The Lives of Desperate Girls

by MacKenzie Common

  “What, like Chloe? I shouldn’t be like her?” I snapped. Taylor’s jaw dropped.

  “Jenny! What? H-how could you—”

  “Oh, I forgot!” I interrupted her, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now that she’s gone, she’s been forgiven! You only treat people like shit when they’re around to be hurt by it!”

  Taylor didn’t say anything, but I knew we were both thinking of the same night: the party with Mike and Devon. I would never forget how Taylor had looked when we met on the stairs, how her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed at the thought of a teenage girl in trouble. Had we lived in a dictatorship, I knew Taylor would be the sort of person who thrived on denouncing others. She was a born finger-pointer, all of her aggression sublimated into a concerned smile.

  “Taylor, you don’t know anything,” I continued, on a roll now that I’d started. “That freshman? His cousin was the girl who was murdered. And Tom is not a psycho just because he hates this fucking town! Because you know what? I hate it too!”

  “What is wrong with you?” Taylor cried, her voice pitching like a lopsided boat. “You’re a total freak now! Look, I get it, it’s been a shitty year, but you’ve got to move on! We all lost Chloe—”

  That was when I slapped her. It happened so quickly, a twitch of the elbow governed more by reflex than emotion. I had never hit anyone in my life, so I was shocked by the feeling of another person’s skin under my hand. Taylor reeled back, her hand rising to her face as she stared at me. Her mouth gaped but no sounds bubbled up.

  For a moment, I felt relieved. Taylor caused so much trouble with other people that it felt right to take her down a notch. However, as we stood there, I began to feel uncomfortable with the way Taylor was staring at me. She looked afraid, as if she had no idea what such an unpredictable person might do next. I didn’t feel good about hitting her anymore; the momentary satisfaction passed quickly and then the shame set in. It was one thing to be an outsider, but I had never intended to be a threat.

  I was about to offer some attempt at an explanation when I felt a hand grab my forearm. It was our vice principal, Mr. Delorme. He was frowning at me, the creases starting at his black eyebrows and continuing without interruption up into his receding hairline.

  “I saw that, Ms. Parker. I think you had better come with me,” he said. I nodded and lowered my hand, which still stung with the force of what I had done.

  As we turned the corner, I glanced back at Taylor. She was still watching me with a strange look on her face.

  —

  They called my mom, likely waking her up. I sat outside the vice principal’s office while I waited. It felt strange to be ripped out of the daily routine of school. Most things happened far beneath the eye level of the staff, and I’d certainly never risen to their attention before.

  My mom arrived. She was wearing her paint-splattered chore jeans and an old silver sweater that I vaguely remembered from my childhood. Her blond hair was a halo of frizz that hovered above her ponytail. It was obvious she’d thrown on the first clothes she found and rushed over.

  “Jenny? What the hell happened? What did they do?” she whispered. My mother was always willing to give me the benefit of the doubt…even when I didn’t deserve it.

  “Uh, I hit a girl,” I said. “I had a good reason, though.”

  “I’m sure you did!” My mom crossed her arms over her polyester front. “But that doesn’t change how stupid it was.” I nodded and didn’t say anything. My mom sighed and knocked on the vice principal’s door.

  “Mrs. Parker?” Mr. Delorme asked.

  “It’s Miss Parker,” my mom said tiredly. I had heard her repeatedly correct that assumption over the years. I wondered if she corrected people when I wasn’t around. Maybe it was a relief to pretend your story wasn’t quite so complicated.

  “My mistake,” he said, ushering us into the office. “So, I just wanted to have a chat with you about Jenny’s behavior. As I told you on the phone, we had a physical incident today.”

  “Yes, and I’d like to hear her side of the story,” my mother said, touching my arm and smiling at me. She was trying to be my champion, and it made me feel unworthy of her.

  Mr. Delorme nodded and studied me over his glasses. I had never spoken to him until today. I was the kind of teenager who passed through high school, buoyed along by the momentum of the middle. I was never exceptionally talented or dramatically bad. In fact, until I became infamous as the girl with the missing best friend, my presence at school had never affected anything.

  “Uh, well. I slapped Taylor. She was saying rude things about my friend Chloe,” I said.

  “This would be Chloe Shaughnessy?” Mr. Delorme clarified. I nodded. I felt guilty using Chloe to get out of trouble, even though I knew she would have approved of the emotional manipulation.

  “Well, surely that is understandable!” my mom began, her hands flying off the desk like startled birds to emphasize her point. She glanced at me, her blue eyes softening.

  The vice principal squirmed in his seat. He obviously preferred clear-cut disciplinary issues with bullies and blameless victims. Girl feuds, which are full of escalating acts of passive-aggression, muddied the waters.

  “Well, yes…but there are other issues with Jenny. She has been skipping a significant amount of school. I’ve pulled her attendance records. In the last two months, she has been absent as frequently as she is present. Jenny’s grades are dropping, and she’s in danger of failing math and chemistry. I’ve had a chat with a few of Jenny’s teachers. They say she doesn’t interact in class and that she’s been seen around school with a boy named Tom Grey, who may be a bad influence on her. He often gets into trouble for smoking on school property and skipping school. We also believe he’s a drug user. In short, I believe Jenny is making some serious mistakes right now, and these choices could affect the rest of her life,” Mr. Delorme said solemnly.

  I exhaled, unaware that I had even been holding my breath. It was a damning case, a portrait of the last two months as seen through disdainful eyes. My mother wasn’t smiling any longer, and she wasn’t boiling with self-righteous fervor. Her lips were pursed and she was staring at me with the kind of concerned anger typically reserved for teenagers who get so hammered that they have to get their stomachs pumped. She couldn’t tell if my flaws required healing or punishing. Truthfully, neither could I.

  My mom and I always had an unspoken understanding about the roles in our little family of two. She would be the breadwinner, working tirelessly to keep us above water. She would crank through night shift after night shift, her smile never dimming until she got home. Then she could rest her aching feet, the cushions of which were worn down to the bone like an eroded pencil eraser by years of waitressing. In return, I was the responsible child who would go on to do better. My only limitations were the ones forged by her trust and her hopes for me. Lately, though, I hadn’t been doing better; I hadn’t even been trying.

  “I-I didn’t know all of that,” my mother stuttered. “I’ve been working long shifts and I’ve always trusted Jenny.”

  “I understand, of course,” Mr. Delorme said soothingly. “I’m sure this has been a tough time for Jenny, but something has to be done.”

  “I agree, but what?” my mom asked anxiously. “Please don’t suspend her. There must be something that we can do that won’t go on her record.”

  Mr. Delorme didn’t say anything. He stared at me across the table. I wasn’t sure what he saw.

  “Jenny, I won’t suspend you if you stop skipping school. And I mean zero tolerance, not a single unexplained absence for the rest of the year. And I’m relying on you, Miss Parker, to ensure that she’s keeping up with her schoolwork. Are you willing to commit to that?”

  Both my mother and I nodded. We didn’t know which one of us he was addressing.

  “Good,” he said. “And Jenny? I want you to think carefully about the people you choose to spend your time with. Ask yourself if they’re helping
you or hindering you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t sense the insincerity in my voice. I could promise to do my homework and attend class, but I wasn’t going to stop hanging out with Tom. The two of us worked, and I wasn’t giving that up just to make my teachers happy.

  Plus, Tom was my only friend, and beggars can’t be choosers. Especially not in high school.

  Chapter Twenty–Five

  My mom and I drove our own cars home. She was silent when we left the office, and I knew she needed time to process this new perspective on me. My mother was much more reflective than reactive. She would never have slapped a girl in high school.

  I spent the drive home watching the rain blur halos of headlights across my windshield. I knew that my mother would want an explanation for my behavior, but I didn’t know what to say.

  Sure enough, when I got home my mom was waiting in the living room. She had cracked open a dusty bottle of red wine. Without waiting to be asked I took off my shoes and sat down on the couch.

  It always pained me how tired she looked, as if providing for me was sucking the life force out of her. This feeling was only magnified by the fact that tonight I had actually driven her to drink.

  “So, that was pretty crazy today,” my mom said, arching her eyebrow at me.

  “I guess you’re wondering what’s going on…,” I said. My mother shook her head and sighed.

  “I think I have an idea. Look, Jenny, I understand how terrible it’s been for you since Chloe disappeared—”

  “It’s more than that,” I said, the words gushing out. “It’s like, I can’t even pretend to care about stuff like school when there are things that are so much more important.”

  “What’s important to you? What do you do instead of school?” my mother asked quietly. The question caught me off-guard; I had been expecting my mom to give me hell.

  “Well, uh, honestly…I’ve been kind of investigating the death of that girl Helen. I’ve been sort of talking to people about it and trying to figure out what happened. And that guy Mr. Delorme mentioned? Tom? He’s been helping me. He’s really not a bad person.”

  “You’ve been skipping school to investigate a murder?” my mom said, her voice strained. “Jesus Christ! Jenny, there’s a murderer out there killing teenage girls! What if you actually find him?”

  “I’m not really looking for him! It’s more that I want to find out what Helen was like. I’ve mostly been talking to her friends and just trying to figure out how she spent her last day,” I said. Of course, this wasn’t exactly true, but my mom would have an aneurysm if she ever found out about the trailer incident.

  “You promise? You’re just talking to people?” my mom asked suspiciously. “Not putting yourself in harm’s way?” I nodded and she sighed. “Jenny, I need to be able to trust you. I can’t control what you do while I’m at work, so I need to know you’ll be sensible.”

  “I will, I promise,” I said, feeling guilty about the lies I was telling my mother. But I would try my best from now on to stay out of trucker bars and trailers owned by criminals.

  “Okay. To be honest, I was expecting a boyfriend, or even drugs. But I have to say, this is a new one, Jenny.” My mother took a deep sip of her wine before laughing dryly.

  “Yeah, I know it’s kind of weird,” I said quietly, choosing not to mention the fact that maybe Tom was kind of like a boyfriend. “But everything seems so mixed up this year. First Chloe disappeared, and then Helen was killed, and it was like people cared less that Helen had been murdered because she was Native.”

  “You’re probably right,” my mom said with a sigh. “Did I ever tell you about my friend Carol?”

  “No,” I said. “Who was she?”

  “Carol was my best friend when I was a little girl,” my mom said, her eyes staring beyond me. “She’d been a foster child practically from birth. Her parents were addicts. Carol was Native, but back then, they always put Native kids with white families. I guess they thought whiteness could just rub off on people.” My mom laughed darkly.

  “Your best friend growing up was Native?” I asked. My mom smiled.

  “Don’t look so shocked! Not everyone in Thunder Creek is a racist! But anyways, Carol didn’t really know who she was. She’d been in a white home since she was a baby, but the world still treated her like a Native. When we were teenagers, we started going to bars.” My mom paused and wagged her finger at me. “Which, looking back on it, was a very stupid thing to do.”

  “I know, I know,” I said. “So, you went to bars and…?”

  “The men there…,” my mom said, shaking her head. “I remember, there would be a whole group of us girls, and those men would come up and just grab Carol. They’d grab her and try to drag her away to the parking lot, right in front of us! And they’d get so mad when she refused, like she didn’t have a right to say no. I remember this one time a guy started slapping her, and I had to actually get a bartender to stop him. Carol was so embarrassed and afraid. We stopped going to bars after that. None of us talked about it, but we knew we were doing it to protect her.”

  “Did they try and do stuff to you too?” I asked, thinking of the night I met Jerry and Roy.

  My mother sighed. “No. We were white like them. It was like those men were always trying to remind Carol that she was worth less than them, that they could do what they wanted to her.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure.” My mom shrugged. “I guess everyone needs someone to look down on, to feel superior to when they’re feeling low. And Natives are a great target because they’ve been pushed down by white people for so long.”

  “That’s really depressing,” I said. My mother nodded and looked at me. She was chewing her lip, a sure sign that she was mulling something over.

  “Look, Jenny, if you want to ask around, I’m okay with that, as long as you don’t do anything dangerous. I won’t lie—I’d prefer you to join the debate team or take up running. But I understand that you think the cops aren’t investigating this murder well.”

  “You’re taking this whole thing pretty well,” I said, unsure when the other shoe would drop. She frowned.

  “I’m a lot more disturbed by the fact that you slapped a girl, skipped school and are in danger of failing. Those things are more serious than you playing detective.”

  “I know,” I said, trying not to bristle at the fact that she said I was “playing detective,” like a ten-year-old pretending to be Encyclopedia Brown. “I can do better. I don’t fit in at school, but I’ll work harder.”

  “I don’t know, Jenny. Maybe you need to think seriously about leaving Thunder Creek after high school,” my mother said. “I’m not sure if you’ll ever really be happy here.”

  “But where would I go?” I whispered. The scope of the unfamiliar world beyond Thunder Creek seemed overwhelming. How would I know where I’d belong? What if I ended up in an even worse situation?

  “You’d find a place,” my mom said. “You’d have to be brave. But I just don’t see you being happy here, at least not after everything that’s happened.”

  “I know you’d like me to go to university,” I said hesitantly. It seemed ridiculous to discuss higher education when we had just been told that I might have to repeat the year.

  “I would. I think it would give you so many options and the chance to make a good life for yourself,” my mom said. “I don’t regret not going, but that was because I had you. And you were the best thing that ever happened to me,” she said, giving my arm a squeeze.

  I swallowed hard. My mother always said I was the best thing in her life, but maybe that was because I had prevented her from ever experiencing anything better. I couldn’t imagine being the best part of anyone’s day, much less their entire life.

  “But we don’t have the money for university,” I said. It felt like a betrayal to mention paying for school when my mother was slaving away to keep us above water.

&n
bsp; “We’ll figure it out,” she said firmly. “There are student loans, and I’ll take more shifts, and you can work full-time in the summers and part-time during school.”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and set her half-full wineglass on the table. The mention of my future animated her. It was as though the thought of me being happy gave her much more comfort than any dreams she harbored for herself.

  “Jenny, we can make it work. You could go to a university somewhere completely different from Thunder Creek. You could meet people from all over and discover a million things to be passionate about. But you have to work much harder at school. You have to buckle down and get your grades up. Will you do that?”

  “Yeah,” I said finally, feeling the weight of my promise settle on my shoulders. “I will.”

  “Good,” she said, pulling me in for a hug. I felt the familiar softness of her arms, the hard flat of her back. She smelled like cigarettes and rose-scented Herbal Essences shampoo, the smell that was embedded in every memory I had of her. “It’s all going to be okay, you’ll see.”

  I could have stayed like that forever, folded up in her arms, but there was one more question I wanted to ask. Something had just occurred to me: my mom had reacted differently to Chloe’s disappearance than almost everyone else. “Mom, how come you never asked me about Chloe’s disappearance? Everyone else asked me what I knew, but not you. Why?”

  I felt my mother shrug, her shoulders pulling away from my head as she stroked my hair.

  “Sweetie, I know that if you knew anything that would have helped find her, you would have told someone. Since you didn’t, I figured you didn’t know anything important.”

  I nodded slowly, my cheek still pressed into the weave of her sweater. I felt a little queasy as I thought of the trust she had in me. It made me feel worse about the secrets I was keeping from her.