Broken Monsters (28 page)

Layla's phone
rings the second she hangs up on Jonno. Her mom. Like she's freaking psychic.

“Hi?” she says, going for annoyed to cover her panic.

“Where are you?” Gabi snaps.

“In the parking lot.”

“Where the news crews are?”

“No! Give me some credit, Mom. Around back, where you park your car.”

“Good, stay there. We're going to visit your friend Cas.” It's an indication of how stressed out Gabi is that she doesn't ask Layla what she's doing in the parking lot.

She doesn't talk to her on the drive, which Layla is grateful for, because she's terrified that if she opens her mouth, all her secrets will come flying out—VelvetBoy and now Jonno Haim. She avoids looking at her mom's laptop bag and the camera on the backseat. It's weird to see her mom so caught up in this case that it's almost a physical thing riding on her back, like the ghost in a Japanese horror movie she saw once.

The doorman at Cas's apartment building starts to say a flirty hello, but then he registers their air of bleakness and he bites it off. “Afternoon, miss, ma'am,” he says, giving a little salute.

“You okay, Lay?” her mom asks as they ride up in the elevator.

“It's all fucked-up, you know?”

“Oh, beanie, I know,” Gabi sighs. “I know. It's not your fault.”

Layla clenches her jaw. It takes everything she has not to spill it all.

But then Cas throws opens the door of the apartment and flings her arms around Layla, almost knocking her off her feet. “You crazy, crazy bitch. What did you do?”

Layla hugs her back, holding on to her to stop the ground from falling out from under her.

“Take it inside, girls,” Gabi says, grim.

Cas's dad is in the kitchen, pouring a double scotch. “You want one, Gabriella?” he says, also wearing his serious parent face.

“Seems so.”

“I'm afraid Helen is out of town. But I can tell you everything you need to know. Cas, why don't you and Layla go to your bedroom?”

“But you're talking about
us,
” Cas protests.

“That's exactly why you shouldn't be here,” Gabi says.

Cas slams the door of her room. Her bed is unmade. She's ripped all the pictures off the wall, leaving them bare with traces of blue tack. She sits down on the floor with her back against the wall and hugs a pillow to her knees. Layla finally sits down next to her. It's not like it was before. They're quiet, trying to find a way back to each other.

“I can't turn my phone on,” Layla says. “Every time I do, thousands of new messages come in. It's just beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-bitch-bitch-bitch-bitch. At least they could be more original.”

“It's text-bombing,” Cas says. “You can get an automated program for it. I had the same thing. Only I think I got more like thirty thousand.”

“Always with the one-upmanship,” Layla complains.

Cas snorts. “Hey, I didn't do what you did. You were pretty fucking bad-ass, Miss Avenger.”

Layla puts her head in her hands. “Shit, Cas. I'm in so much trouble, and the thing is I barely remember doing it. It was like a dream. You know when you wake up and you can't really remember? I blanked the whole thing.”

“It's the brain's way of protecting itself. Like I don't remember anything about that night.” Cas laughs, but it's full of glass. “I found out about it the same way everyone else did. Online. I was in trig and these kids were watching it. I thought it was some stupid porno parody. Then this boy I've never said a word to before comes up to me and grabs my breasts in the middle of the cafeteria, and suddenly everyone is laughing.”

“Is that why you don't drink?”

“Not after that. My dad had me go to the hospital for all these blood tests. He wanted to prove that they roofied me. But it only stays in your bloodstream for like one day, so it was already too late.”

“Did they…?” Layla can't say it. Rape. Happens to nice girls every day. But the word sticks in her mouth, like taffy to her palate.

“Oh, I got the gynecological works. That was the first thing they were worried about. But turns out I'm still a virgin. Oh, please. Don't look so shocked. Like you're not.”

“Actually…”

“What? No way. With Dorian?”

“No. The boy next door in my old 'hood. Tim Schosswald. I used to walk past his front yard every day. It was full of flowers. His mom was this big gardener. It was warm out, and he sprayed me with the hose as I went by. I was so angry, I chased him and he dropped it and ran for the back, and then when I caught him and told him he was an asshole, he kissed me. We just kissed for a long time. Do you ever wonder about that in the movies? Why they don't kiss more? It's like kissing-to-fucking without changing gear. Why do they do that?”

“They're movies. They also have serial killers with social consciences and teenagers accidentally hacking into the FBI database with their cell phones. Oh my God, I can't believe you never told me this.”

“Yeah, well, turns out there's stuff we didn't tell each other.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Me too.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened with Tim?”

“It went on for a week. We never talked about it, but I'd go out every day at five, in my shorts, and walk past his yard, and he'd be watering the flowers and he'd spray me, and I'd chase him and we'd end up kissing on the grass.”

“No texts, no emails?”

“That was what was beautiful about it. I don't think we said more than ten sentences to each other.”

“And?”

“It got heavier.” And more intense. Her desire came as a surprise to her. “We kissed a lot and we got naked.”
She
got naked. Shedding her wet clothes. Her T-shirt with the Flying Spaghetti Monster, her pastel-yellow shorts, wriggling out of them, pulling them down over her sneakers. He helped, kissing her hands, kissing her stomach, the hard points of her hips, moving down lower so that she gasped and tilted her hips up to his mouth. He kissed her between her legs and she felt everything realign around that part of her body. The earth revolves around the sun. The grass was itchy under her back and it wasn't fair that he was still wearing his clothes. She fought with his belt and he pushed her hands away and unbuckled it himself and yanked his jeans to his knees. He said, “Oh God,” and then he was inside her and it was excruciating and sweet and the smell of blossoms was overwhelming, like walking into the perfume aisle, and she had thought
this
,
this is it.

“And he came in like three seconds. Does that count?”

“Was there penetration?”

“Three seconds' worth.”

“Then it counts. Oh my God, Layla, you slut.”

“I didn't really know what had happened. He was so embarrassed, he pulled up his pants and walked into the house and never spoke to me again. That was like the one good thing about the divorce and moving away, that I didn't have to see him every day, specifically avoiding me. It was so sad and stupid. I mean, I thought I was in love with him. I sent him like a hundred text messages. And selfies. ‘Look what you're missing out on.' How pathetic is that?”

“I think my mom thinks I was asking for it,” Cas says, quietly. “She looks at me sometimes, like she knows how it is to be a girl. In a room full of boys.”

And have them want you, Layla thinks. That was what was so intoxicating with Tim. Her own desire amplified by the urgency of his desire. Not like touching herself, where it's just your need to contend with, your sexual imagination. It's better when the craving is mutual, a feedback loop. She felt like a goddess. She felt worshiped.

“Like maybe she's done something just as stupid.”

“There's no copyright on stupid. And you were drunk.”

“I wish…” Cas cracks. “I wish she'd tell me. Because all the time I feel like she's judging me, and I feel like she's disappointed in me. That's the worst. Worse than the stupid text messages from crazy bitches calling me a whore, or the looks I got in the hallway, or knowing that everyone had seen it. That's why I took the pills. I had this whole plan. It wasn't a cry for help. It was real. I was going to swallow pills, then throw myself off the garage roof into the pool, with a plastic bag over my head so I'd suffocate and drown. But I passed out before I could even get out the front door. My dad found me in the kitchen, covered in puke. He's the one who got crazy about it. Lawsuits and takedowns and all that shit. My mom talked him out of it. Said I had enough to deal with. So we moved. Changed our names. I mean, they're still all Amis-Holt, but I'm just plain Holt. And I'm not Isabella anymore. That's why Ben and I go to different schools, to try and protect him. Every single time he gets a message on his phone, I worry that it'll be a link to the video. And my dad still gets Google alerts on it. I just want to say to him, Dad, it's done. Enough already. This proves it, right? You can't outrun your past.”

“Not even in Detroit.”

“Those guys were just stupid kids. I've forgotten their names already.”

“Screw them. And Travis and his crew.”

“You mean Gummy Russo?” Cas cracks a grin. “The tooth fairy must owe him like a thousand dollars.”

“Wish she'd pay up. My mom figures we might be liable for his medical bills, that maybe if we pay for them, they won't lay an assault charge. I don't want to go to juvenile detention, Cas.”

“How much are we talking?”

“Ten thousand dollars, maybe more. She can't afford it, Cas. I don't think we've got that much in my college fund. And I can't ask my dad. He's got little kids to look after now. This is my fuckup. I need to sort it out.”

“What are you going to do?”

“You know the guy who put the video up about the art party? He says he'll pay me for exclusive images.”

“And if you read between the lines with the secret decoder ring?”

“He said I'd be helping the investigation, that my mom's hands are tied…”

“Gross. Bondage.”

“Can you be serious for one second?”

“No. It's how I live with myself.”

“Well, he offered me two grand to steal crime-scene footage from my mom. I told him to make it ten.”

“If you think about it, it's not
really
stealing. It's more like piracy or, I dunno, WikiLeaks, because you're copying them rather than taking them away.”

“You're a terrible moral compass.”

“But I'm a great GPS for dollar bills.”

They both jump at the knock on the door.

Gabi looks drawn, and Layla realizes she's carrying two Japanese ghosts on her back—her responsibility for the case and her responsibility for her daughter—and that she's the one really weighing her down.

“Come on, Layla,” Gabi says. “We have to go. It's late.”

“You're not going to fill us in?”

“We'll talk about it tomorrow. I have to go see Travis's parents.”

“Can I come?” She wants to take that load off her mother's back. “I can grovel, Mom. I can be the sorriest girl in the world.”

“They don't want you there right now. He's just out of the hospital. But I promise, tomorrow we'll sit down and figure out what to do together, all right?”

“Can I sleep here, then? Please? I don't want to be at home by myself right now.”

Gabi is surprised. “If that's all right with you?” She looks at Cas's dad.

Andy nods. “It'll be good for them. You girls can cut class tomorrow. Go see a movie at the Renaissance Center. Use your mom's taxi account. Take it easy. Heck, if you like, Layla can stay over tomorrow night too.”

“Are you sure? That would be a huge relief,” says Gabi, pulling Layla into a hug. “I love you, sugarbean.”

“I know, Mom,” Layla says. “You too.” The guilt chews on her. “Don't send me away, okay?”

“We'll see,” Gabi says. “Let's start with you phoning your father to explain all this to him.”

Detroit's roads
are built like spokes, radiating outwards, with the miles marked off. You can follow Woodward Avenue all the way up past Eight Mile, which is the hard border of the city, and watch the urban blight transform into suburbs with rolling lawns out front and SUVs and Priuses parked in the driveways, occasionally together.

On the way to Grosse Pointe, Gabi tries to call Sparkles back, but his phone goes straight to voicemail. She leaves a message as she pulls into the driveway, fringed with rose bushes. “Hey, rookie, call me. Where are you?”

Edward and Donna Russo's house is done up in rustic country style, with the wood showing through the paint. Like ripped designer jeans; you pay more for a touch of shabbiness. Maybe it's like a magic ward, Gabi thinks, to help keep
poor
at bay.

Travis is somewhere upstairs, in his room. When Gabi called earlier, Donna Russo had explained that it would be a very bad idea to bring Layla. “He practically has PTSD, the psychologist says. He's on antianxiety medication. And painkillers, of course. I don't know what seeing her would do to him. It might be a trigger.”

“She wants to apologize.”

“She should have thought of that before she beat him within an inch of his life,” the woman gasped before hanging up. Frankly, it makes it easier that Layla stayed with Cas. It means Gabi only has to play nice up to a point.

She has managed to get hold of the doctor's report. It helps to be on first-name terms with half the city's ER nurses from her days on patrol, walking in wounded thugs and civilians caught in the crossfire.

There is no doubt Travis is badly hurt. He has a mild concussion that needs monitoring. His jaw is fractured. A hairline crack that runs from his mandible joint, halfway to his chin, although no one can explain how that caused all his teeth to fall out. “Possible early-onset osteoporosis??” one doctor has scrawled in almost illegible blue pen. It doesn't make sense. It gives her the same queasy feeling she has about the case.

There is an enormous lamp looming over the dining-room table, a red sphere of unraveling wires that has her wanting to duck. It's incredibly warm in here. Underfloor heating, Gabi figures, because the fireplace is one of those fake gas numbers with glowing coals.

On the shelf above it are a series of black-and-white professional photographs, in frames made from reclaimed wood. Here they are laughing, smiling, goofing around, Travis jumping on his dad's back, his mom holding her hand to her mouth, the smile peeking through her fingers. Here they look terribly serious, all in plain white T-shirts and jeans, their arms tangled around each other's waists or thrown over a shoulder, staring unflinchingly into the camera. This is love, the photograph says. This is family. What you got?

When Gabi was picking out a new school for Layla, she liked that Hines High had a mix of students from different backgrounds and classes. But now, sitting here, at this table, under a wire sun with the Russos, she's not so sure there should be any mixing. Hell isn't other people, it's other parents. And parents with money are another species, even though on the surface they have so much in common. Only child. Mixed race.

She wonders how their son ended up at a charter school in the city—maybe he has a track record of expulsion or sexual harassment, something she can use as ammunition.

The Russos sit opposite her: Edward with his thick dark hair and Italian nose in business casual, and Donna with her straightened hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, resting her hand on his on the table, as if to remind him to stay calm. They want her to beg for clemency. Which they have already intended to deny, she knows. Because the prosecutor phoned her this afternoon. The family has political connections—in Lansing, not Detroit, but enough to force him to go all out with the charges.

“I want to start by saying I'm very sorry for what happened. We want to make this right with you and your family. Layla has never done anything like this before.”

The mother opens her perfect mouth, and any guilt Gabi is feeling is allayed by the incredible stupid that comes out of it. “I hope not. I really hope not. You being a single mother and all.” It's worse than patronizing. It's
patronizing
. “I admire your courage, trying to do it on your own. But it means…I'm sorry, this is probably hard to hear. But it means you can't be there all the time. You don't know what she's doing. Where she's going. What she's taking.”

“Layla wasn't on any drugs.”

“We've asked for blood tests.”

“Not without parental consent.” She'd give it, of course, but she wants to remind them that there are procedures, that the law is democratic and justice is blind—or that it's supposed to be.

“The school is going to search her locker. We're going to prosecute. And take it as far as we can.”

“I understand you want her to be punished—”

Donna smacks the table with her open palm. “She
ruined
his face!”

“It's going to cost nineteen hundred dollars per tooth,” Edward says with awe, as if this is something to be proud of.

 “I'm absolutely willing to cover whatever your insurance doesn't pay. It'll come out of Layla's college fund.”

“College?” Donna laughs bitterly. “She shouldn't be going to college. She should be admitted to a mental hospital! She needs serious help. And it's not just the reconstructive surgery. What about the humiliation? In front of the whole school. Do you know what kind of damage that does to a young person's confidence?”

“Please listen to what I'm about to say to you. You're well within your rights to press charges—” Gabi is holding on to her patience with a death grip.

“Yes, we are.”

“But even with the most severe judge on earth, I can tell you that Layla is not going to serve any time in juvenile detention or prison. She will do community service. It will go on her record, but because she is fifteen, it will be expunged when she turns eighteen. The judge will take into consideration that she has no priors, that she is the daughter of two upstanding long-serving police officers, and that she experienced a traumatic event two days earlier that affected her emotional state—”

“This is
corruption!
” Donna shrieks. “This is exactly what people are talking about when they complain about the system. You people look after your own.”

“It's the way the law works. For any teenager with no prior record.”

Edward puts his arm around his wife. “Your daughter is
not
going to
walk
after assaulting our son with a deadly weapon.”

“The charge would be ‘serious assault with intent to do great bodily harm less than murder.'”

“That's for the judge to decide. Whether she was trying to kill him. Totally unprovoked.”

Gabi finds her death grip is slipping. “Let's talk about that,” she says. “About provocation. About what is going to come up in the case, and parents who don't know what their kids are up to. Let's talk about Travis distributing child pornography.”

“Honey?” Mrs. Russo looks across at her husband, but it's more of an appeal for him to put Gabi in her place than any real concern.

“Do I need to call my attorney?” He's bored with all this. Money buys you a nice house in the suburbs, along with expensive lawyers who can make problems disappear.

“Travis posted a video to his Facebook page of an underage girl being sexually assaulted at a party.”

“That's not child pornography.” Still bored. Still the upper-class hand.

“Technically, it's exactly child pornography. If convicted, Travis will get a place on the Sex Offenders' Registry. Which does
not
get expunged from your record when you turn eighteen.”

“You've got to be kidding me,” the father says, half standing up. She worries that he is going to bump his head on that ridiculous lamp. “Your daughter viciously assaults our son, probably hopped up out of her mind on drugs, and you dare to try to turn this around on him?”

“This is America. Sex is worse than violence.”

“You think he made some video? You think
our
son would do that?”

“That would be a much more serious charge. It's from Oakland, made a year ago. It's of a fourteen-year-old girl called Isabella Amis being sexually assaulted at a party. Travis was just being a dumb kid and sharing it around without thinking about the consequences. He made a stupid mistake.”

“And your daughter did the same?” Donna sneers. Gabi admires the way she loads up her sarcasm with extra syrup.

“
Your son
also grabbed Isabella Amis's breasts at a party, in front of her peers, if you want to talk about public humiliation. So, add sexual assault plus a cyberbullying charge, although Michigan lawmakers are still figuring out the protocols on that. This could be a landmark case. None of this excuses what Layla did—but her defense would definitely raise this as extenuating circumstances. It would all come up in the trial, if you did decide to prosecute.”

“You've got proof?”

“I have screengrabs of his timeline. Comments by his friends. I'm sure he's deleted everything he can by now, but social media leaves ghosts. The corporations back up everything: Facebook posts, text messages, Snapchats. All on a central server somewhere, and they can be requisitioned by a court of law. Deleted is a terrible misnomer.” Only half of this is true, but Mr. Holt gave her all the jargon to dazzle them with. They sat and went through the kids' profiles together, grabbed what they could. He did it with the grim satisfaction of a survivor.

“Show us this video,” Donna Russo challenges.

“I'm afraid I can't do that. It would constitute a criminal offense. You'll have to ask your son about it.”