without my being braless on top of it.

  I submit to the usual battery of tests, and the whole time Mom struggles to gulp down tears and breathe normally. Jenny doesn’t make any snarky remarks, and I know how badly I must have worried them. I almost spill everything, the whole sordid truth about what got me here, but the text I got keeps my mouth firmly shut.

  After what seems like forever, Dr. Aguiar comes into the room with a clipboard.

  “Well, your numbers are a little off—sodium’s low, but not quite low enough to warrant IV replacement. We’ll have to bump up your supplements. Your lung scan showed some diffuse haziness in the left lung, but it’s not markedly different from the last scan done in April. Overall, you’re looking pretty good. Tired, but good.”

  Mom lets out a staggering breath.

  “Now the question is whether to admit you,” Dr. Aguiar says.

  “Please, no.” I know how this goes. If I get admitted, I’ll be here for days, at the very least, and when I go home, I’ll be on lockdown. “Mom, please. I can’t. I’ll be able to rest better at home. It’s so loud in here, and the food is awful.”

  Mom purses her lips.

  “How about this,” Dr. Aguiar says. “Why don’t you go home, and I’ll see you first thing on Monday in my office. If anything changes, just call and we’ll have a room ready for you.”

  I swing a desperate look to Mom. She nods, and I sink into the mattress.

  The ride home from the hospital is quiet.

  We’re almost at Iberville when Mom finally speaks. “You know what this means, right?”

  I do. But she tells me anyway.

  “No more school. You’ve been pushing yourself too much. That’s why this happened.”

  My vision blurs, and I bite my lip to keep from crying. I finally got everything I wanted—all the adventure I dreamed about, imagined the other kids having—and now it’s being taken away. Jenny squeezes my knee, but for once even she doesn’t stick up for me.

  It’s just school, I tell myself. Just school. It’s better for me to stay home right now anyway. Someone attacked me, and I don’t know who. At least at home I’m safe. It’s just school.

  Maybe if I say it enough times, it’ll start to feel true.

  By the time we get home, I’m all spun up. This was an attempt on my life that left me a prisoner in my own home. I’m done being nice about this.

  The moment Mom leaves me alone, I pull out the spiral notebook from under my bed and open it to my list of suspects.

  TUCKER

  JENNY

  Now I add the names of anyone who might have seen me going to that bathroom:

  SADIE

  AMBER

  CLAYTON

  And after a brief hesitation, two more:

  FARRAH

  ETHAN

  After the events of the night, the idea that either of them is involved doesn’t seem quite so far-fetched anymore.

  But why? And how do I prove anything?

  I stuff the notebook back under my bed and whip out my cell, dialing Lyla�
�s number.

  “You won’t believe what happened.”

  “Hope, is that you?” she asks.

  “Yeah. So listen.”

  I’m huffing for breath by the time I finish spilling all the details of the charity event. “This was a punishment,” I say, “for helping Farrah out of the freezer, which means they’re changing the rules because they can.”

  “Wow. Just…wow,” she mumbles.

  “This is beyond dangerous now, Lyla. It’s time to go to the cops.”

  “Okay, I hear you,” she says. “But again, what kind of evidence do we have? And what would your mom say? If you filed a police report, she’d have to know about it.”

  I grimace. I hadn’t thought about that. If Mom knew someone attacked me, she’d never let me out of her sight again. Forget just cutting out school. It’d be a Fort Knox−level lockdown.

  “Well, I can’t just wait around for whoever did this to strike again,” I say. “Tucker might not be around next time to save me.”

  Tucker. He came so quickly. And I really wasn’t gone that long. I hadn’t even reapplied my makeup. Why would he have come looking for me? Unless…unless he knew I was going to be hurt.

  Was Tucker being there at the exact right moment an act of perfect timing, or was he there because he attacked me? And then a more frightening thought occurs to me.

  “Hope?” Lyla asks.

  “I gotta go.”

  I hang up and whip open my bedroom closet, then fall to my knees in front of the cardboard box of old school assignments and other random junk I don’t know what to do with and dig through the pile with shaking hands.

  For a moment I worry it’s gone, that Mom threw it out when she was snooping through my things or something. But there it is, the newspaper still folded from when it was stuffed in Ethan’s bag.

  I almost can’t bring myself to read it. If I don’t read it, then nothing has to change. Tucker can keep being the gorgeous guy who wants me, despite where I come from, damn what everyone says. Ethan can still be wrong about him.

  But now that the seed of doubt has been planted, it won’t stop growing.

  I open the paper.

  The article Ethan wanted to show me is earmarked.