Miss Misery

by Andy Greenwald

“How could I forget?”

  “And the most important thing for you to do is never give up fighting for yourself. Hold on to those poems or diary entries or CDs or stuffed bears or whatever matters most to you. You have to hold on to those things, because they’re a part of you. You have to be confident in that. Don’t conform. And if your parents really love you—which I bet they do—ultimately they’ll figure it out and support you.”

  Ashleigh nodded slowly and popped a fry in her mouth. “OK. That makes sense. But we have to make a deal.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Oh? I haven’t done enough?”

  “You better listen to your own advice.”

  I frowned. “Me?”

  “Yeah you, Mr. Hotshot. I saw the way you hid that picture of your girlfriend. You miss her, don’t you?”

  I felt a pang in my lungs and wanted to change the subject, but one look into those irony-free blue eyes across from me and I knew I had to respond. “Yeah—yes. Yes, I miss her. A lot.”

  “So you’d better do something about it. Stop doing things for other people and do something for yourself. Get out there and fight. If I can’t run away from my life then neither can you.”

  I nodded. “Deal.”

  “You know what?” Ashleigh dragged a fry back and forth through a puddle of ketchup like she was waxing a window. “You’re not at all like I expected.”

  “Oh, no?”

  She smiled. “Nope.”

  “Ah. The height thing.”

  “No, more than that. I mean, I just pictured you always as, like, this adult. Someone who had all the answers.”

  She popped the fry in her mouth as I let out a low chuckle. “And now?” I asked.

  “I guess I realize that that was more about what I needed to see than about what you really are. I mean, you’ve been really great to me, don’t get me wrong. But…”

  “It’s more complicated in real life, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. But not in, like, a bad way.”

  I smiled. “Agreed.”

  “Good.” Ashleigh looked pleased with herself. “Now I have to go pee.”

  “Thanks for the info,” I said, shaking my head as she left the table.

  While Ashleigh was gone I asked for the check, then felt my cell phone buzz in my pocket. I had almost forgotten it was there—it seemed strange that it still worked so far away from everything that was familiar.

  1 New Text Message From: Cath

  11:33 p.m.

  How come you’re not at home?

  I shook my head with a grin. It was nice to be missed. But then a cloud passed through my mind. How did she know I wasn’t home? Had she called my landline? Had she stopped by? God, I hoped not. Our awkward fumbling on her bed felt like a lifetime ago, so gauzy and unreal in my memory I wondered if it had even happened at all. I closed my eyes and tried to feel the push of her thin lips on mine, the jut of her bony hip. It had happened, all right. And I hadn’t fought it. I shook my head. No wonder I was all over the place. A fighter picks his battle and sticks to it. When I got back to New York, I’d make some changes. I had to.

  “Daydreaming about Brigham Young again?”

  I snapped out of it, opened my eyes, and saw Ashleigh’s smirking face. I jammed my phone back in my pocket. I’d answer Cath later. “No, just his polygamist ways.” Ashleigh sat back down, but I stood up and gestured for her to do the same. “Come on, let’s get moving. You have a home to be returned to and so do I.”

  Ashleigh was quiet as we pulled out of the parking lot and headed due south. The Bortch family lived in a suburb called South Jordan, which was, in the inimitably literal geography of the state, located just south of the suburb of Jordan. Ashleigh said it was about twenty-five minutes away, a straight shot down Main Street. I figured I had just enough time to drop her off safely at home, pull a U-turn, and race back to the airport for my flight. The road we were on turned brutally dull in a hurry: just another faceless dribble of early twenty-first century consumption. The same fast-food places, the same Barnes & Noble with the same dropped-in-from-nowhere boxy architecture. It all seemed to go on forever. I kept glancing to my left and right, trying to imagine the pockets of real, hot-blooded feeling that might exist in this flat valley, just off the road maybe, or just behind the next ridge. But it was hard to do. Mostly, I just felt trapped and vaguely claustrophobic. How could anyone grow up in such blankness? Seeing her now, questioning and fighting despite incredible odds, Ashleigh Bortch shone like a firefly in a coal mine. As I drove, I watched her eyes reflecting the glare of the oncoming traffic, taking it all in, never blinking, never backing down from what was to come.

  She was a good kid. She had some screwed-up stuff to deal with, but who didn’t these days? This wasn’t some lark for her, some random, easily dismissed life hiccup. This was all she had. I switched lanes and thought about all the other young lives I had read about online during the past year, how their foibles and misadventures had provided me with a sort of detached entertainment, and in one great regretful rush I felt sorry for what I had done. Every one of those head-scratchingly epic suburban dramas had been fueled with real pathos, real pain. Every single one. How had I presumed to write a book about these kids without ever taking the time to meet any of them, to experience their day-to-day reality? I was years and worlds away from them, and—not for the first time since the doppelgänger had shown up—I felt like a fraud. Diarists like Ashleigh and her peers may have been painfully unsubtle, overly earnest, and dangerously impetuous, but at least they were trying something. At least they were fighting.

  We passed a long line of cars with left-hand blinkers flashing, waiting for the signal and their chance to turn into a gargantuan, windowless structure just off the road. “That’s Jordan Commons,” said Ashleigh as if it were as familiar as the Louvre. “We’re almost there now.”

  I shook my head to clear away the thought cobwebs that had gathered in the silence. “What’s Jordan Commons?”

  “It’s like a really big deal around here. The guy who owns the Jazz built it. It’s a giant movie theater with tons of screens, and the lobby is like a little town with lots of snack places and, like, arcades. They also have this giant TV that’s always playing Fox News or something boring like that. Some old people just spend the whole day in there, seeing movies and eating.”

  “Sounds like a blast.”

  “There are also lots of big restaurants. There’s, like, a Chinese place and a crab place. They’re pretty good. The biggest one is the Mayan. I used to love it when I was a kid. We went there on my birthdays. They serve Mexican food and have a waterfall and Mexican guys jumping off of it.”

  I shook my head. “Mexican guys jumping off a waterfall? In a restaurant? Is that healthy?”

  “It’s entertainment. It’s pretty cool.”

  “Wild,” I said, trying to picture it in my mind. Just up the road, Ashleigh pointed out the turnoff and I steered the car underneath a highway and past two or three 7-Elevens.

  “We’re almost there,” said Ashleigh.

  Off the main road, everything was remarkably dark. There were no streetlights, and every third plot seemed to be empty, as if the suburbs had only managed to get one claw dug in this far south. “It’s kind of spooky,” I said.

  Ashleigh crossed her arms. “What did I tell you? There’s nothing here. Nothing at all.”

  “I guess you weren’t kidding.”

  At a wide intersection, we turned right onto an even darker road. This was the town of South Jordan. After a half mile or so of nothing, we passed a building so illuminated that it seemed gaudy compared to the shadows that surrounded it. One glance at the angelic steeple and I knew what sort of building it was. “Is that your temple?” I asked as we drove by.

  “Yup,” she said. “That’s where my folks are right now. Get ready to turn again, we live right behind the temple.”

  She wasn’t kidding. Not a hundred yards down the road from the South Jordan Temple was an unlit turnoff into
a housing development marked only by a shiny billboard that read REUNION VILLAGE: A MAINTENANCE AND WORRY FREE COMMUNITY.

  “What have they got to worry about?” I said under my breath as I slowed the car to a crawl. Reunion Village was like a Foucauldian suburban nightmare, a perfectly manufactured and manicured “neighborhood” that looked like a cross between Green Acres and Leavenworth. The main road was a cul-de-sac; each “street” was an individually gated alleyway with white “modern” homes that were connected, three at a time. White fences made of some space-age metallic polymer rose six feet high in every direction. There were no trees. The stars glowed brightly overhead, as did the steeple of the temple. I was convinced we were being videotaped.

  “This place is creepy, Ashleigh.”

  “I know it.”

  “What are all the gates supposed to protect you from? There’s nobody within five miles of this place.”

  “I dunno. I guess it’s supposed to keep us in.”

  I shuddered. “Well, punch in the security code. I want to get out of here before the sheriff of Mayberry shows up and runs me out of town himself.”

  The Bortch family lived on Homecoming Avenue. While Ashleigh got out of the car to open the gate, I did my best to quiet the wild jackhammering of my heart. This entire place made me nervous, and it took every bit of restraint I had not to throw the rental into reverse and peel out of there right then while the getting was good. Even the high-pitched beep of the security system accepting Ashleigh’s password made me jump up in my seat as if some furious cowboy were shooting at my shoes.

  “OK,” she said as she hopped back in. “Just up the road and I’m back.”

  I drove like an elderly woman past three connected homes with no lights on, and then we reached the Bortch house. It was exactly like all the others: white, stone, and stucco, a pile of pointy lines and wide windows. I couldn’t help but notice that it was also the house closest to the temple, which loomed over the entire street like a vengeful night watchman. I cut the lights and turned to Ashleigh.

  “Well,” I said. “Here we are. The end of the road.”

  “Yup.” She stared at her hands.

  “I don’t get a hug or anything?”

  Ashleigh snapped to attention. “You’re just gonna leave me? You won’t even see me inside?”

  “Jesus, Ashleigh, haven’t we pushed this thing enough? I have to get back to the airport. And you have to make like you’ve never been gone.”

  She turned and stared out the window at the dark house. “I just…it’s important to me, OK? I want you to know where it is I ran away from. So that when I complain or talk about it…someone will know, OK?” And then she flashed me another one of those pony-purchasing looks, throwing in a quivering bottom lip for added spice and persuasion. I closed my eyes and sighed. Then I snapped the ignition off and threw the car into park.

  “Fine. But in and out, OK? I am not getting caught here.”

  She nodded, and I followed her obediently across the front lawn, which was so neatly trimmed it looked like Astroturf. The air was still and deathly quiet. “How much time before they get home, anyway? And won’t your sister be there?” I whispered and kept my head down, as if the bushes were lined with snipers. My eyes came to rest on a bright green mat laid out in front of the door that read WELCOME TO OUR HOME. Funny, it didn’t make me feel any more welcome.

  Ashleigh fumbled with her key. “Jessie had a sleepover birthday party at her best friend’s tonight. That’s why my parents are staying out so late.” She opened the door with a soft click. “Relax, will you? They won’t be home for another two hours. I promise.” She reached out in the dark and flipped on a light, which was fine for a second until the high-pitched scream of an alarm ripped through the house and out the still-open door.

  “Jesus!” I yelped, slamming the door shut behind me. “Shut that off!” Ashleigh seemed nonplussed and jabbed at a glowing green panel on the wall. The siren stopped, though my ears were left ringing. “Well, now that the CIA have been alerted to my presence, can I go?”

  “Will you relax? Gosh, you are so dramatic. That happens every time anyone comes home.”

  I rubbed at my ears. “That’s good for the nerves.” Ashleigh threw her backpack down underneath a fake-stone mail table and walked into what I could now see was a living room that had apparently seen very little living. Everything was white or just barely off-white: the walls, the throw rug, the people in the pictures that crowded the mantel over the fireplace. The floors were imitation marble and reflected the harsh track lighting with an unforgiving glare. The air was heavily air-conditioned and smelled like potpourri. Everything was modulated; everything was sterile. Even the matching love seat and chair set seemed never to have been touched by a human. It was like a biohazard quarantine room as designed by Pottery Barn.

  “Nice,” I said, feeling like a stain on a wedding dress.

  “No it isn’t,” said Ashleigh, clomping down a hallway toward the back of the house, throwing on lights wherever she went. I wandered over to the mantel, taking care not to step on the rug, and examined the pictures on display in their gold-edged frames. Ashleigh and a tinier, even blonder version of herself—Jessie, I imagined—smiling on a ski lift, mugging in front of a giraffe, being clutched by old people who must have been grandparents. And in the center of them all was a three-part folding frame that housed professional portraits of a truly ridiculous-looking white dog. “Uh,” I said. “Is this your dog?”

  Ashleigh popped back into the room with a can of Dr. Pepper in her hand. “Yeah. That’s Nancy. She’s a Maltese.”

  “Is she dead or something?”

  “What? No! That’s horrible. She’s probably out back.”

  I wasn’t sure what irked me more, pets with human names or pet owners with framed shrines to still-living animals.

  Ashleigh took a long sip of soda. “Do you want to meet her? I can bring her in.”

  “Nah, that’s OK. I don’t really get along with dogs.”

  “What are you talking about? Everyone gets along with dogs. She’s a sweetheart.”

  “No, really,” I said, backing away from the mantel. “It’s weird—they really don’t like me. When I was in Mexico once, all the dogs in the town actually organized a dog gang against me. They would form a mob every time I tried to walk down one of their streets.” I shivered at the memory.

  Ashleigh was staring. “A dog gang?”

  “Yeah, like a gang. But of dogs.”

  She shook her head. “You really are weird. C’mon, I’ll give you a tour.”

  The rest of the house was similar to the front room: gaudy, faux-sophisticated fixtures; glorious, framed celebrations of family at every turn; and not a single thing anywhere. No books. No magazines. No records. No sign of human life—or at least interesting human life. Other than a loaf of white bread on the “island” in the kitchen, I didn’t even see any food. I tread lightly, feeling like the entire place would shatter with one wrong step.

  “It’s horrible, isn’t it? My father calls it his castle. I try to spend as little time as possible out of my room.”

  Ashleigh led me up the softly carpeted stairs. The second floor was just a long hallway with a number of doors off of it, all of which were blank and closed except for the last one, farthest away from the stairs, which was decorated by a piece of white paper with a red heart drawn on it with a rough brush. “That’s my room,” she said, walking toward the heart. “Krystal painted that for me. I told my parents it was about love and friendship, and they let me put it up. But it’s called ‘Shattered Trash.’”

  “Nice,” I said.

  When we reached the door, Ashleigh turned and said, “Wait out here for a second, OK? I want to tidy up. Super quick.”

  “Fine, but be fast, OK? I have to get out of here. I’m more than a little freaked out.”

  She rolled her eyes, then slipped in her room, shutting the door in my face. I heard the snap as the light went on and then th
e gentle strum of an acoustic guitar. Dashboard Confessional’s plaintive sound filled the second floor.

  I knocked on the door. “I thought you sold your stereo.”

  Ashleigh’s voice was muffled through the door. “It’s on my computer, dummy.”

  “Well hurry up, OK?” And then to myself I added, “This is ridiculous.” I paced the soft carpet and then cracked open the door that I figured was the bathroom to answer a bet I had made with myself. I flipped the light on. Yep—the toilet seat was cushioned. Amazing. I shook my head and closed the door. What was I doing here? How did I end up in this totally random, truly horrible house in the middle of nowhere? But nothing was truly random or nowhere these days. Roger Bortch had built himself a castle all right, but no security system, moat, or dog named Nancy could keep the world away. There were electric lines and cables and Ethernet cords snaking through all of these pristine walls, a digital escape route that his elder daughter clung to like a lifeline and that she had used like a lasso to rope me in. You can’t build the walls high enough, Roger. I may have brought her back, but she’s already long gone.

  Just then Ashleigh’s door opened a crack, and I heard her say, “OK, you can come in now.”

  I turned around and walked back toward her voice. “Fine, but one look around and then I have to get out of here. I—”

  Ashleigh’s bedroom was lit only by a halogen lamp in the corner; covered now by a purple scarf, it cast the entire room in a hazy, possibly flammable reddish glow. The walls were wallpapered with small images of lilacs and peppered with a few neatly organized band posters and photos cut out of magazines. The bed in the corner was a frilly canopy number, and beside it was an orderly desk with a boxy PC on top of it. Two bulky speakers sat next to the computer, and the voice of Dashboard’s Chris Carrabba poured out of them, wailing something about chasing a ghost of a good thing. There was a window above the computer looking out into inky black nothingness.

  I said, “Ashleigh?” She didn’t seem to be in the room, but then I felt her come up behind me, wrap her arms around my chest. “What are you doing?” I pulled her hands away and turned. She had changed into polka-dotted pajama bottoms with only a frilly white bra on top. “Whoa,” I said, and then she threw herself at me, smashing her lips into mine with such force that I stumbled two steps backward, my arms flailing as I tried to balance. It wasn’t a kiss—more of a face-punch. I managed to pull my head away and untangle my torso from her grasping arms and hands. “Hey,” I said. “Stop. Stop!”