Pray for the Girl

by Joseph Souza

  “That’s a lot of work,” he says.

  “I’ll give you fifty bucks.”

  He signs to the others, and they sign something back in reply. “Where do you want me to do it?”

  I point to my table.

  “Payment up front.”

  I hand him two twenties and a ten, and he leaves the others and walks back with me to my table. Once we’re seated, I take out a notebook and pass him my phone. I tell him to write it all down. Before he watches, I make him promise to keep this information to himself. After a few seconds reflecting on what he’s about to do, he agrees to my terms. Then he presses play.

  He begins to scribble down what’s being said, occasionally stopping to look up at me. When the video finishes playing, he stares at me in a strange fashion. Three pages of scrawled notes lie in front of him.

  “Thank you,” I say, taking the phone off the table.

  “This is messed up, dude.”

  “I know, but you promised to keep this to yourself.”

  “You need to do something.”

  “Why do you think I hired you?” I take out another twenty and hand it to him. He pockets it and then heads back to his friends. Soon enough they’re signing and laughing and drinking from their mugs of coffee.

  I grab his notes and start to read them.

  28

  I DON’T WANT TO LEAVE MY FATHER TONIGHT. HE’S GOTTEN A SECOND wind and his complexion seems healthier and more robust than before. But I can tell it’s only a temporary stay of execution, because otherwise he appears to be going downhill. We sit together in the living room eating a simple supper of elbow macaroni with black pepper, butter, and shaved parmigiana cheese. The news is on, and they show footage of the accused Afghani man being led to the station for questioning. Not surprisingly, it’s the same guy I encountered that day on Blueberry Hill.

  I’m fairly certain he’s innocent, although I can’t fully articulate why.

  Dad falls asleep in his chair just after eight. I grab one of his comforters and cover him until he looks sufficiently warm. As much as I hate to do it, I sneak into his room and pocket some of his herb for this house party I’m being forced to attend. Stefania is a clever, nasty girl who shouldn’t be messed with. Despite her age, she’s mastered the art of blackmail. She’d already narced me out to Dalton for smoking pot, and I have no doubt she’d tell the cops that Iggy tried to feel her up. I can’t afford an accusation of inappropriately touching a minor, and then all the questioning and bad blood such a terrible accusation would carry with it.

  I slip out the door while my father’s asleep and jump into his van. The nearest liquor store is three miles down the road, and as much as I detest buying booze for minors, I walk in and scan the shelves. What kind of booze do fifteen-year-olds prefer these days? When I was a kid, we drank mostly beer. I snatch a bottle of Smirnoff off the shelf and stick it under my arm. Can never go wrong with vodka; it’s a rule that’s always done good by me when attending a party.

  Then I’m back in the van and heading toward the address she gave me.

  The neighborhood I enter is one of the most affluent in Fawn Grove. It’s where the executives, high-level managers, and bankers purchased homes when Fawn Grove was in its heyday. The houses are large Victorian and brick estates. Not quite mansions, but not your average homes either. This neighborhood is located on a hill overlooking the valley, and at one time, before the trees grew tall, it gave the affluent citizens here the most beautiful view of the Alamoosa River.

  I drive slowly down the street, staring up at all the homes. Some are still in decent condition. Many more are a far cry from their former glory days and in need of much repair. I keep driving until I see a group of cars parked along the road and lined up in the driveway. It matches the address Stefania gave me. Something tells me that going up there is a bad idea. But what’s the alternative? Getting picked up for being a child molester and having my cover blown?

  Another car pulls up ahead of me, and three teenage girls pile out and run happily up the stairs, each with a six-pack of wine coolers in hand. I grab the bottle of vodka, hidden in its paper sheath, and slowly make my way up toward the house. The hint of a thumping bass indicates that the music tonight will be played at ear-deafening levels. I walk up the stairs and onto the porch. It takes me a few seconds to work up the courage to ring the bell. After a few seconds, a pretty blond girl appears holding a red cup. She laughs drunkenly when she sees me, as if a thirty-something doofus like me had been expected to show up at this party.

  “Can I help you?” Another girl runs over and starts giggling drunkenly over her friend’s shoulder.

  “Stefania asked me here.”

  “You mean Stef?”

  “Yeah, Stef. She asked me to bring this too.” I show her the bottle of vodka, certain that it will usher me through the door.

  The girl turns and yells for Stef at the top of her lungs. Then the two girls disappear inside the house. Stefania arrives a few seconds later. Her hair is down, and there’s a far-off stare to her eyes that tells me she’s high. Otherwise she looks gorgeous, and I can’t help but be jealous that nature’s been so kind to this brat.

  “You made it, Iggy. And you brought a bottle of booze like I asked. Well done.”

  “Did I have a choice?”

  “Not if you wanted to keep working at the diner.”

  “I really need that job.”

  “Which is why I asked you to come,” she says too cheerfully. “Did you bring the weed?”

  I take the baggie out and show her.

  “You’re the bomb, dude.” She snatches the bottle and bag out of my hand. “Come on in and meet everyone.”

  She opens the screen door for me, and I head inside. The music blares in my ears and instantly makes me dizzy. It’s gangsta rap, and the bass is turned to full volume. The walls and floorboards seem to vibrate around me like Jell-O molds. Every room in this house is filled with teenagers drinking and smoking pot, and I can’t believe I have to stay and endure this misery. I’m the smallest person in the room, and it makes me feel as if I’m back in high school all over again.

  We move into the living room at the far end of the house. A group of kids are sitting on the couches and passing a joint between them. I can’t say that I’m unfamiliar with this scene, having attended many house parties in my youth. A few of these kids I recognize from that night in the cornfield. The sight of Nasreen sitting across the coffee table surprises me. I was under the impression that her cousin—the murder suspect—was the one who pushed her around, but I don’t see any sign that she’s injured. She’s gripping a red cup and sitting casually. On the other end of the couch sits Brynn, and she too is partaking in the joint being passed around the room. The sight of her makes me nervous, and for a brief second I wonder if she’ll recognize me. I freeze momentarily as Stefania gestures for me to sit between the two girls. I debate turning around and heading home, but where will that get me? Maybe if I play my cards right they’ll confide in me and talk about their two dead friends.

  The song on the speakers changes, and a more aggressive gangsta rap song starts to play. I feel confused and dispirited as I sit next to my stoned niece. Stefania sits across from me and rests her long, tanned legs on the ornate coffee table. Another pretty girl sits across from me, and it makes me wonder where all these beauties are being spawned. I don’t recall this many gorgeous girls here when I was growing up. This new girl is bouncing her knee over her leg and staring at me with a look of hidden despair. I’ve seen this look on girls many times before, recognizing it for what it is: a girl who’s dying to speak her mind and spill some long-held secrets. If my recollection serves me right, she’s the girl in the video wearing the blue hoodie. Her intense glare starts to freak me out, and I look away so as not to crack under the pressure of her scrutiny.

  So why does this girl look so familiar to me? It seems as if I’ve seen her before, in another time and context, and yet I can’t recall having ever
met her. Is my mind playing tricks on me? There’s no way I could have come in contact with her, and yet as I stare at her, that face calls out to me. They are features I most assuredly know.

  I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t plan to stay for long. Someone passes me a joint, and I take a modest hit. I turn to pass it on to someone else, but Brynn orders me to take another, and so I do as instructed. A red cup is placed in my hand, and a purple concoction is poured sloppily into it. Someone calls for a toast, and our cups meet in the middle, plastic crashing against plastic. A boozy liquid splashes out and onto the coffee table. Then we all drink. It’s a sugary punch of some kind and tastes strongly of alcohol. Another toke, another toast, and I’m off to the races.

  I stand to leave, but someone pushes me back down on the couch.

  “Where do you think you’re going, dude?” says a handsome boy wearing a knit cap.

  “I have to get going,” I say.

  “Why? The party’s just getting started,” Stefania says.

  “I have to be at the diner early or your grandfather will have my ass,” I say.

  “Forget about my miserable old grandfather tonight.” Stefania laughs. “Drink up and have some fun.”

  “Yeah, because her grandfather won’t have to worry about that shithole for much longer,” Knit Cap says.

  “Why’s that?” I say.

  “Didn’t you see what happened to Denny’s?” a preppy-looking boy says.

  “It burned to the ground,” I say.

  “Stupid line cooks,” Brynn says, laughing. “I heard they didn’t clean their grease traps. Do you clean your grease trap, Iggy?” she asks too innocently.

  “I try my best to keep them clean.”

  “Fuck Denny’s,” Knit Cap says, punching his fist down onto the coffee table. “Greedy corporate fucks. Serves them right burning to the ground like that.”

  “Have some more punch, Iggy,” Stefania says, lifting the pitcher to fill my cup. I raise my hand to block it, but she pours it over my fingers. “Dude!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Why you stressing out on us, man?” Knit Cap complains. “Now drink up and chill with your homeys.”

  I drink and smoke until I realize I’m somewhat wasted. No way did I plan on this happening, especially since I have to drive home tonight. But what choice did I have? Before I realize it, the house is wall to wall with kids, but only six of us sit in this living room, separated from the rest of the house. Is this where the coolest of the cool kids hang? The misfits and future criminals? The music blares loudly in my ears, thumping beats and angry rap lines. Why haven’t the police arrived and broken up this party? Sometime later I’m ushered drunkenly through the back door, which is accessible only from this room. I stagger down the concrete stairs and am led by the arm to an oversized SUV parked in front of a garage. Is Knit Cap in any shape to drive?

  He turns the volume up full blast until it pulsates in my ears. “All Apologies” by Nirvana. Then after that it’s gangsta rap followed by a raucous live version of “A Girl Like You” by Angus Gibbons. At least these kids respect their roots. I ask where we’re going, but my voice is drowned out by the wall of music. Someone passes me a joint. I decline, but they insist, holding it out until I take a hit. When I turn to see who it is, I’m surprised to see Brynn sitting next to me and smiling deviously. She looks as wasted as I am as she holds the joint aloft in her slender fingers. Her nails are painted bright pink, and the dark eyeliner gives her eyes a smoky appearance, making her look older and more sensual. I take a quick hit and pass it to the girl next to me, noticing that it’s the girl from the party who sat glaring at me. Who is she, and what deep secret does she need to confess?

  My mind is spinning, and it’s a good thing I didn’t eat, or else I might have thrown up in this SUV. We speed through the dark streets, and as we do, I have this crazy notion that our wild joyride is not going to end well. My entire body is numb and achy, and the hint of phantom pain begins to form at the base of my feet. At one point during this frenetic drive, I feel the girl next to me squeezing my hand. Or maybe not and maybe my mind is playing tricks on me.

  The SUV jerks to a stop and the kids stagger out, laughing and joking. Someone grabs my hand and pulls me along. I shuffle into the dark and fall to my tortured knees, my vision blurred from all the booze and weed. Two of the kids help me up and then lead me over to a structure that I can’t quite see. I’m helped through a door and left to stumble around in the dark. I latch on to something for support before tripping and falling against the floor. Something crashes, and I hear metal clanging against metal. A slimy object hits my face as I reach around on the floor for something to hold. The kids are shouting at one another and throwing things across the darkened room. What in the world are they doing?

  The lights flicker on, blinding me. I slowly stand and bury my head on a table covered in slime. Everything is spinning, so I lean over to keep myself from falling. I want badly to go lie down somewhere and sleep off this drug-induced haze. Something seems familiar about this table I’m leaning on. I raise my head up and vaguely recognize the sight of The Galaxy’s cluttered kitchen. It’s spinning madly around me. The kids bang pots and pans together like some drunken marching band. Why is Stefania destroying her grandfather’s kitchen? Knit Cap grabs food out of the walk-in and begins to throw it around the room. A slimy chicken breast lands on my forehead before falling to the table.

  I rise up to complain but fall backward along the slippery floor, which is now covered with meat, vegetables, and quantities of unknown salad dressing. I try to stand, but on these prosthetics, and in my drunken state, standing will not be an option.

  The smell of smoke hits my nostrils first. Then the screeching sound of a fire alarm blares in my ears. It takes me a second to realize that these delinquents have set the diner ablaze. I thrash along the floor like Michael Phelps in a breaststroke for gold. I fling my body around on a sea of Thousand Island dressing, propelling my body toward the door. Two black boots stop in front of me, keeping me from moving. I arch my neck to see who it is but can’t make out the person’s face because everything is spinning. Did one of them slip me a Mickey? The handle of a wooden roller dangles like a pendulum in front of my eyes. It’s the one Yanni uses to roll out his prepackaged phyllo dough. I arch my head only to feel the barrel come crashing down over the back of my skull. My cheek smacks against the wet floor, and my eyes roll back in my head. The roller falls against the tiles in front of me. All I can hear is laughter as these kids sprint out the door. Someone lifts me up by the collar and orders me to smile. I open my eyes briefly before realizing that I can’t move my arms or legs. There’s a cell phone in front of me. Then my body falls back to the floor. Before I pass out, I realize that I’m going to die in The Galaxy.

  * * *

  I wake to the sounds of sirens going off and flames snapping in my ear. In front of me is the massive green Dumpster separating me from the diner, which is now totally engulfed in flames. How did I end up here? Did I walk out of The Galaxy on my own volition? Or did someone drag me out of that burning caboose?

  As I stand dizzily to leave, I realize that my head is also on fire. Bolts of lightning strike in my vision, and apocalyptic claps of thunder resound in my eardrums. The memory of that wild house party returns in full force. It’s no wonder I have such a brutal headache. But I’m also still drunk and high. I bring my hand up to my shaved scalp and feel the bloody lump that has formed along it. Then I vaguely remember being struck over the head with Yanni’s rolling pin. Those bastards wanted me dead. Obviously, one of them kept me alive. But for what reason?

  I back away from the parking lot as a fire truck pulls up in front of the burning diner. My clothes are wet and completely drenched in Thousand Island dressing. Slipping into a nearby street, I hobble along the darkened sidewalk, trying to blend into the night. What time is it? I reach into my pocket and pull out the Tracfone. It’s 12:27 A.M. There’s a text message on my
phone that was left just before midnight. Someone wants me to text them back.

  It’s roughly four miles back to the van, and about seven miles back to my father’s place. It’s crucial that no one sees me lest they think I set fire to the diner. I’m a strange-looking dude staggering around late at night and slathered in orange salad dressing. It’d be comical if it wasn’t so tragic. Despite the fact that I’m still drunk, I decide to hike all the way back to the van. If I can make it, I’ll drive over to the next street and sleep off my hangover.

  About two miles into my trek I begin to experience an agonizing fatigue. My stumps radiate with pain, and I’m sweating profusely. Smoking all that weed has sapped my lung capacity, and I must stop every now and then to catch my breath. My headache has been reduced to a dull hammering in the temples. A light flashes off in the distance, and when I stare down the country road, I see two headlights approaching. I duck into the nearby woods and wait for the car to pass. To my surprise, it’s a police car, and it’s barreling straight toward The Galaxy. But it’s way too early for Dalton to be on shift.

  I continue on my way, my stumps in such pain that I must stop momentarily to rest. There’ll be hell to pay once I return to my father’s place. I have no doubt that they’re raw and infected, and in need of much medicated cream. The last mile will be a bitch. I stare up at the expensive houses located high above town. Sweat pours down my face as I rest my hands on my knees and take a series of deep breaths.

  The climb is slow and arduous, and my back begins to ache. It seems like forever before I’ll make it back to the van. Thankfully, it’s parked in the same spot where I left it. My body rejoices at the idea of rest. Finally, I open the door and collapse inside. I wait a few minutes before turning the ignition, relieved to hear it purr to life. I guide the van away from the curb and cruise slowly down the quiet street. My skin feels clammy, despite the rivulets of sweat pouring down my forehead. I glance in the rearview mirror and see a ghost staring back at me. Far from the glamorous woman I was back in Manhattan, this is the worst I’ve looked in ages.