Her Pretty Face

by Robyn Harding

  Frances choked on a mouthful of tequila and lime. She coughed and sputtered, her face burning, her eyes watering. She was not accustomed to blatantly sexual conversation—especially when it concerned her best friend’s husband and her own . . . tits.

  “Jesus, Frances.” Kate thumped her on the back. “I was just teasing.”

  “I know,” Frances croaked, feeling like a Pollyanna. “Went down the wrong tube.”

  Kate watched her struggle to compose herself. “Do you want some water?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “For the record,” Kate said, grabbing a handful of popcorn, “Robert and I are monogamous. I’m not going to let him anywhere near your boobs.”

  “Okay.”

  “Unless you want me to . . . ?”

  Frances gaped at her friend, chewing her popcorn. Kate’s gray eyes were coquettish, challenging. Then a smile curled her lips.

  “Gotcha again.”

  Frances laughed. Kate was just playing with her, teasing her for having such salacious suspicions. And now she knew. Her best friend and her husband were a regular, traditional couple. She and Jason had nothing to worry about.

  To celebrate, she reached for another chicken wing.

  dj

  THEN

  As soon as DJ saw Neil Givens at their front door, he knew something significant had happened. The attorney was always so dashing, so impeccably groomed. But as he entered their home that day, he looked unkempt and exhausted. Detective Williams was with him. She looked her usual robust self, but the intensity of her gum chewing had increased to an alarming degree. Her jaw was going to lock up if she didn’t relax.

  His dad led the guests to the living room, where they sat. DJ perched next to his mother on the arm of the sofa, causing it to creak under his significant weight. A steady diet of junk food, video games, and trial observation had made him soft and fat. But the bigger he got, the more invisible he became. No one bothered sending him to his room anymore.

  Givens took a deep breath, then began. “We’ve recently received some new and damning evidence in the case.”

  It should have been good news, but the man’s tense demeanor was contradictory.

  “Nelson’s ex-girlfriend has brought forward some videotapes.”

  “Of what?” His mom’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “Nelson videotaped several of the girls he assaulted, including Courtney.” The prosecutor swallowed, audibly. “Her actual murder wasn’t recorded, but her rape and abuse were.”

  “Jesus Christ!” his dad roared. His mom’s tears slipped down her cheeks in silence. DJ considered running to the bathroom and throwing up.

  “The tapes were hidden under the floorboards in Nelson’s young son’s bedroom,” Detective Williams explained. “The boy’s mother just discovered them. She brought them forward right away.”

  “I understand this must be unsettling for you,” Neil Givens said, “but they’re good news for our case against Nelson.”

  DJ’s dad nodded his comprehension. His mom blew her nose into a tissue. DJ waited. He knew there was more to come.

  “There’s something else,” Detective Williams said. “It’s about Amber Kunik.”

  “What about her?” His mother’s voice was hoarse with dread and tobacco.

  The prosecutor coughed into his fist before speaking. “The videotapes show Amber Kunik to be a more . . . enthusiastic participant in your daughter’s abuse than she previously led us to believe.”

  “What?” his dad snapped.

  The police officer spoke, her jaw clenched on that wad of gum. “Amber’s actions on the tapes are not those of a battered, traumatized victim.”

  “Amber is clearly enjoying herself,” Givens elaborated, “as much, if not more, than Shane Nelson is.”

  “Oh my god!”

  “Fuck!”

  The prosecutor looked down, his face ashen. “We would never have offered her the plea deal if we had seen this video.”

  “Cancel the deal!” his mother shrieked.

  “You can’t let her get away with this!” his dad boomed.

  “I wish I could. But it’s too late.”

  “The bitch played us,” Detective Williams griped, gum smacking. “The lawyers, the psychiatrists, all of us. She’s a master manipulator. A psychopath. She enjoys playing with people, she gets off on it.”

  “We underestimated her,” the lawyer muttered. “We’re sorry.”

  “You’re sorry? You’re fucking sorry?” His mom sobbed into her cupped hands. His dad placed a comforting arm around her, and DJ patted her back. Their guests sat awkwardly, waiting for his mother’s wails to subside. When they finally did, the detective and the lawyer got to their feet.

  Detective Williams broke the uneasy silence. “The good news is, Shane Nelson will go away for a very, very long time.”

  “But Amber Kunik?” His mother’s eyes were fiery.

  Neil Givens reluctantly met her gaze. “She’ll get away with murder.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  It was DJ’s own voice. He hadn’t even realized he had spoken.

  daisy

  NOW

  The alarm on her phone sounded at 6:45 a.m. Daisy rolled over and turned it off, then checked her text messages: nothing. Still. After the ride home, the offer of a drink, the intense yet undefinable energy between them, the man had not been in touch for almost four days. The man. She didn’t even know his name; he didn’t know hers. But here she was, pining for him like some silly little schoolgirl. Well, she was a schoolgirl, but she wasn’t silly. She was harder, tougher, stronger. She’d had to be.

  Throwing the duvet off her, she reached for her fuzzy pink robe. She kept it at the end of her bed for quick access on these cold, damp November mornings. Wrapping herself in its artificial softness, she scurried to the bathroom. Ennui clung to her as she performed her morning routine: shower, apply makeup, blow-dry and straighten hair. Her efforts were not for her peers. Now that she was the school pervert, they were all too busy gossiping about her proclivities to care about her appearance. But, if he—the man—showed up at Centennial, she wanted to look mature, sophisticated, confident. With wavy hair and no makeup, Daisy almost looked her age.

  When she was dressed and ready, she descended the stairs to the quiet main floor. Her brother would still be asleep. Classes at Forrester Academy didn’t start until nine, and her mom always chauffeured her golden child directly to the door. Daisy’s classes began at eight-thirty, and she had a ten-minute walk followed by a twenty-minute bus ride to school. Her parents would be eating breakfast—invariably toast and coffee—while perusing various news aggregators on their iPads. Their companionable silence would be broken only by her dad offering her mom coffee refills or another slice of toast. Robert doted on his wife nearly as much as Kate doted on Charles. Daisy was left out of the loop of affection.

  As she reached the main floor, she heard her father’s voice, tense and strained. When no response came from her mom, Daisy realized he was talking on his phone. She paused at the base of the stairs, around the corner from the kitchen, and listened.

  “Of course I’ll come, Marnie. I’ll book a flight as soon as I hang up.” There was a pause, then Robert continued, his voice hardened. “I know she’s not welcome. I wouldn’t do that to Mom. Not right now . . .” Silence as her dad listened to this Marnie person. “You’ve made your position perfectly clear,” he snapped. “I’ll text you my flight details.” He hung up.

  “Where are you going?” It was her mom’s voice, stressed, concerned. “You know I don’t like being left on my own.”

  “My dad died.” Robert’s voice was choked with emotion. “Heart attack.”

  “Oh, hon . . .”

  Daisy’s cheeks burned with outrage, betrayal. She rounded the corner, saw her father in her mother’s arms. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Daisy.” Her father stepped back. He looked caught, guilty.

  “You said your
parents died years ago,” Daisy cried. “In a car accident.”

  “I know. I—I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve had grandparents this whole time? Why would you lie to me?”

  Her father, always so confident and poised, was flustered. “I haven’t spoken to them in years, since before you were born. My sister just called. . . .”

  “I have an aunt, too? Why have you kept them from me?”

  “We fell out years ago. It was messy. It’s hard to explain.”

  “Try.”

  Robert opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He looked overwhelmed, shaken. Daisy had never seen him at a loss for words. Her mom took over.

  “Your dad’s family hates me,” she said, tersely. “Surely you don’t find that so hard to believe.”

  Daisy didn’t. But enough to disown their own son, their own brother? To never meet his children? Daisy’s eyes narrowed at her mother. “What did you do?”

  She witnessed her father’s panicked glance at his wife before he addressed his daughter. “When you’re older, we’ll explain everything.” The sentence was barely out of his mouth when her mother spoke.

  “She’s old enough to know.”

  “Kate . . .”

  “I’m old enough to know what?”

  “I had an affair,” her mom said. “When you were a baby. I hurt your father terribly and his family has never forgiven me.”

  Daisy looked at her dad. He didn’t look hurt. He looked . . . relieved. “It was a long time ago.” He exhaled. “I’ve forgiven your mom. But my family couldn’t. They’re . . . very religious.”

  Okay . . . Daisy addressed her mom. “And your family? Were you honest about them?”

  “You’ve met my mother, Daisy.”

  Daisy had, a handful of times. Her grandmother was obese, parked perpetually on a sofa in a double-wide trailer stuffed with knickknacks and yappy little dogs. She was not far away from Bellevue—in Portland, Oregon—but they had yet to visit since their relocation. Grandma Marlene loved her daughter, and seemed fond of, if disinterested in, her grandchildren. But she emanated an odor of greasy hair and decay.

  Her dad stepped forward, gave Daisy’s upper arm a squeeze. “I’m sorry you found out this way. We were trying to protect you, but perhaps we should have been more forthcoming.”

  Daisy said, “Can I come with you? To the funeral?”

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “My grandpa just died and I never got to know him. I’ve got a grandmother and an aunt in . . . ?”

  “Berkeley.”

  “I want to meet them. Before it’s too late.”

  “It’s not the right time,” Kate said. “They’re grieving. You can’t just show up on their doorstep.”

  Her dad spoke more gently. “I’ll talk to them, Daisy. I’ll tell them about you, that you’d like to get to know them. I’ll let you know if they’re receptive.”

  Daisy bit her lip and nodded. If they’re receptive. She already felt rejected by these strangers. These people she hadn’t known existed until moments ago already had the power to hurt her. For some reason, it made her want to cry.

  “I’ll get Charles up.” Her mom moved past her without a word of comfort. Her dad headed to the coffeepot.

  “Coffee?”

  “I’m late.” She hurried toward the door.

  * * *

  It was raining, as usual, as Daisy trudged to school. Her backpack was heavy, the homework she had ignored weighing her down. The hood of her raincoat was pulled low over her eyes, creating a tunnel effect as she walked through the puddles. Her feet, in her Nikes, were getting damp, but she barely noticed. The revelation that she had relatives was shocking, the fact that her parents had lied about them, disturbing. She had always felt so isolated, like her family was an island—or, more accurately, an iceberg—drifting from place to place with no ties and no connections. But she did have people—she had an extended family. If they didn’t want to know her, it was all her mom’s fault.

  Her phone, deep in her pocket, vibrated. She extracted the device and looked at the screen. Raindrops splattered the tiny words:

  How about that drink?

  It was him. She’d allowed herself to be distracted for a moment, and, like a watched pot that won’t boil, he had contacted her. She texted back:

  Sure.

  His response came:

  Wednesday. 10:00 PM. I’ll pick you up at the 7-Eleven

  where we met.

  k

  See you soon Daisy

  The man knew her name.

  frances

  NOW

  Frances walked through the quiet, gleaming halls of Forrester Academy. It was two-forty-five, and classes were still in session behind heavy oak doors, leaving Frances alone with the trophy cases, the tastefully displayed student artwork, the framed photos of successful alumni. She always felt nostalgic when she walked through a school, even one so different from the run-down public institution she’d attended. It was the innocence of childhood that she missed, that carefree era before responsibilities and regrets. Frances’s childhood had not been idyllic, but she had been happy enough . . . until the act that had destroyed everything.

  Marcus’s teacher, Ms. Patterson, had called Frances in this afternoon. The sixth graders were doing a special art project in Ms. Waddell’s class, leaving Ms. Patterson free for administrative duties. The teacher wanted to discuss Marcus’s behavior. Jason couldn’t come, of course, but Frances had promptly agreed to the meeting. A thick lump of dread was lodged in her chest, heavy and sticky, like the mucus that had tried to suffocate her when she’d had pneumonia as a child. What had her son done now? She prayed he had not peed in someone’s soup.

  A door opened just ahead of her and Allison Moss emerged. Fuck. Compact Allison was wearing a white smock over her designer casual outfit (before Frances’s brief inclusion in the power-mommy circle, she had not known that four-hundred-dollar sweatpants were a thing). Allison’s garment was splattered with white goop—paste or glue of some sort, indicating that she had been volunteering for the special sixth-grade art project. Of course she had.

  “Frances,” the petite woman said, looking positively stunned to encounter her in the deserted corridor, “what are you doing here?”

  “Uh . . . my son is a student here.” It was a smart-ass response, but it was out before she could censor herself. And Frances no longer feared Allison Moss and her power clique. With Kate in her corner, she was indestructible.

  Surprisingly, Allison’s response was pleasant. “I’ve been making papier-mâché”—she pronounced it with a flawless French accent—“with the sixth graders. Marcus is making a blowfish.”

  “Ah. . . .” Frances was at a loss. While she knew how to deal with a bitchy, judgmental, condescending Allison Moss, she was ill-prepared to deal with a friendly one.

  “Your son’s quite artistic, isn’t he?”

  “I guess.” This had to be a setup.

  But Allison’s smile looked sincere. “I’ve been doing art with the kids all week. It’s a pleasure to work with such a creative child.”

  “Thanks. I’m here to see his teacher.”

  “Of course. I’ll let you go.” The pasty woman took a step and then paused. “A few of us are forming a grounds committee. We want to plant a community garden here at the school, to teach the kids about agriculture, and growing their own food, and the environment. Maybe you’d like to help? You and Kate?”

  Suddenly, it all made sense. Frances’s friendship with cool, confident, beautiful Kate had validated her, made her worthy. But did she still crave this über-mom’s acceptance? Did she still want to be a part of the cool clique? Thanks to Kate’s friendship, she was rather indifferent.

  “Maybe. I’ll talk to Kate.”

  “We’d love to have you both on board. Have a nice day, Frances.”

  * * *

  Ms. Patterson was alone in the classroom, seated at a heavy blond desk, her head bent over a pile
of student papers. Frances rapped on the open door to announce her presence.

  “Frances.” The teacher stood and smiled a greeting. She was about thirty, pretty in a wholesome, schoolteacherish way. “Come in and take a seat.” She indicated a chair opposite her desk.

  Frances obeyed, her heart fluttering with dread.

  “Thanks for coming in.” Ms. Patterson gave her a smile intended to comfort. “It’s wonderful to see parents engaged in their child’s education.”

  Frances cut to the chase. “What did Marcus do?”

  Ms. Patterson chuckled. “He hasn’t done anything wrong. In fact, he’s become a real pleasure to have in my classroom.”

  Frances’s shoulders sagged with relief. “I thought . . .”

  “I’m sorry. I should have told you there was nothing to worry about in my e-mail.”

  That would have been nice. But she was too pleased to be annoyed.

  “I know Marcus got off to a bumpy start,” the teacher continued, “but he’s really settled in. He’s engaged in lessons and contributing to class discussions.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Frances said.

  “He’s come a long way socially, too. I think his friendship with Charles has done wonders for his self-esteem.”

  “I agree.”

  “The other kids are more accepting of Marcus now. They seem to have left the water bottle incident behind them.” She gave Frances a warm smile. “With Charles in his corner, Marcus feels a new sense of belonging.”

  Charles had done for Marcus what Kate had done for Frances. She and her son had been saved from the solitary life of the social pariah by the Randolphs. Frances may not have deserved such a pure friendship, but Marcus did. He was innocent and good. Gratitude welled up inside of her, threatening to manifest in tears. “I’m just . . . so happy to hear that,” she said, trying to compose herself.

  Ms. Patterson recognized the emotion on Frances’s face. “It’s wonderful to see your son excelling,” she said. “I think he’s going to have a great year.”

  * * *

  As she strolled back to her car in the parking lot, Frances felt light and buoyant. Marcus’s newfound sense of independence had relegated her to the pickup line or the lot—under no circumstances was she to wait outside his classroom or in the foyer. She didn’t mind. The boy’s autonomy was more evidence that he was maturing, moving in the right direction. Despite the financial sacrifices she and Jason had to make, Forrester was the right place for their son.