by Nancy Isaak
Even though she was ‘sort-of-mean’ and not that bright—like with Jude—every once in a while, I thought I saw something that could possibly redeem her.
In Peyton's case, it was her relationship with her younger sister, Amelie.
* * * *
I wasn’t exactly certain why Amelie (who would have been 9-years old at the time) was at our high school that day. My heart went out to her when I saw her, though. She was crying, big sobs that shook her slight shoulders as she stumbled down the hallway toward her older sister.
Maybe it had something to do with their family (a relative/pet died?). Whatever the reason, Peyton raced over to Amelie the moment she saw her, enveloping her younger sister in her arms, stroking her hair, and telling Amelie that it was going to be okay. That she—Peyton—would make sure of it.
It was so genuine, a bigger sister taking care of her little sister—and I found it quite touching.
Of course, Peyton had to go and ruin all my good feelings the next week by telling anyone who would listen that she was going after Jacob Riker to co-star in her upcoming sex tape.
All I could think when I heard that was—that's my future boyfriend, biatch!
Traynesha Davis:
Originally from London, Traynesha (or ‘Tray’ as she preferred) was an African-American (African-British?), with caramel skin and jet-black hair that she wore long and relaxed to her shoulders. Tray was exotically beautiful, with light, amber eyes and dark eyelashes that were way too long to be natural.
Unlike Peyton, Tray wasn't curvy. She was more athletically built, with legs that went on and on, and one of those J.Lo bubble-butts that all the guys used to stare at when it walked by. For a while, Jude-the-Rude took to calling it ‘Daddy's-bodacious-posterior’.
It gave me the creeps when Jude said that. I could never tell if Jude meant simply that Tray's dad (a plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills) had created Tray’s butt for her—or something more nefarious.
What I did know, though, was that when Tray heard what Jude was saying, she went ballistic and attacked her in the hallway. The Assistant Principal actually had to pull the two of them apart, right as Tray was shoving Jude's head into a locker.
* * * *
That’s the most important thing you need to know about Tray. While she was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen in my life, she was also—unfortunately—one of the meanest.
There was something practically predatory about her, in fact. Whatever Tray wanted, she went after with a vengeance. If it was a guy—she simply told him one day that he belonged to her (and let's face it, with a face and body like Tray's, it wasn’t like the guy was going to say no).
But if it was a girl who had crossed her—then Tray made her life a living hell.
Truthfully, I was terrified of Tray.
Thankfully—unlike with Jude—Tray had no idea I even existed.
At least, at that time.
* * * *
The other thing about Tray, was that she apparently liked pain—taking it and giving it. We all learned this from Brandon Keretsky, the 10th grade football player she dated on and off. Brandon was big, hunky, and almost as mean as Tray. He took great pride in telling anyone who would listen how Tray had introduced him to spanking during sex.
Honestly—at the time—I had no idea if any of it was the truth; I mean, if Tray and Brandon were really having sex or if Tray liked being spanked.
What I did know, was that Tray certainly enjoyed hitting and kicking other people. Like Jude-the-Rude, Tray was always lashing out at the younger grades as they walked by.
Trust me—we all learned very quickly to make a wide berth around all the Foxes—but Tray in particular.
Orla Whelan:
Now, the smartest of the Foxes was definitely Orla.
She was one of those white-skinned, orange-haired, freckled, Scottish-ancestry types. In comparison with the other Foxes, she was quite poor—living in a townhouse with her divorced mom, just like me.
However—unlike me—Orla somehow always managed to wear name-brand clothing, party at all the right Hollywood clubs (even though she was underage!), and drive a vintage, red Mustang convertible.
No one really knew where exactly Orla got the funds to support her opulent lifestyle. That said, we all suspected that she either had sticky fingers or that one or both of the other Foxes were paying her way.
* * * *
Even though no one would ever have called Orla beautiful, she was still pretty. And with her expensive clothes, make-up, and hairstyle, she always seemed to come across as a complete package—never a hair out of place, nails always done. Plus, Orla was slim, with a commanding presence, and she carried herself with impeccable posture.
(I—of the slightly-sloped shoulders—tried to copy her ramrod straight back one day and wound up aching all night long.)
* * * *
Ironically, although Tray was more beautiful and Peyton way richer, it was Orla who ultimately ruled the Foxes. She was the brains of the group, a political animal who had worked her way up to be Vice-President of the Student Council in her second-to-last year at Agoura High.
Because Orla had big political ambitions—both inside and outside of school.
I first became aware of Orla’s ‘power’ during a campaign rally for student council, when she announced to the whole school that we should all vote for her because—after graduation and university—she would be heading into Public Service.
Orla informed us that she needed this ‘win’ on her resume, because it was her intention to eventually become the Governor of California and—after that—the President of the United States.
There was a certain honesty to Orla's proclamation—at least, that’s what I thought at the time. And, like so many other dumbasses, I voted her into office.
* * * *
Without a doubt, Orla was a natural leader.
Of the school—and of the Foxes.
Beautiful Tray…rich Peyton…it was still Orla who held their leashes. In some ways they were her pets—like dogs who waited patiently at her side, hoping for a master’s touch, a kind word of praise.
Or the command to kill.
* * * *
They were the ‘Foxes’—three tyrannical 17-year old high school girls.
We admired them…we hated them.
And—oh, so much—we looked forward to their eventual graduation.
JOURNAL ENTRY #5
It’s odd not being able to tell time to the smartphone-second anymore.
Jay and I talked about finding one of those old watches or clocks that have to be wound by hand to work. That way we’d have a better idea of what time it really was because, right now, we’re simply guessing.
My mom actually has one of those old cuckoo clocks that has these weights and counterweights to make it work. Since it doesn’t use electricity, I guess it's time to get it out of the back of the storage closet.
Then again, that's kind of funny when you think about it.
I mean, it’s the end of the world—do we really need to know the exact time anymore?
* * * *
Because the sun was directly overhead, Jay and I figured it was around noon when we finally reached the Lost Hills Sheriff’s Station—a large, squat complex set back from the road. To the right was an attached block of buildings, which my mom had once told me was the local jail. She said that was where the sheriffs held anyone that they had arrested, before they were either released or sent on to trial.
Sometimes, on the way down to Malibu (the station was near Malibu Canyon, which is another route from the valley to the coastline), I would see men in orange jumpsuits sweeping the sidewalk or doing yard work outside of the station. My mom explained to me that these prisoners were ‘trustees’—the guys the sheriffs thought were the least dangerous.
* * * *
When Jay and I stopped at the top of Agoura Road, just above the Sheriff’s Station, and peered down at the buildings—our eyes searc
hed through the shadows, looking for any movement…and for orange jumpsuited-men in particular.
As always, there was nobody.
Even the small parking lot was empty, except for one lone police cruiser.
“What do you think?” I asked Jay.
She shrugged. “It looks deserted.” Then she pulled out her phone and started tapping at the screen.
“What are you doing? I thought you said your phone was EMP'd…and that it doesn’t have a charge.”
“I know,” Jay murmured, giving her phone a good shake anyway. “It's just, with all these antennas and communications equipment here...you never know, right?”
She was referring to several large cellular towers at one corner of the Sheriff's complex. Beside the towers was a large, power generator—or, at least, what we assumed to be the power generator.
It, of course, was silent.
* * * *
Jay sighed.
“No luck?” I asked.
“Of course not. It was a stupid idea that doesn’t even make any sense scientifically.” Jay tucked her phone back in her pocket. “Not like there'd be anyone to call, anyway.”
Off in the distance, a coyote (or wild dog) suddenly howled.
We both spun around, peering in the direction the cry had come from—searching for any sign of a furry shape bounding toward us. Meanwhile, the howl continued—long and plaintive, slowly bouncing throughout the hills.
“You think it's telling all the other predators about us?” I asked, only half-joking.
“Guess we should pick up some weapons while we're here.” Jay said.
I stared at her, shocked. (Both Jay and I are not big fans of guns.)
She stared right back, almost defiant. “This does make sense. Even if there's no one else but you and me left, we've still got wild dogs and coyotes out there.”
“That's true,” I acknowledged. “Plus, there's something else out there that we haven't thought about, yet.”
“What's that?”
“This is mountain lion country.”
* * * *
I'd never actually been inside of the Lost Hills Sheriff’s Station before.
I guess I had been expecting what I usually saw on television cop shows—a big room filled with computers and chairs, where wise-cracking detectives took statements from tattooed gang-members and short-skirted rent-a-wives.
Instead, there was only the tiniest of lobbies, lined with benches and bulletin boards. Opposite the front door was a counter, the backside accessible only by a locked gate to one side. Behind it, was a wall of tinted privacy-glass windows. We couldn’t see through them on our side. Anyone standing on the other side, however, would have a full view of anyone who came through the front door.
Including us.
* * * *
Jay and I stood nervously just inside the building.
She was holding the front door open for easy escape, while I slowly took a first step toward the front desk—listening for any sound, looking for any sign of life.
All was quiet.
In fact, the Sheriff’s Station looked utterly deserted and normal, with everything in its place. The only exception was a lone clipboard lying on the floor, inches away from the counter. I walked over and picked it up.
“What is it?” asked Jay, still too fearful to move away from the open door.
“It looks like someone was reporting a crime when they disappeared.”
“A murder?”
I looked over at her, trying not to laugh. “Like, seriously, Jay! A murder in Agoura Hills?”
(Our city is a relatively crime-free neighborhood. I don't know the statistics but I read on Wikipedia that we're considered ‘moderately affluent’, so maybe that makes a difference.)
“What was the crime, then?” she pressed. “Robbery?”
“Cherry bomb in a mail box down in Latigo Canyon.”
Jay looked disappointed. “Probably Cherry who did do it,” she sniffed, with more than a little disdain. “That'd be ironic.”
(Cherry is a girl who goes to the Continuation School I was talking about, the one on the same campus as Agoura High. It’s an independent school for, let's just call them—‘independent students’.)
“She would be the type,” I agreed. “Did you see that Cherry has her hair pink again?”
“It was yellow, for what, two months? Had to have been a record for her?”
I put down the clipboard and walked over to look at what was pinned to the bulletin boards. Meanwhile, with one last reluctant look toward the bikes that we’d left on the sidewalk outside, Jay came into the building and closed the front door behind her.
“It's so quiet in here,” she whispered, as if afraid to make too much noise herself.
“I know,” I agreed. “It's spooky.”
“Where do you think they keep the guns?”
“Probably in the rooms back there.” I motioned in the direction of the tinted windows behind the front counter. “At least, we can start searching for them there.”
“Anything important on the bulletin boards?” Jay asked.
I shook my head. “Nothing. No messages from anyone. Just posters about not taking drugs and using your seatbelt.”
“Guess no one's been here, then.” She sighed, disappointed. “This is so messed up.”
“Tell me about it.”
Still looking very nervous, Jay came and stood beside me. “Well, let’s just get this over with, okay. I don’t want to be here any longer than we have to.”
Suddenly, it was my turn to procrastinate.
“Those privacy windows are kind of creepy,” I offered. “Like anyone could be back there and we wouldn’t even know it.”
“You think one of us should stay here?” asked Jay. “In case something goes wrong.”
“Sure…you stay here and, if something happens, you can always use your phone to call the police for help.”
“Nice,” groaned Jay. “Very sarcastic. You know, if we're the only people around, it's probably not a good idea to get pissy with each other.”
“Yeah, whatever…I'll go first, Goddess of Victory. You can stay here if you want.”
* * * *
Ironically, Jay made it over the counter before me. My BFF might be small, but she's really agile. All Jay did was put one hand on the counter, take a step back and then leap forward.
Just like that—and she was on the other side.
I tried to follow her example but, when I made my leap, all that happened was that my stomach hit the side of the counter and I bounced backward. Unfortunately—where Jay is all ‘gymnast-like’—I'm all ‘here's-a-wall-for-me-to-walk-into-like’.
Needless to say, I wound up pulling myself over the counter, with Jay tugging on my arms from the other side.
I'd have been humiliated if there had been anyone else left alive to notice. As it was, I just felt annoyed. And really stupid, especially when Jay noticed that the counter-gate hadn’t even been locked in the first place.
* * * *
“Oh-oh.” Jay was standing at the door leading to the back offices, twisting its handle. “This one really is locked. What do you want to do?”
“Maybe we can force it open,” I suggested.
Lowering my upper body, I rammed my shoulder into the door, just like I’d seen work so many times in the movies. It didn’t budge. Next, I stood back and gave the door a good, solid kick.
No movement.
Jay and I stood side-by-side for a moment, staring at the door, as if trying to will it open.
“This is stupid,” I finally said. “Let's use our brains. It’s a locked door. So, how do we get it open?”
“A key?” suggested Jay.
“Well, duh.”
“No, I'm serious. Think about it. If the door needs a key and, who knows how many people work the front desk, then maybe there's a key around here somewhere. Like, I mean, they'd have to have it close by, wouldn't they?”
We immediately
began searching the shelves behind the counter. After finding an amazing amount of official forms (whoever said that we were going to have a paperless-society in the 21st Century was obviously a dumb bunny!), Jay finally found what we were looking for, under a log-in book.
“You think it might be on this?” She held up something shiny—four silver keys on a handcuff-shaped key ring.
* * * *
The hallway behind the door was surprisingly long and dark. Only a small amount of light filtered in, coming from the open doors of offices that extended down each side of the hallway. Unnerved by the gloom (and those open doors!), Jay and I found ourselves reaching out to grab each other's hands as we tiptoed forward—step-by-fearful-step.
“Should we check all the offices?” whispered Jay. “Would they keep the weapons in there, do you think?”
“I think they’re probably in some armory somewhere. But let's look in from the office doors—just in case there's something else we need inside,” I suggested. “If we see something we want, then we’ll go into the office. Otherwise, I just want to find the guns and get out.”
Jay giggled, quickly placing a hand over her mouth to smother the sound.
“What?” I asked.
She giggled again. “Whoever thought we'd be saying that—‘find the guns’?”