Girl on Point

by Cheryl Guerriero

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “At the police station! You said nothing!”

  “What could I have said, Mary? Tell me!”

  “Nothing, like you always do. Just say nothing. Just fucking sit there!”

  My mother turns and sees me standing in the doorway. Her face burns hot red. The whites of her eyes are doubled in size, full of rage and deep in wrinkles. She clenches her teeth, and every muscle in her face looks ready to explode. “Why did you have to send her in there? You’re so fucking selfish!”

  My father grabs my mother’s wrist, and for a moment, I think he’s going to hit her. His face is red. His eyes bulge. He shakes my mother violently. “Enough! Do you hear me? Enough!”

  My mother pulls free and crumbles to the floor. A horrific sound emerges from her lungs. She weeps openly on the floor, and it’s unbearable to witness. My father stands above her with tears in his eyes. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to say.

  I stand frozen in the doorway, thinking I caused all of this. I have to leave. I have to get out of this house. Tears blind me as I race down the stairs. I bolt out the front door, escape into my Jeep, and drive away.

  I speed through our beautiful neighborhood and down Monmouth Road. I focus on a tree, a car, a telephone pole—anything that will put an end to this pain. I want to crash head on into all of it. Up ahead, a traffic light changes from yellow to red. I think about not stopping and flooring the gas pedal, but a hint of sanity returns, and I slam on my brakes. My Jeep burns to a screeching halt. My seat belt slaps me back into the leather and back into a reality I desperately want to escape. The smell of burned rubber fills my nostrils. I sit there, wishing I were dead. And when the light changes to green, I am still sitting there.

  Horns sound behind me. Cars drive past. Dirty looks are thrown my way. I do not move, and I do not care. The driver trapped behind me angrily blasts his horn. I hold his stare in my rearview mirror. Give me a reason to hurt you, and I will. Give me a reason to step out of this car and kill you, and I will. If only I had a gun.

  Suddenly, my cell phone rings. It’s Lea. But for a second, when I looked, I wished it were Jenny. I have wished it a million times before. The phone rings, and I check the screen, hoping to see my sister’s smiling face. But her face no longer appears. It never will.

  There is a loud knock on my window. It’s the driver of the car trapped behind me. His eyebrows are furrowed in anger. He’s about to yell at me when he sees my face. It’s pained and streaked with tears. His eyes soften. “Are you okay?”

  I pull away and drive around aimlessly for hours. My father calls several times, but I ignore the phone.

  When I finally pick up, it’s after nine o’clock at night, and my father immediately apologizes for my mother. “Honey, she didn’t mean what she said. Your mother isn’t well.”

  My father tells me that they’re at Monmouth Medical Center, where my mother has been admitted to the psychiatric ward. He says that she won’t be home for a while.

  Chapter 8

  When I finally visit my mother in the hospital, she is barely conscious of the fact that I am even there. I hardly recognize her as the woman who raised me. She peers at me through lithium-fueled eyes. “My beautiful baby is in heaven. I’m going to write to the governor’s office. Every day. I’ll make sure he gets involved in your sister’s case. That son of a bitch is going to do something! I refuse…” Every word that spews from my mother’s angry lips has me drowning in sorrow. I listen, nod, and silently pray that she will stop talking. My own rage bubbles up inside me like bile rising in my throat. I want to scream, “Will you please stop talking!” But I remain quiet.

  By the time I leave the hospital, I just want to fall asleep and never wake up. I pull into our driveway and shut off my Jeep. I have no idea how I even got home.

  Lying in bed, I can’t stop thinking about those girls who murdered my sister. My brain won’t quit. “Lori Silva’s car was set on fire…” Evidence. “She was at home watching TV.” Evidence. “The gun was not located.” Evidence. “The store tape has not been found.” Evidence. “Her brother, Mark Silva…” Evidence. “Gun residue…” Evidence. “Some other charge…” Evidence. I can’t help thinking about something my mother said. We rarely share the same opinion, but I don’t want these girls arrested on some other charge. I want them in prison for killing my sister. Or I want them dead.

  I reach under my mattress and pull out the case folder. I flip it open, and staring right at me is Lori Silva’s mug shot. I don’t have to find Cracker’s or Natice Gentry’s picture to be reminded of what they look like. Their faces are etched in my memory. I know exactly what these girls look like, and I know exactly where they live, including Ronnie Rodriguez. I wonder what they do during the day and how they spend their nights.

  I grab my laptop, open it up, and do something I haven’t been able to since Jenny’s funeral. I click onto Facebook.

  I type in “Lori Silva” and hit return.

  It doesn’t take me long to discover the Lori Silva I want dead has an account. It’s marked private, but I’m at least able to view her profile picture. She looks just as mean as her mug shot, except in this photo, she’s blowing a kiss to the camera while hugging on some extremely unattractive dude. I check to see who liked her picture and discover two out of the twenty-one people who liked it are Cracker—literally it’s Cracker, not Cynthia Down—and Ronnie Rodriguez.

  I click onto Cracker’s profile pic, and it’s a selfie of her flipping off the camera. Her account is also set to private, but I’m able to see a few cover photos. One that was updated right before last Thanksgiving is of her and a bunch of busted-looking guys who all look wasted. There’s another one from three years ago that shows her lying on the ground surrounded by trash. Someone holds a sign above her head that reads, “White.”

  Ronnie Rodriguez’s profile picture is of a cute baby girl, maybe a year old, wearing a polka-dot dress and a big, happy, toothless smile. I click on the photo, expecting Ronnie’s page to also be private, but it’s not. It’s public! My heart races, and I go nuts stalking her page. I check out her most recent posts and find one or two photos with likes from Mark Silva. I click on his profile picture. It’s a photo of a red Mustang. But sadly, his page is private.

  I troll her page, extra careful not to accidently like any of Ronnie’s photos or send her a friend request, something I did once while I was stalking one of Jay’s ex-girlfriends.

  In the last month, Ronnie’s checked herself into a McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Popeyes, and a pizzeria. I click on a photo that I assume is of Ronnie, her arm slung around Cracker. Ronnie is a goofy-looking girl but strangely cute. She has a big smile, long curly hair, a round, full face, and towers over Cracker. Another pic shows her at a party, bent over laughing with Lori and Natice. It was posted only a week ago.

  I keep scrolling back in time, expecting to see pictures of guns or violence. But I don’t. I see a picture of what I suspect are Ronnie’s parents and a younger brother and sister, along with the baby girl and a caption that reads Keisha’s 1st b-day! The photo is liked by Lori and Cracker and over fifty other people. She’s also checked herself into “Vince’s Pad” and posted a photo of herself, alongside Lori, Cracker, Natice, and some very high-looking dudes. The only photo that reminds me these girls are criminals is one of Lori Silva holding her hand as if it were a gun. I screenshot it, zoom in close, and see a small black diamond tattoo by her thumb. Then I find a post—G-O-T got game, by’atches! It was posted the day after Jenny died.

  It’s three a.m. when my battery finally dies, and my computer goes dark. I close the lid, and the very first thought that enters my mind is one that has visited me a million times before, except this time there’s a slight revision. Can I really do it? I ask myself before finally falling asleep.

  Chapter 9

  For weeks, Lea h
as been bugging me to go out with her. I finally agree, and Saturday night, I pick her up in my Jeep, and we head over to a party at one of the baseball players’ homes. It’s one of the nicer houses in Middletown. I think his dad works for Goldman Sachs, and there’s always tons of booze and pre-bought food from Chili’s and usually cheesy pop music playing from built-in speakers throughout the house. I see a closed bathroom door. It opens, and a group of kids walk out, high from doing Molly. It’s obvious to me with their stretched-out smiles and ginormous pupils. You wouldn’t expect it in Middletown, but heroin and Molly run rampant. Both are cheap and easily accessible.

  Lea and I share a look.

  “Could her eyeballs be any bigger?” Lea says. She ditches me to go flirt with Reed, who’s tapping a new keg.

  I’m standing by myself, feeling completely out of place and wishing I hadn’t agreed to come with her, when a girl from my chemistry class walks over to me.

  “Hey, Alex! I’m so happy to see you!” Her words are slurred, and she tilts unsteadily on a pair of high heels, grabbing onto my arm to keep from wobbling over.

  I smile and feel even more uncomfortable. “Good seeing you too,” I lie.

  “Sooo… you excited for summer? Got any fun plans?”

  My sister was murdered. How excited could I be? What fun plans could I possibly have? “Yeah, I don’t know.” I spot Jay from across the room. He waves a red plastic cup in the air, motioning for me to join him. “I gotta go say hi to someone.”

  “Sure, sure! Go!”

  Her last word is like a sledgehammer to my gut. I want to leave the party right then, but instead, I walk over to Jay, and he greets me with a warm smile and an enormous hug. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  His huge arms surround my body, and just like old times, I melt into his chest. I breathe in the Tide from his shirt, and we stay like that for a while. And for a moment, everything disappears, including my pain. When I finally emerge from his biceps, I smell of his cologne. “Yeah, Lea dragged me out of my cave.”

  “I’m glad she did.” His head bobs then stops, and his expression changes. “Hey, how’s your mom by the way? I hope she’s okay.”

  “Yeah, thanks. The same.”

  Word got around fast that my mother is in a loony bin, thanks to having Lea as a best friend. She has the biggest mouth in Middletown, next to Amber, who also loves to spread gossip. This is probably why Amber gets on Lea’s nerves so much. “If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is a part of yourself. What isn’t a part of ourselves doesn’t disturb us.” Hermann Hesse. The only thing I paid attention to in English Lit this year.

  “You’re not drinking?” Jay asks.

  “Nah.”

  “Hey, I know you’re going to say no, but I’m having my graduation party in July. I really want you to come.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be epic.” I say, avoiding having to say no.

  “You know my parties. Hopefully, Reed won’t piss in the kitchen sink this time. Dude, he’s such a tool sometimes.”

  “Dude, I know.” I raise both eyebrows. Then I notice Jay’s shirt. It’s collared and not faded like all his other T-shirts. This one is actually nice. “New shirt?”

  “Yup. Got it at Kohl’s.”

  “Kohl’s? Wow, steppin’ up your game, player.”

  “Not really. My dad bought it for me. Graduation present.”

  At least his father bought him something. He’s forgotten Jay’s last two birthdays. And Jay’s such a good guy. I don’t think he has ever given either of his parents five minutes of trouble in his entire life. His father left Jay’s mother for some woman he met in Alcoholics Anonymous. Now, he’s a deadbeat dad who doesn’t pay child support but spends loads of cash on his trampy girlfriend. “I’m sure it was expensive.”

  “Nah, probably on sale. Ya know my dad.”

  It was probably a re-gift, knowing his father. But I remain silent.

  Jay brings the red plastic cup to his lips and pounds the beer. After that, we stand, eyeing the crowd without anything further to say to one another. It makes me wish Jenny were here. If she were alive, she’d be standing right next to us, probably teasing Jay for his fancy new shirt. The three of us used to hang out a lot, especially at parties. Jenny loved Jay. And it was mutual. Jay would always tell me to take it easy on her whenever I gave her too much shit about something, usually about basketball practice if I thought she wasn’t playing hard enough or not giving one hundred percent. Maybe that’s why I have such a difficult time being around Jay. He reminds me of Jenny.

  I see Max Hemberger, a cute boy with curly blond hair. I hadn’t noticed him until now. Jenny had a huge crush on Max, and for a while, they were best buds. He also holds a red plastic cup in his hand and is surrounded by Amber and a few girls from his sophomore class. I hear his cackling laugh even above the music. It’s the thing Jenny liked the most about him—his laugh. He smiles and catches me staring at him. For a second, his smile fades, and he looks at me with what feels like enormous pity. He tosses a nod my way then returns his attention to the girls. And in an instant, I’m hit with the heartache of Jenny being dead.

  I feel the tears coming. “I have to go, sorry.”

  He nods, his face turning serious. “I miss you, Alex. I really miss you.”

  I hold his stare and can’t help feeling the same. I miss me too. I walk away with Jay staring after me, hurrying to find the front door, worried I’ll burst into tears any second. I rush past faces that smile at me. I knew coming to this party was a bad idea.

  “Alex! Hey!” Amber yells as I push behind Max without a hello.

  Lea notices me leaving. “Alex, where you going?”

  I race out of the house in tears.

  I hop in my Jeep and drive away, crying. I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle being around normal happy people feeling the way I do. I don’t give a shit about parties or college or who’s screwing who or Facebook or Instagram or Twitter—things I used to take pleasure in. I grab onto the steering wheel as tight as I can, white-knuckling it, wanting so desperately for things to be the way the used to be, wishing Jenny were alive and beside me. I punch the dashboard. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” I hit it harder and harder and harder until my fist is bleeding and throbbing.

  I think about Jenny being dead and those girls from Cantor being alive. I think about my mother spending another night in a mental ward and my father being home alone. I think about Duke, his metal tags jingling, endlessly searching for someone who will never reappear. I think about my friends and wonder what we ever had in common. They’re like strangers.

  Then it hits me—the thought from the other night—the crazy idea that had me asking myself, Can I really do it? I’m filled with hate when I answer: Yes. What more do I have to lose? Nothing.

  Chapter 10

  While my former classmates are out partying and hitting the beach, I study for the first time that year. I research hotels in the Cantor area. I research used car dealerships and trade-in values. I Google anything and everything that has to do with Cantor and street gangs. I learn things that I would never before have wanted to know. I can easily identify a .22 caliber gun, a Ruger 9mm semiautomatic, and a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.

  “What are you doing, Alex?” I say to my computer screen. Duke’s ears perk up, and his big brown eyes shift to me without him ever taking his heavy head off his paws. I hold his stare until his eyes close then turn back to my computer. On the screen is a photograph of a gun collected at a drug bust in Chicago. The same type of gun that was used to kill my sister. The sad, ironic thing is I always said if anyone ever harmed my sister, bullied or beat up Jenny in school, I’d kill them.

  I let out a miserable low laugh and continue studying, fully aware that what I’m doing is crazy. But my obsession for revenge is like some sick, twisted addiction that I can’t quit or control. Nor do I want
to.

  I go onto Facebook and block Lori Silva, Cracker, Ronnie Rodriguez, and Mark Silva from my account. I also block a few Natice Gentry profiles, even though I don’t think Natice has a Facebook page, since she’s never liked or commented on anything on Ronnie’s page, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. I leave my profile picture and cover photo, since neither show my face. Later, I’ll deactivate my account, but for now, I leave it up for stalking purposes only.

  I go onto Instagram, get rid of my account, and set up a new one. My new name: Ally Walker. I do a Google search and turn into a beast following all things Seattle: Pike Place Coffee, Adams Junior High, Highland Park High School, Seattle Seahawks—even though I hate the Seahawks—a few badass bands, an Amy Winehouse fan page, not because she ever had anything to do with Seattle, but because I still dig her voice and that style. I follow whoever will take me and post random shit: Nike Sneakers, McDonald’s French fries, Seahawks Stadium, a thorny rose, photos of guys I think are hot. I hit +Follow on kids whose names I’ve ripped off websites of sports teams, bands, clubs, whatever I can find.

  It’s amazing how many teenagers will just accept you as a follower without even knowing you. By the time I’m done, I’m following close to three hundred people, I have twenty posts, and almost a hundred people are following me. It’s a start.

  I take a break and go down into the kitchen to get something to eat. Duke trails behind me, and I toss him the last rawhide bone from what used to be a full bag. He plops to the floor with it, trapping the bone between his paws and drilling down on it with his teeth. It hurts my heart, knowing I’ll be leaving him. I try not to think about it.

  My iPhone rings, and it’s Lea. I hesitate in answering then pick it up on the fourth ring.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I say and grab a very brown banana off the counter.

  “I haven’t heard from you. I’m worried.”