Her Pretty Face

by Robyn Harding

  Dropping her school backpack near the front door, she had walked toward the kitchen. The vacuum was getting louder, its mosquito whine almost painful as she drew near. Kate didn’t notice her daughter, so engaged was she in her harried cleaning. Daisy hovered in the entryway, watching her mom push the appliance aggressively through the kitchen. Their physical similarities were striking—practically everyone who met them commented on it—but mentally, emotionally, spiritually, they were so different.

  Her mom must have sensed her presence (or read her mind), because she looked up then. “Good. You’re here.” She turned off the vacuum cleaner with her foot.

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’re having dinner guests.”

  “We are?” Daisy hadn’t intended to sound so flabbergasted, but she was surprised. Kate and Robert didn’t socialize, they didn’t entertain. Her parents kept to themselves, not bothering to invest in friendships and connections that would eventually wither and die when they moved on, following her dad’s legal work. Her family’s sense of isolation had become the norm.

  “Yeah, we are,” Kate retorted. “I’d appreciate some help cleaning up this pigsty.”

  Daisy had stifled a smirk. The house was pristine, as always, orderly and sterile. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Organize the front coat closet. And clean the guest bathroom.”

  The guest bathroom. Yeah, right.

  “Okay,” she agreed. Daisy took a step toward her room to change, but her mom’s voice stopped her.

  “Maybe you want to go out tonight? For dinner with a friend?”

  “Why? Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “Of course not.” Kate rolled her eyes. “But you’ll be bored. Dad and I will be talking with Frances and Jason, and Charles will be playing with Marcus. I thought you’d prefer to spend time with people your own age.”

  Her mom was completely unaware that, by complimenting the taste of Liam Kenneway’s butt, Daisy had effectively decimated all her friendships. Her peer group didn’t know what to make of her comment. Was it a joke? Sarcasm? An admission? Mia and Emma had tried to stand by her, but Daisy hadn’t made it easy for them.

  “It was a joke, obviously!” Emma’s voice had been shrill as she addressed the gaggle of girls holding a postmortem outside the school’s front doors.

  “She was being funny,” Mia seconded. “She’d never do something that gross.”

  Daisy could have jumped in, could have stood up for herself. But she had walked by without a word, leaving her friends to deduce that she was a degenerate, a sexual deviant, and a slut. As the chorus of aghast whispers rose behind her, Daisy knew she had sealed her fate. It was too much to ask a bunch of naïve ninth graders to accept that one of their own had done something so perverted. Even the bad girls, the easy girls, didn’t do weird shit like that. Not at fourteen. Her group of admirers would find someone else—someone normal—to idolize. Daisy had been cast out. She was alone. The thought made her feel oddly gratified.

  “Sure.” She addressed her mom. “I’ll see if Emma and Mia want to get sushi.”

  “Good.” Kate turned the vacuum on. “Don’t forget to put out fresh hand towels.”

  Daisy’s final task accomplished, she emerged from the powder room to find her parents and brother milling at the front door with a man, a woman, and Charles’s inordinately large friend Marcus: the Metcalfes. Her dad was hanging coats in the recently organized closet, while her mom fluttered about, kissing cheeks and ruffling Marcus’s mop of brown hair.

  “There she is,” her dad said, noticing Daisy’s hovering presence. “Come meet our friends, Daisy.”

  The woman, Frances, smiled as she looked Daisy over. “Wow. You look so much like your mom.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s a compliment, by the way,” Frances said, and Daisy wondered if she had sounded offended by the comparison. Tracking Frances’s gaze, she saw that the plump woman was looking over at her mom. Daisy realized the clarifier was meant to flatter Kate, and it appeared to have worked. Her mom looked pleased, girlish, delighted. . . . She was practically blushing. Daisy couldn’t remember the last time her mother had looked so pretty.

  “Thanks,” Daisy said, breaking the spell between the two women. “I get told that a lot.”

  “No one wants to look like their mom,” Kate said, bestowing a warm smile on her daughter. To the uninitiated, Kate’s affection appeared genuine; but Daisy knew better.

  “Do you go to Forrester Academy?” the husband, Jason, asked.

  “No, I go to Centennial. The public school.”

  “It’s a good school,” Frances observed.

  “Daisy insisted,” Kate jumped in. “We offered to send her to a private school, but her principles”—she did air quotes—“wouldn’t allow it.”

  Robert put his arm around Daisy. “Our daughter believes education should be free for all. She’s a socialist.”

  “As you should be at fourteen,” Jason said.

  “Until real life gets in the way,” her dad added, and the adults laughed. Daisy felt excluded, subtly mocked. She pulled away from her father’s arm.

  “Mom, can Marcus and I go play in my room?” Charles asked. The kid asked permission for everything, like some obsequious, adolescent butler. No wonder Kate adored him.

  “Of course,” her mom said, keeping up the June Cleaver act. “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

  Charles skittered out of the room with Marcus lumbering after him. Daisy had met the boy before—there had been a few playdates at their house—but she couldn’t help but marvel at the child’s enormity. He was an odd kid. She’d heard her parents discuss his issues: tantrums, meltdowns, lack of focus. . . . “But he worships Charles,” her mom had said. “That kind of devotion is good for Charles’s self-esteem.”

  “I’ve got to go,” Daisy said.

  Robert asked, “Where are you off to?”

  “She’s going for sushi with her friends,” Kate answered quickly. Then, to her daughter, “Have fun.” She couldn’t wait to get rid of her.

  “Nice to meet you both,” Daisy said to Frances and Jason. The couple did seem pretty decent, even if they had bad taste in friends.

  “Nice to finally meet you,” Frances said. “Your mom talks a lot about you.”

  Daisy knew that wasn’t true, but she smiled politely. “See you later.” She opened the door and walked into the crisp November night.

  No one asked when she’d be home.

  * * *

  She decided to ride her bike. It was cool and dark, but it wasn’t raining. The bike had a light clipped to the front fender but only a reflector on the back. A small pool of light ushered her forward, but left her virtually invisible from the rear. It was unsafe and illegal, but that didn’t bother Daisy as she rode down the narrow shoulder. There was almost no traffic in her subdivision, and there were definitely no cops around. Clyde Hill was too wealthy, too dull, too dead to require any law enforcement.

  Daisy had no destination in mind as she pedaled, but with only fifteen dollars in her pocket, her options were limited. Just down the hill was the massive Bellevue Collection, a retail paradise of upscale shops, chain restaurants, department stores, and juice bars. But the place would be crawling with her peers. And Daisy hated shopping. She always felt claustrophobic in malls, like she was choking on the recycled air. Again, not a normal teenage girl.

  She coasted down 92nd Avenue, the steeply sloping street that led to the commercial strip, but she continued on, bypassing the bustling shopping mecca. A plan had formed in her mind. She would buy a six-pack and find herself a secluded, solitary spot to have a few drinks. There was a Korean church in her neighborhood that had a covered alcove in its courtyard. It wouldn’t be cozy, exactly, but it would be sheltered from the wind and any rain that decided to fall. And the booze would keep her warm. Tonight, she wanted to get messy, stupid, fucked-up. Why not? No one cared what she did anyway.

 
There was a strip mall on Bellevue Way: a 7-Eleven, a dry cleaner, a nail salon, and a furniture store. Daisy pedaled into the parking lot and stashed her bike behind the 7-Eleven. All the businesses were closed at this hour except the convenience store. Still, the parking lot was busy, customers stocking up on Friday night supplies: beer, chips, cigarettes. . . . An older man exited, giving Daisy a quick once-over as he held the door for her (ewww . . . he was practically her dad’s age). She slipped inside.

  The fluorescent lighting was almost painful after the dimness of the suburban night, the glare rendering the primary colors of the junk food packaging neon. With a quick glance toward the stoned-looking twenty-something at the counter, Daisy walked directly to the bank of fridges. She kept her gait confident, her gaze forward. Daisy didn’t look twenty-one, she knew that, but she didn’t look fourteen either. And in her experience, shop clerks (make that male shop clerks), given the right smile and a few flirtatious words, didn’t care. She surveyed the beers, the cold white wines, the alcoholic ciders, until she found what she sought: vodka coolers. Grabbing a six-pack of something fruity, tropical, girly, she marched toward the till.

  When she reached the counter, the stoner had been replaced by a man with brown skin, a heavy black mustache, and intense, dark eyes. Daisy didn’t have the geographical knowledge or worldliness to identify his origins, but she would have guessed somewhere in Southeast Asia. (He was, in fact, a former attorney from Sri Lanka.) As soon as their eyes connected, she knew this guy would be immune to her charms. Shit.

  “Can I help you?”

  Daisy hesitated, for only a moment, before confidently plunking the six-pack on the counter. “And this,” she said, grabbing a pack of strong mint gum and setting it next to the liquor.

  “I.D.” It was a command, not a question.

  “Sure.” She pulled out a small wallet from her jacket pocket and fished through it. “Darn. I think I left it in my other purse.”

  “No I.D., no alcohol.”

  “I’m twenty-one,” she said. “Give me a break.”

  “No breaks.”

  “Come on,” she pleaded. “Just this one time . . .”

  The man slid the pink beverages toward her. “Put them back.”

  A deep male voice behind her said, “I’ll get them.”

  Daisy glanced over her shoulder, right into the broad chest of a man. The guy was big, six-foot-two or three. He was standing very close to her, mere inches away. She felt too shy to look up at his face.

  The clerk glowered up at him. “It is illegal to buy alcohol for minors.”

  “They’re for me.”

  He was lying. Daisy knew it. The Asian man knew it, too, but he wasn’t getting paid enough to take on a customer, especially one so large and authoritative. The clerk shook his head, muttering something about morals as he rang the six-pack through.

  As the tall man paid cash for her drinks and gum and bought a pack of cigarettes for himself, Daisy sneaked a look at him. He was in his mid-twenties, with messy dark hair, light brown eyes, and warm skin. He needed a shave and a haircut, but his unkempt appearance worked for him, made him seem rugged and manly. Observing the transaction, Daisy tried to suppress a smile, but it was working its way through her sophisticated façade. She felt precariously close to giggles, girlish and fluttery and very fourteen, standing so close to this large, adult stranger. Finally, the man grabbed his white plastic bag and left. Daisy hurried out after him.

  He stopped as soon as they were outside the door, not bothering to make a show for the underage-drinking police at the till. “Here,” he said, extracting his cigarettes and handing her the bag.

  “Thanks,” Daisy said, struggling to regain her mature affect despite her broad smile. “That was really cool of you.”

  “No problem.” The man didn’t return her grin.

  Her heart thudded audibly in her chest as she mustered her courage. “Maybe you’d like to join me for a drink?” She held up the bag, and the pink wine coolers showed through the plastic. Shit. She should have bought beers.

  The man looked at her intently for a moment. His eyes weren’t really brown; they were more hazel, golden. They were cold, aloof, but somehow searing. Daisy felt afraid of him and drawn to him at the same time. “I—I’m twenty-one,” she lied, hoping and dreading that he’d agree to join her.

  He said nothing, just walked away from her.

  Disappointment and relief mingled in her chest as she watched him cross the asphalt to the parking area. His gait was slow and deliberate, like he was in pain but was used to it. He was so strong, so masculine, so adult. Daisy’s mind flitted to her make-out session with Liam, his narrow hips, his hairless chest, the soft fuzz on his upper lip. How could she ever have considered gifting that boy her virginity?

  The man had reached his car, and Daisy fought the urge to run after him. For one thing, it would have been childish and uncool. For another, the guy could be dangerous. Daisy knew nothing about him except that he smoked and was willing to provide alcohol to a minor. Hardly a ringing character endorsement. She watched as he opened the door of a large, dark car and disappeared inside.

  She was about to head to her bike when the car’s engine rumbled to life. The sound stopped her cold. The taillights gleamed red as the big car backed out of its spot, turned, and then drove toward her. It was an old Buick or something—heavy, boxy, domestic. As it approached, Daisy inspected the hood and saw it: a small divot in the metal surrounded by a handful of scratches. Leaning down, she peered inside, but the man kept his eyes forward, like he’d already forgotten their encounter. But he hadn’t. She knew he hadn’t. As he drove away, she listened to the engine purr.

  Like a mountain lion.

  dj

  THEN

  The arrest of his sister’s killer did not bring the comfort and closure DJ had hoped for. His mom still spent days in bed, only emerging to dump out her overflowing ashtray (she’d resumed a pack-a-day habit when her daughter’s body was found). His father still went to work every day at the meatpacking plant, but when he returned home, he sat in his tattered armchair and drank beer in silence. At school, DJ had become a pariah. The kids avoided him as if tragedy were contagious.

  I invited him over one day, and then my sister was murdered!

  DJ didn’t mind; he had no interest in Power Rangers or Legos anymore. His dad had bought him a PlayStation shortly after Shane Nelson’s arrest. His mom said a boy his age should be playing outside, breathing fresh air, experiencing nature. But his dad said it would “keep him out of our hair.” And besides, there was no nature in their scorched Arizona suburb.

  He was playing Tomb Raider that afternoon when a tall, distinguished black man arrived at their house. His name was Neil Givens, and he was the state prosecutor. His parents already knew this man, knew that his presence on their doorstep meant something crucial had happened with the case. There was a woman with him. She looked about the same age as DJ’s mom, but, unlike his pale, wispy mother, this lady was strong and healthy and chewed gum aggressively. She was introduced as Detective Margot Williams. His parents quickly ushered the pair inside, inviting them to sit in the living room.

  “Go to your room,” his dad said absently, but DJ didn’t. He’d gained weight when he’d stopped playing with his friends, choosing video games over socializing and physical activity. But, despite his girth, he had a knack for invisibility. He hovered, like a ghost, just outside the seating area, listening.

  “What’s going on, Neil?” his mother asked.

  The prosecutor cleared his throat before he spoke. “An eyewitness has come forward in your daughter’s murder.”

  DJ heard his mother’s sharp intake of breath, heard her grab for her cigarettes and light one.

  “Nelson’s girlfriend was there,” the female detective explained. “She saw everything he did to Courtney.”

  “She was there?” His father’s voice was hoarse.

  “Why didn’t she do something?” his mom
asked. “Why didn’t she stop him?”

  “She couldn’t,” Neil Givens said. “She was terrified of Nelson. He’d been physically and psychologically abusing her for over a year.”

  “When she came forward, she was black and blue,” Detective Williams elaborated. “She had to do what Nelson told her, or she’d be beaten and raped. She was petrified. She was broken.”

  They pitied her, felt protective of her. DJ could hear it in their voices.

  The attorney continued. “We’ve had the girlfriend examined by a team of psychiatrists. She shows signs of post-traumatic stress and battered-woman syndrome.”

  The detective picked up the slack. “Nelson tortured her. He beat her up. He kept her isolated, drunk, high, sleep-deprived. . . . He threatened to kill her family and friends.”

  “She’s what we call a compliant victim,” Givens said.

  “What does that mean,” DJ’s dad grumbled, “a compliant victim?”

  Detective Williams answered. “It means that she didn’t want to hurt your daughter; in fact, she wanted to help her. But she couldn’t. She was too afraid.”

  “My daughter was afraid!” DJ’s mom cried. “My daughter was tortured and raped and murdered! And this . . . this girl watched it happen. Now she gets to walk away scot-free?”

  “No,” the prosecutor said, his voice calm, almost patronizing. “She’ll be charged for her role in the crime. But with your approval, the state would like to agree to a plea bargain.”

  DJ’s dad growled, “What kind of plea bargain?”

  “She’s willing to testify, to tell the jury everything Shane Nelson did to Courtney.”

  “He assaulted other girls, too,” Detective Williams added. “He raped and beat them.”

  “This girl’s testimony will ensure Nelson’s put away for good.” The lawyer paused here, and DJ could hear his own heart beating in the silence. “In exchange, her lawyer has convinced her to plead guilty to a charge of manslaughter.”