A Girl Undone

by Catherine Linka

  Ramirez shook out a folded garment, showing us a big orange jumpsuit. “This is what they’re working on.”

  “Oh, the prison uniform contract,” Hawkins said. “How is that going?”

  “Very well. We’re saving the state millions of dollars, and the girls are using their new skills.”

  “Excellent!” Hawkins said.

  A girl right in front with huge brown eyes and tight cornrows scowled at me, daring me to turn my pathetic smile on her. Her look burned so hot I wished I could shrink to the size of a bug and skitter out of there.

  “I am proud that LAOR projects like this prepare girls to be productive contributors to society. Our students graduate with a strong education in reading, mathematics, and the domestic arts. We may not have the resources of a private preparatory school, but I like to think that we do well with what we have.”

  I wanted to ask him how many hours these girls spent sewing uniforms as opposed to, say, going to classes. And oh, can I see the chem lab, and the pottery room? And what about the track?

  It was obvious the photos we saw up front were lies, and that’s why Hawkins and I were on a private tour without any photographers in sight.

  My frustration was near boiling, but as I opened my mouth, Hawkins said to Ramirez, “What’s next on the tour?”

  “Ah, our professional kitchen,” Ramirez answered. “I think you will be impressed, Miss Reveare.” He went to take my arm, and the girl in front shot me the finger behind his back.

  My breath caught, and my cheeks got hot. I turned with Ramirez and walked out of the room, trying to keep my head up. That girl had nailed me as a fake, acting like I cared about the plight of orphans, when I’d never do anything to help them, because I was a powerless poser. A lapdog.

  Ramirez walked us into a large lunch room where cartoon characters—singing penguins, a ninja panda, and a junk-food-crazed raccoon—capered across the lime-green walls. I had only a second to take in the scene before the three dozen photographers and reporters drinking coffee at purple-topped tables leaped to their feet. Shutters snapped and bursts of flash went off.

  I focused straight ahead as Ramirez guided us around the tables to the open industrial kitchen. Deeps and Ho held the reporters and photographers back from the counters and eight-burner stoves where girls wearing dark green aprons over their tan jumpsuits were chopping apples and stirring pots.

  When I saw the woman teacher showing two girls how to use an apple corer, my mouth fell open. Ms. Alexandra had hidden her gray French twist under a chef’s hat, and traded her perfectly tailored sheath for a chef’s jacket and cheap black-and-white checked pants, but I recognized her instantly.

  I felt light-headed as she walked toward us. Part of me wanted to run into her arms, and another part wished I could hide. She’d probably seen me on TV telling Evan Steele how I appreciated Contracts now that I’d been in the outside world. Did she know I was acting or did she believe like Yates did that I’d turned?

  “Miss Reveare, so nice to see you again,” she said, holding out her hand. “I don’t know if you recognize me. I’m Ms. Stohl. I taught seventh grade at Masterson Academy until I retired last month.”

  I reached out, holding back a little as if I barely knew her. “Yes, of course, Ms. Stohl, how nice to see you again!”

  She gave my hand a quick squeeze and our eyes connected. She really was happy to see me. “Let me give you the tour,” she said.

  Hawkins hung back with Ramirez while Ms. A walked me over to a nearby workstation, where two girls who looked thirteen stirred bubbling pots. I tried to keep my smile in check as she asked me polite questions about what I’d seen so far, because Ho was watching me like he sensed something was off.

  Ms. A gave one of the pots a stir. “Cooking jams and fruit butters,” she enunciated, “reinforces fundamental math and chemistry concepts while teaching critical domestic arts.”

  I remembered her saying the exact same thing when trustees toured our kitchen at Masterson, where she secretly taught us subjects they had forbidden.

  She introduced me to the two girls, and pointed out the design on the bib of the girls’ aprons. “Graciella here designed our new logo,” Ms. A said.

  The words “Los Angeles Orphan Ranch” circled an embroidered fruit tree where a coded message jumped out: “I am not for sale.”

  Being fired from Masterson wasn’t stopping Ms. A from trying to give these girls what she’d given me and my friends: a sense of worth beyond the price tag of Signings, and the belief that you could choose your future.

  “It’s beautiful, Graciella,” I said.

  She beamed, and Ms. A took another apron out of the drawer and snapped it open. “Here,” she said. “You don’t want to muss that beautiful dress.”

  “No, you’re right,” I said, slipping it over my head. “This fabric is probably impossible to clean.”

  I am not for sale. A few weeks ago, I’d have worn this proudly, but that was before I learned I could be bought. And the consequences of what I’d done could affect every girl in this place.

  Ms. A waved at the photographers. “Let’s get a picture together.” She positioned me between the girls and whispered, “Let’s use your celebrity to get our message out.”

  She hugged us from behind as we posed, and I leaned in, ashamed of how I’d failed her, and wishing I could somehow make things right.

  She couldn’t save these girls from LAOR’s placement counselors and candidate-assessment algorithm, not with the Paternalists lined up against her. But that wasn’t stopping her from giving as much as she could.

  Ms. Alexandra took me around, and as she introduced me, I saw how the girls had fallen in love with her just as I and my friends had. She cared for us like she was our mom. I dug my nails into my palms trying to keep my feelings under control.

  Finally, Ms. A took me over to a small girl, sitting alone in the corner, embroidering an apron, a scarf wrapped over her black hair. Spying us, she lowered her eyes.

  “Namaste,” Ms. A said, bowing her head.

  “Namaste,” the girl whispered back.

  “Amisha is one of the girls that your fiancé, Mr. Hawkins, rescued from the brothels of Delhi.”

  Amisha smiled, hearing her name, while I struggled to keep my smile steady. In Vegas, the politicians cheered Hawkins for rescuing Nepalese girls from brothels and bringing them here. It had made me sick to hear them crow about how America could save exploited girls around the world and deliver them to loving homes. Like pound puppies, I’d thought.

  “Amisha and her friends speak no English,” Ms. A said, raising her voice. “They need ESL teachers.”

  Ramirez’s head snapped up, and Hawkins’ eyes pinched, which only encouraged me. “This sounds important.”

  “A command of basic English will help guarantee these girls’ futures and our ability to place them in good homes,” Ms. A continued.

  I’d been told to stick to the script, but I realized Ms. A was asking me for help, and I couldn’t live with myself if I did nothing. “Perhaps Jessop and I could help?” I saw Jessop’s mouth go flat, but I didn’t care. Let him get mad at me. He had millions. He could afford at least one ESL teacher.

  He walked toward us, beaming as if he was delighted with my suggestion. Then he wrapped his arm around my waist, and turned his good side to the photographers. “How many teachers do you feel we need?”

  “Two for twelve girls would benefit them enormously and ensure that they leave LAOR with the best prospects,” Ms. A said.

  “Then I will donate the salaries and benefits for two teachers in the name of my darling Aveline.”

  The room exploded in clapping. Ho caught my eye, and flicked his hands, telling me what to do next. While the cameras went nuts, I threw my arms around Jessop’s neck, and he raised one arm triumphantly.

  Then it was time for me to speak. I folded the apron and handed it back to Ms. A then recited my carefully planned script. How I wanted girls across the count
ry to be safe and cared for and how happy I was to be at Jessop Hawkins’ side, because he would do his best for California.

  I pushed down the sick feeling in my gut, telling myself it didn’t matter if Yates was watching or if he hated me. He was free, and this was the price.

  After the Q&A, Ms. A suggested I might like to freshen up. Be right back, I signaled to Deeps, and she led me away, thanking me for the generous gift to LAOR. Two lefts and a quick right took us to a back hall.

  “Stop right here,” she said quietly, and threw her arms around me, pulling me close. “Avie, I’ve been so worried. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. Are you all right?”

  I held on tight, wishing she’d never let go. “Yes, I mean it’s been rough, but I’m okay.”

  “It was inhuman what they put you through. And you were so brave.”

  Tears began to fill my eyes, but I blinked them away. Don’t make me into a hero. If you knew some of the things I’ve done … “I tried very hard to do the right thing just the way you taught me, I really did, but sometimes…”

  “Avie. You sound like you think I’m disappointed in you. But why? Is it because you’re here with Jessop Hawkins? Don’t you think I know you were Retrieved?”

  The love in her voice was a knife in my chest, and I dropped out of her embrace. I couldn’t tell her the real reason: that I’d sold out Sparrow and helped keep the Paternalists and Jouvert in power. “You heard me out there,” I said, my voice close to breaking. “I’m the Paternalists’ new hand puppet, saying and doing exactly what they tell me.”

  She sighed. “Sometimes we do what we must to survive. But I’ve watched you for years, and I have faith that you will do the right thing. Look at you. You got ESL teachers for those girls. That will change their lives.”

  I nodded. So I’d done one good thing.

  “You will do more as—” Ms. A caught herself. “In the future.”

  “You mean when I’m the governor’s wife.”

  “Yes.”

  Her believing in me was ridiculous. “But I won’t have any power to change things.”

  “You already do, you just don’t realize it.”

  We heard footsteps in the hall, and moved apart as Deeps came around the corner. “Everything okay back here?”

  “Yes, sorry!” Ms A said brightly. “We got to gossiping. Silly us.”

  Deeps escorted us back to the kitchen. The photographers had cleared out, and Jessop and Ho were waiting with Ramirez. Ms. Alexandra took the folded apron and pressed it into my hands. “Something to remember us by. You’re a model for these girls, you know.”

  I clutched the apron to my breast. What was I a model of, really?

  Hawkins crushed my hand in his as we walked back to the car, where Ramirez thanked us again for the generous donation of the teachers’ salaries. I got in the back seat and Hawkins climbed in after me. Hawkins was silent as Deeps pulled out of the gates. “Avie’s trending,” Ho announced. “I know we didn’t plan that stunt with the teachers, but the numbers are moving.”

  Hawkins stared ahead with focused intensity as he pressed the control that raised a clear panel between us in the back and Ho and Deeps up front. I set the apron down and slid my hands under my legs. So much heat was radiating off Hawkins, I felt it across the seat.

  “The next time you have an idea, you will come to me and ask me what I think. I am the man in this relationship,” he said, punching the seat with a finger. “And you will not make me look like a lovesick puppy to the press.”

  I stared at the folded apron. I am not for sale. “I’m sorry. I thought I was supposed to champion the cause. Wasn’t that why you brought me here?”

  “When you are in public, you stay on script. That is what you agreed to. You want to champion some idea, you do it in private, but when we are in public you cannot—”

  “Okay, okay. You’re right. I should have asked you about the teachers.”

  We rode in silence for a little while. I could feel Jessop start to cool down.

  “You should sue Masterson’s placement office,” I muttered. “They should have told you I’m not very good at doing what I’m told.”

  “They did tell me, but Adam was convinced your resemblance to my mother would more than make up for that.”

  My breath caught. “You didn’t pick me?”

  “No, Adam selected the candidates. Frankly, I was leaning toward ‘Christy’ from Westridge.”

  I sat there, stunned. If Adam Ho hadn’t chosen me, none of this would have happened. My life would have been totally different. “So, you Contracted me because Adam Ho told you to?”

  Hawkins rubbed his thumb over his chin, and a mile went by, maybe two, before he said, “It was the look you gave the camera in your placement portrait.”

  I remembered silently daring the photographer to get a good shot as he posed me for the mandatory photo.

  “You seemed—challenging. Someone who’d keep me interested. But no one bothered to mention your relationship with Yates Sandell before I signed the Contract.”

  I heard all kinds of things in his voice, anger, bitterness, betrayal. He thought he’d been tricked. “The thing with Yates. It just sort of happened. Dad didn’t know.”

  “Yes, well, the damage is done.” He rubbed his fingers over the emblem on the apron. “You were right about those girls needing an ESL teacher. Ramirez wouldn’t have sprung for the expense.”

  It was a compliment.

  “Why did you bring them to the orphan ranch instead of taking them home?”

  “Because their families wouldn’t take them back. The village would shun them for being impure.”

  I couldn’t quite figure out if what he’d done was good or bad, because it was both.

  “You can’t save the whole world,” he said, touching the control that lowered the divider. “You can only make it incrementally better. I’m open to discussing your ideas, but don’t spring them on me in public again.”

  Ho looked at us over the seat.

  “How’s the story trending?” Hawkins asked.

  “She’s a star! Sexy, compassionate, everything you’d want in a First Lady.”

  Governor’s wife. Ms. A’s words echoed in my head. “You will do more in your role—” As First Lady.

  Maybe Ms. A was right, that I had power to change things, to make a difference in peoples’ lives. And maybe that was how I could live with myself and what I’d done. I would atone.

  37

  The next morning the Secret Service arrived, and Deeps escorted me down to the dining room to meet them. I slowed as I walked through the main room, trying to size up what was going on. Two men in dark suits and white shirts had removed the large Ortiz painting from the wall and were examining the back.

  “Come join us, Avie,” Hawkins called from the dining room. He was tense, but trying not to show it.

  Two more agents in the same dark suit/white shirt uniform sat at the table with Hawkins, Ho, and the chef. The agents weren’t huge guys, not anywhere near the size of Deeps, but their seriousness weighed down the air.

  Hawkins glanced back and forth between the agent across from him and the two handling his precious Ortiz. “I have gloves your colleagues can use.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Hawkins,” the agent said, “we have extensive experience examining valuable furnishings and artwork.”

  Hawkins frowned as the agent placed a recording device in the center of the table.

  A younger, blonder agent, Agent Brisbane, directed me to the seat beside him. He had the same close-cut hair, clean-shaven face, and sunglasses in his breast pocket as the others. “Please place your hands on the table so I can fingerprint you.”

  I laid my hands on the cold cement top. In the kitchen, someone was opening and closing the drawers and cabinets. The alarm system pinged, indicating that someone else was opening a door or window to the outside.

  Agent Brisbane splayed out my fingers, and rolled them across the ink pad. M
y scalp began to prickle. Keep calm. They’re not here for you. They’re here to prep for Jouvert’s visit.

  A voice came through Brisbane’s communicator. “Entering Mr. Hawkins’ bedroom,” and I jerked, sending the ink pad scooting into my lap.

  Oh shit. I left the hanging in my room. If the feds noticed it was missing from Maggie’s office in Vegas, they might be looking for it.

  “Sorry.” I set the ink pad back on the table.

  Agent Brisbane handed me a towelette. “Happens all the time.”

  Sweat pooled in my armpits as I listened to agents move through the halls. The lead agent checked everyone’s IDs, and then asked for a list of regular visitors to the house, the electrician, plumber, landscaper, grocery delivery guy, anyone we expected on the grounds before Vice President Jouvert’s visit.

  Ho began listing people. When he got to Sigmund Rath, Agent Brisbane nodded. “Yeah, I know Sigmund. He’s a regular on the D.C. party circuit.”

  Holy—I squirmed in my seat. Brisbane meant the real Sigmund Rath, not the ex-showgirl-turned-spy who was due to show up soon. I had to warn Sig, but I didn’t have a phone.

  Deeps stood back with his arms crossed like the agents’ questions were no big deal, but I saw him quietly size up the men. I wondered if he was thinking what I was, that this visit was a cover for their real mission: to find and destroy the incriminating tape of Sparrow and Jouvert.

  If they did, Jouvert would be home free, and he could do whatever he wanted to Hawkins and me. I stared at Deeps until he met my eyes. Where’s the tape? Is it around here?

  Deeps ignored me.

  Then the agents asked for the names of the suppliers for the Signing: the caterer, florist, musicians, tent rental. I picked at my nails under the table, dying to get upstairs and deal with the hanging. “Can I go?”

  The head guy nodded yes, and I was halfway out of my chair when another agent said, “What about Luke Stanton?”

  For a second, I didn’t move, but then my instinct kicked in. I finished getting up. “What about him?”

  “You became acquainted with him in Salvation, Idaho.”

  “Barely.”