Her Pretty Face

by Robyn Harding

  As she approached her Outback, Kate’s black Navigator pulled into the parking lot. Her friend exited the car and headed toward the school (of course, the always amenable Charles had no issues with his mom coming inside to retrieve him). As usual, Kate was effortlessly stylish, polished, and put together, but when Frances glimpsed her face, her expression was grim, somber.

  “Kate!” she called. The woman turned around, and her countenance brightened slightly. They moved toward each other.

  “Robert’s dad died.”

  “Oh, Kate. I’m so sorry.” She hugged her. Kate accepted the embrace, but she didn’t soften into it, she didn’t fall apart. Frances released her.

  “We weren’t close,” Kate explained. “In fact, Robert’s been estranged from his parents for years.”

  “Sometimes it’s harder when there are unresolved issues,” Frances offered.

  Kate pressed her lips together and nodded. “He’s going to the funeral. In Berkeley.”

  “Will you and the kids go?”

  Kate shook her head. “Robert’s parents never liked me. It’s a long story.”

  “When does Robert leave?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Come for dinner tomorrow,” Frances said. “You and the kids.”

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “You won’t be. Marcus will be thrilled. And you and I can cook and have some wine. You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

  “What about Jason?” Kate asked. “Will it be awkward after the whole swinger thing?”

  Embarrassment pinkened Frances’s cheeks. “No. It was a misunderstanding. It’s all forgotten.”

  “Okay. . . .” Kate gave her a grateful smile. “That sounds nice.”

  Frances squeezed her friend’s arm. It was the least she could do after all Kate had given her. And all Charles had given Marcus. “Daisy might be bored by the boys and the adults, but she can watch a movie. Or she can bring her homework.”

  “She’ll probably have plans.”

  “She’s welcome to join us,” Frances said.

  “I’ll mention it to her,” Kate said breezily. “Thanks, Frances. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  The school bell rang then. Both women turned their attention to the stream of children pouring out the front doors.

  dj

  THEN

  The day the tapes were played for the judge and jury, DJ wasn’t allowed to go to court. In fact, he wasn’t allowed to go at all anymore. It was September, and school was back in session. His mother insisted his education had to come first.

  “One of us has to try to lead a normal life,” she said.

  But that day, as he sat outside in the baking Arizona heat, eating his packed lunch (a deli-ham-and-mustard sandwich, a bag of chips, and eight Oreo cookies), he wondered if it would have been less upsetting to be in the courtroom. He was alone, as usual (no one wanted to sit with the fat kid, the kid with the murdered sister, the kid who did nothing but play video games), and his mind was running wild.

  He could hear his sister’s screams in his imagination, hear her cries of terror and pain. Had she called out for her mother? Screamed for her daddy to save her? Courtney would have begged for her life, pleaded with Shane and Amber not to do those disgusting things to her, not to make her perform those debasing acts. What had they made her do? What DJ was envisioning was probably worse than the reality. It had to be. . . .

  But when his parents came home that evening, DJ knew he had gotten it wrong. What his mom and dad had seen in court that day was worse than anything he could have conjured. They walked into the house like zombies: pale, lifeless, destroyed. His mom didn’t look at him; she went straight to her room. She didn’t even take her cigarettes with her. His dad went to a cupboard and took down a bottle of scotch. He never went back to beer.

  The next morning, when DJ got out of bed, his mother was gone.

  daisy

  NOW

  The final bell had rung, prompting Centennial High’s students to pour into the main arteries like carpenter ants in a colony. Daisy moved through the masses like a spirit. No one noticed her anymore. She was thankful the snickering had diminished; the cruel comments and scandalized whispers about what she had done to Liam Kenneway had nearly stopped. But her peers’ opinion of her had ceased to matter. Her mind swirled with thoughts of estranged relatives, her mother’s infidelity, her upcoming date with the enigmatic stranger. . . . School politics was low on her list of things to stress out about.

  Her recent anonymity was comforting, in a way. There was a downside to her striking looks: salacious leers, envious glares, idolizing gawks. Now she was virtually invisible, and she kind of liked it. With her head down, she reached her locker and fiddled with the lock.

  As soon as she opened the door, something fell out. The object must have been balanced on the top shelf, tipped by the physics of the opening door. It was small but heavy as it thumped on Daisy’s chest, then bounced down her body. When it hit the floor, it rolled a couple of feet before stopping. Daisy looked at the small black object. It was shaped like a spade, but it had a flat base. What the hell was it?

  “Oh my god!” a male voice shrieked. “It’s a butt plug!”

  Fuck.

  “It fell out of Daisy’s locker!”

  They hadn’t forgotten her. She was not invisible. Ninth graders could not be expected to forgive such depraved, deviant sexual behavior so quickly. Someone was seeing to her continued humiliation. But who? Who, in her fourteen-year-old cohort, even knew what a butt plug was? And who had the brass balls to buy one? To plant it in Daisy’s locker? Her money was on Tori Marra.

  Everyone was freaking out now, a chorus of shrill disgust filling the hallway. A nerdy boy kicked the offending object across the hall, and a female student booted it on. It continued that way, a game of butt-plug hot potato, each player crying out in revolted delight.

  “Pick it up, Daisy! It’s getting ass germs all over the floor!” It was Tori Marra. She was standing next to Dylan Larabee, their attractive faces alight with cruel glee.

  Daisy’s heart was pounding, her cheeks on fire. If she picked up the sex toy, she’d be admitting ownership. But how else to get this horrible hockey game to stop? Even if she tried, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to retrieve it. Daisy would be forced to chase the butt plug as it skittered across the waxed floors, a dog careening after a squirrel. The humiliation would be supreme.

  An Adidas running shoe came down on top of the spinning black toy, stopping the action. The trendy footwear belonged to Liam Kenneway, the boy who had rejected her advances, then turned her into a freak, a pariah. He bent down and picked up the plug.

  “Who put this in Daisy’s locker?” His voice was cold and commanding as he held the anal sex toy aloft. It was a comical milieu, but no one dared giggle, and the squeals had been silenced. Liam was too cool, too popular, too good at football to mock.

  As expected, no one stepped up.

  Liam strode to the garbage bin at the end of the row of lockers and slammed the sex toy into it. It rattled in the empty barrel, the sound sending relief flooding through Daisy.

  “Whoever put that thing in Daisy’s locker is an asshole,” Liam declared. (No one dared chuckle at the word choice.) “Daisy and I never did anything weird. I was just fucking around, trying to be funny. Leave her alone.”

  Coats and books were grabbed, locker doors slammed, and students headed home. Only Liam and Daisy remained standing, an awkward face-off in the evacuated hallway. Their eyes met. Daisy felt a confounding mixture of gratitude and contempt. Tentatively, the boy closed the gap between them.

  “I’m sorry I said you did those things.” His voice was soft, sincere. “I was embarrassed and mad. I wanted to hurt you.”

  “Well done,” she snapped, past resentment winning out over current appreciation.

  “I went too far. I know that. But . . . why didn’t you deny it?”

  Daisy shrugged. �
��I guess I didn’t want everyone to turn on you.”

  “So you let everyone turn on you.”

  “I can handle it,” she said. “We’ll move in the next year or so, anyway; we always do. I don’t care what the kids at Centennial think of me. And you do.”

  Liam looked at her for a long moment, his attractive face perplexed. “You’re not like the other kids here.”

  No kidding.

  “You seem older. And wiser. It’s like you understand things the rest of us don’t.”

  Daisy shrugged, mildly flattered.

  “I don’t know who put that thing in your locker, but I’m sorry. Hopefully, now, everything will go back to normal.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “But we’ll still say we had sex, ’kay?” His expression was hopeful. “I mean, it would be too much if I said I was joking about that, too.”

  Her voice was flat. “Sure.”

  Liam smiled, then sauntered down the hall. Daisy grabbed her coat and shuffled toward home.

  frances

  NOW

  Frances had gone to Pike Place Market to buy fresh prawns and handmade pasta. She’d picked up two bottles of Pinot Grigio and a decadent chocolate mousse cake for dessert. As she set the table with her wedding china, she worried that she was creating too festive a mood. Her dinner with Kate was a somber occasion. Robert’s father had died. Charles and Daisy had lost their grandfather. But when Kate arrived with two bottles of sparkling wine in hand, Frances realized her worries were for naught.

  They fed the boys first (pasta in a simple tomato sauce), and let them abscond to Marcus’s room. Jason was working late, so the two women sat down to their meal alone. As Kate oohed and aahed over the pasta dish, Frances was glad she’d made the effort. Her friend seemed comforted and consoled. In fact, Kate didn’t seem at all upset about her father-in-law’s demise. Other than the phone perched next to her plate, it could have been a completely normal evening.

  “I know it’s rude,” Kate said, referencing the device beside her, “but I don’t want to miss Robert if he calls. He might need to talk.”

  Frances had expected her to mention Daisy. The fourteen-year-old was not in attendance. “Where’s Daisy tonight?” she asked, casually.

  “With friends,” Kate said, sipping her white wine.

  “What are they doing?”

  “Who knows.” Kate shrugged. “These prawns are perfect. I always overcook them.”

  Frances smiled her thanks, but her friend’s indifference toward her daughter’s whereabouts concerned her. Kate seemed to have ultimate confidence that Daisy could take care of herself. Frances did not. That morning, in Kate’s living room, the girl had revealed her insecurities and self-doubt to a virtual stranger. She was not the strong, competent kid her mother thought she was. Frances knew, more than most, how vulnerable a troubled teen was, how easily she could be hurt, manipulated, led astray. But how could Frances burden Kate with this knowledge now? She would wait until Robert was home, until they’d dealt with their grief.

  Kate’s phone on the table vibrated to signal a text. She picked it up and looked at the screen for a moment.

  “It’s Robert,” she muttered, chewing her pasta. “They’re having the wake now.”

  “It must be hard for him, going through this without you.”

  “It’s better this way.” Kate put the phone down and picked up her fork. “Robert’s sister and his mom can’t stand me.”

  “Why?” Frances was slightly incredulous as she bit into a prawn. How could Robert’s family not accept his pretty, sweet, funny wife?

  “They thought I was too young for him. They didn’t trust my motives.” Kate twirled fettuccine onto her fork. “Robert was a big fancy lawyer when we met. I was beneath him.”

  “But surely they can see how happy you’ve made him? And the beautiful family you’ve created together?”

  “People don’t see what they don’t want to.” Kate reached for the bottle of wine, refilled Frances’s glass. “What’s Jason’s family like?”

  “Jason’s dad passed before I met him. His mother is positively regal.”

  Kate giggled as she topped up her own glass.

  “She is!” Frances elaborated. “Conchita speaks Spanish and English and French. She owns an art gallery in Denver. And she looks like Sophia Loren. She’s always intimidated me, but we get along fine.” She sipped the cold wine. “I’m more comfortable with Jason’s sister. She has four kids, so her life is utter chaos. We relate to each other.”

  “Families . . .” Kate rolled her eyes as she nibbled a prawn. “I’m an only child. Dad’s gone. Mom lives in a trailer park in Portland with her fur babies. We’ve had our issues but we get along okay. What about your family?”

  Frances chewed a mouthful of pasta, her mind flitting to the letter that had arrived a couple of weeks ago. She had waited until she was alone in the house—Jason at work, Marcus at school—to read her mother’s missive. It began casually, with family news: A cousin had had a baby; her older sister had been promoted at work; Dad joined a chess club. But then, as always, the tone shifted.

  We miss you, Frances. We miss our grandson. We want to be a part of your life. Please let us back in.

  But her mother didn’t mean it. It was parental obligation that kept her reaching out to her estranged daughter. Why would her mom and dad want to be reminded of the devastation Frances had caused? The pain and the hurt and the shame she had brought into their lives? Frances wanted to cut them loose, absolve them of their responsibilities, allow them to heal and move on. But every few months, a letter arrived. And every few months, Frances burned it over the sink and washed the ashes down the drain.

  Sometimes, Frances could go days without thinking about what she had done. She would focus on her son and her husband and the life they had built in Bellevue. And then something would remind her—a teenage girl, usually, a tragic news story, or one of her mom’s letters. Frances would be forever haunted by her actions, and she deserved to be. Her family did not. They were better off without her.

  She swallowed. “We’re not close.”

  “How come?” Kate asked, her eyes seeking Frances’s.

  Frances met her friend’s gaze, and again, they shared that moment of recognition. Kate got her. Frances could open up to her and share her dark secret without judgment. If anyone would listen and try to understand what she had done, it was Kate. But it was a fleeting consideration. Even Kate could not forgive the terrible act Frances had committed. And she couldn’t risk blowing their friendship apart. Marcus needed Charles. Her son was happier and calmer, his meltdowns decreased by half, at least. Forrester Academy deserved some credit, as did the child psychologist he saw regularly, but she knew it was the boys’ camaraderie that had had the biggest impact. Even the teacher, Ms. Patterson, admitted it.

  And Frances had grown to need Kate. The friendship had made Frances more confident, less anxious, and slimmer. She couldn’t attribute her weight loss directly to Kate, but she was down eleven pounds. Eleven! She had more energy, more motivation, more vigor. Her house was cleaner than it had been in years. Her slim, stylish, organized friend was an inspiration. She couldn’t lose her.

  “Typical rebellious-teenager stuff,” Frances fibbed, setting her fork on her plate. “I put my parents through the wringer.”

  “I was a bad girl, too,” Kate said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Tell me the worst thing you did.”

  God, if she only knew . . .

  There was a rumble on the stairs, then, announcing the boys’ arrival. Marcus barreled into the kitchen, trailed by Charles. Frances’s son’s cheeks were rosy, his eyes bright. Both boys looked happy, content, carefree.

  “Is there dessert?” Marcus asked.

  Frances jumped to her feet, grateful for the interruption. “Chocolate mousse cake, coming right up.”

  daisy

  NOW

  Daisy was back at the 7-Eleven, flipping through a copy of Us W
eekly. The man had told her to meet him there at 10 p.m. It was now 10:08, and she was still waiting. Behind the counter, the same stern cashier who had been intent on foiling her liquor purchase stood sentry. Daisy felt abashed, conspicuous, but the slight man paid her no attention. She was one of dozens of minors who attempted to buy alcohol on any given night, no one special. Still, she kept her distance.

  Her nerves were getting the best of her. The longer she stood, waiting, the more she needed to use the bathroom. And the more she feared that the man would enter while she was in the bathroom and then leave, thinking she hadn’t shown up. But the longer this went on, with her anticipating the grumble of the big car, head jerking up every time the door sensor made its electronic ding-dong, the more she was certain she was going to have to run to the toilet. She had always been troubled by a nervous stomach, and she had never been this nervous in her life.

  Frances Metcalfe’s words replayed in her mind, something about predators, men on the lookout for lonely, vulnerable girls. But that wasn’t what this was. If the guy had wanted to have sex with her, he would have gone with her when she’d invited him to join her for a pink vodka cooler. There was something deeper at play here. The way he looked at her, like she was a rare treasure he had stumbled upon. It should have been creepy, but it wasn’t.

  Daisy checked her phone for the millionth time. 10:10. At what point should she consider herself stood up? At 10:25, she told herself. If the man had not arrived by then, he wasn’t coming. And if he did come that late, and she was still waiting, butt cheeks clenched tight, she would look desperate and pathetic, like some adoring fan. Any minute now, the brown man at the counter would notice her loitering, spot the backpack slung over her shoulder, perfect for shoplifting, and tell her to leave. She considered purchasing the magazine, but she had already read half of it.