Deadgirl (9 page)

I thought of the barrel of a little silver revolver. I thought about the gunpowder taste. The powerless violation of being shot to death in an alley for no reason. For being left alone, bloody, and confused. Thrown away like trash.

I cried until I feel asleep, curled against the side of my bed, squeezing my knees into my chest and rocking like a child.

I found myself huddled on a cold grey beach. I wished I could feel some ache of surprise, but I had expected it. I tucked my face between my knees, listening to the surf, tasting the salt-spray, convincing myself that I was dreaming. I sat there for hours, my cheeks still wet with tears, tugging my bright orange bathrobe against my body. I let my mind wander. I willed the time to pass, willed the sense of foreboding terror out of my mind. After a time, light welled onto the sand between my knees, where my eyes were turned.
Dawn.
When I looked up at the faded sherbet-orange sun, peeking out from the charcoal sea, I woke up.

My bed was immaculate—I’d spent the night tucked into a ball next to the bed.

You spent the night on a beach
.

“No, I didn’t.”

Cramped into a ball, I should have felt sore. I should have been tired, twisted up into that pretzel of flesh. Instead, I felt refreshed, comfortably cool. The manic energy of the night before had dimmed somewhat, but I still felt like at least one cup of coffee burned through my veins.

I showered and make-upped. Got dressed in something simple—a scoop-neck black shirt sporting a band I barely remember and a pair of jeans. My white-and-baby-blue sneakers. A black belt with studs and little rhinestones lined up boy-girl down the leather. I twisted my long black hair up into a high pony-tail and gave myself another once-over in my bathroom mirror.

Pretty, but I could lose weight
. I pinched the skin just above my hips—nothing noticeable, and if I even called myself fat I knew much heavier girls had a right to beat me with a pipe. Still. Mom called it baby-fat, but that didn’t make it better. I turned sideways.
Blegh
. I turned back.

Big butt, some tummy. Good boobs for fifteen, but not spectacular. Blegh
. I needed to stop hanging out with Morgan. Not that that was going to happen, ever.

I ran a hand across my stomach and felt a stab of pain. I yanked up the edge of my shirt and slid my fingers across my pale skin.
No pain. No scar. No hole
. The hysteria receded as quickly as it had come.

I tugged my shirt back in place and ran downstairs. Dad wasn’t around, and Mom tried more than a few times to hear about our fight. Deflecting her questions wasn’t easy, but I was stubborn, and after a while she dropped it. I wasn’t hungry, despite my lack of dinner, but I wolfed down three eggs, two pieces of toast, and four pieces of bacon before calling it quits. When I was finished, I felt only a warmth in my belly that should have been gut-stretching pain. It didn’t take much brainpower to ignore the feeling—it was the least of the strange things I had experienced thus far.

“You’re dressed up for Sunday breakfast,” Mom said as she scooped up our plates.

“Not really.”

“Ha. Most Sundays you never leave that filthy bathrobe.”

“It’s not filthy,” I said, scooping the utensils off the table. “You’re filthy.”

“Good one. Going somewhere?”

“Depends. Mind if I borrow your old bike?”

“No,” Mom said. The sound of plates moving stopped. “Why?”

“I just want to go for a ride,” I said. “Want me to pick up anything at the store?”

Mom turned and leaned against the counter. Her face spoke volumes.

“Mom, I’m fine,” I said. “I just need some air.”

“How’s your head?”

It took me a second to catch up with her. The phony head wound, the one I’d told the cop about. “It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll take it easy, I promise.”

Mom nodded.

“Fine. I’m taking you up on your offer though.”

“What?”

She smiled. “I want the newest Cosmo, if it’s there. And a box of Shake ’N Bake.”

I nodded and put my hand out, palm up, with the sweetest smile ever conjured curving my lips. The classic teenager money-palm. She snorted and shook her head. I didn’t think it was going to be that easy.

“What about change from the other night?”

I sighed. I actually had a substantial chunk left from the date, but I’d been hoping to squirrel it away for future expenses. No such luck, apparently.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll get your stupid magazine.”

“Don’t forget the stupid Shake ’N Bake.”

I flashed her a
ha-ha-you’re-so-hilarious
look and headed for the back door.

The screen door smacked shut behind me. I crossed the back porch, the ill-kept backyard lawn, and made a beeline for the old wooden shed. My bike, a sickeningly pink Schwinn, had disintegrated into a pile of rust flakes about two years ago. My mom’s bike was virtually dustless, its gears still slick with black oil. She liked to hit the local trails, and Dad kept it in good working order for her. Dad enjoyed the
dread
mill himself, however, and didn’t ride with her.

His bike had suffered the same fate as mine. We’d all gotten bicycles for Christmas my fifth-grade year, a plan to get us all in shape with
family fun rides
. We’d ridden together only once, on New Year’s Day, as part of a resolution to do more activities together. I’d fallen off my bike, bloodied my nose, and shredded my shins, and Dad’s gears had devoured his favorite pair of sneakers. Only my Mom had come out of the ride with a positive experience.

I leaned, one foot on the lawn, the other tucked into the spiky foot of the pedals. At that moment, I wondered just where the hell the urge to go riding had come from. Fresh air sounded great, but adrenaline sounded better. Slinging down the dock ramps behind the Ralphs’ at blasphemous speeds made my hair stand on end just thinking about it. Part of me just wanted to
go
—not be at home, not be at school. Maybe in alien solitude I could find some answers.

Probably not, but worth a shot
.

I took off down the driveway and out into the street.

The winding roads out of my neighborhood passed by in a blur. I focused on the spring of the handlebars, the rasping-groan of the tires against the asphalt, the rattling clink of the gear chain slipping between cogs. I breathed in the smell of eucalyptus trees and wet, freshly cut grass. I listened to the suburban melody of Sunday morning lawn mowers, dogs barking, and cars roaring to life.

I hadn’t been on a bicycle in almost a year, but it was doing its magic just minutes into my ride. I weaved between the street and the sidewalk, flying up driveways, and hopping off curbs. I played Ride-The-Gutter, I played Eyes-Closed. I didn’t make it past three seconds with my eyes shut, but I came out of each attempt with my heart hammering in my chest. My cheeks hurt from smiling by the time I skidded out in front of the grocery store.

I locked the bike up out front and shuffled inside.

Stabbing florescent lights, the cold white opposite of the dreary gray outside, slapped me awake and out of my musings.
What the hell was I here for?
I snapped my fingers a few times like a beatnik poet to get my bearings. Shake ‘N Bake. And a Cosmo. If it’s new.

I never understood my mom’s love of Cosmo—I was only fifteen, as inexperienced as that age only sometimes alluded to—but I couldn’t imagine that the subject of the
tips
inside really warranted “50 New Ways to Rock His World” every month. A bit of quick math told me that if Cosmo had been running for at least ten years, it had given six-thousand new ideas to Knock His Socks Off. Call me crazy, but I don’t think even brain surgery was that complex.

As I wandered through the aisles, looking for the Shake ’N Bake, a voice drifted over my musings. Finally, an arm tugged my shoulder and turned me around. A mangled scream choked out of my throat, but I was too terrified to do anything.

“Lucy!”

Morgan, standing in front of me, holding my upper arm with one hand, threw the carton of eggs she was holding. It arced behind her and exploded on the tile, sending runs of yellow and clear goo streaking in a starburst around the broken Styrofoam.

I held my hand over my heart, the universal sign of
you just scared the hell out of me
.

“Holy crap! I’m sorry, I just…I saw you and I didn’t think. Of how. Of what you’re… I mean…”

I raised an eyebrow. Her skin was flushed a bright scarlet. Her usually gorgeous curtain of blonde hair was half mangled into a ponytail—with wide unintentionally loose crescents of hair dangling at strange angles around her head. She wasn’t wearing any make-up, and her skin looked sallow and greasy.

“Are you okay?” I asked her. I only got to the you part before she hugged-tackled me into the Hamburger Helper shelf.

I sucked in a deep breath through my nose, inhaling a strange scent. She smelled like old fear.
I pictured her in the cute dress she’d been wearing for the date night, but an unfamiliar bulky denim jacket covered her top half. Her bare calves sported long lines of dull red scratches, and her sandals and feet were caked in dirt. She wandered through a long stretch of green shrubs next to a chain-link fence, clutching a cheap blue plastic flashlight in one hand and her cellphone in the other. Her face was cast in stone, but her eyes, wide like a doll’s, gave everything away. Only the passing strobe of the cars on the freeway lit her trembling body.

The image cracked and fell apart. I was staring at Morgan now, who was holding me at arm’s length and staring at me. I covered my mouth, a thrill of fear poisoning my stomach.
What was I seeing?

“Sorry,” I said, and went right to my go-to excuse. “I’m still… My head.”

I touched the back of my head, and this time I felt a sharp stab of pain. I winced, the only real one so far, and probed the tender flesh again. Something crunched under my fingers, and I knew it was blood drying on a long gash on my head. A goose-egg the size of a plum rose from the center of the dried-up cut. I sucked in another breath.

The back of my head had only been scraped, nothing more. Not cut, not swollen. My hand fell loosely from the back of my head. Morgan caught the horrified look on my face.

“Luce, what’s going on? Your mom told me what happened, but I didn’t know if… I didn’t know if you told them the whole story.”

Anger. A bright red cherry of it, burning the back of my eyes. The next person to ask me in gentle baby tones if I had been raped was going to get a fist in the mouth. Still, the rational part of me, somewhere napping in the back of my head, knew I was being a child. Everyone just wanted to make sure the worst hadn’t happened.

Of course, it had, but not in the way they imagined.

“I told her the whole story,” I said. “I’m okay. Just a little shell-shocked I guess.”

Morgan nodded, but the look of gentle probing pity didn’t recede. It was a mask I was seeing on every face all of a sudden. “Okay.”

She didn’t believe me.

“Morgan, it was scary and awful and a nightmare,” I said. “But that’s all. I didn’t even get robbed.”

That didn’t help my case, I realized. It made the whole thing hinge on implausibility. What band of thugs knocks out girls for kicks and makes a run for it?
None, that’s who
. It sounded like a lie because it was one, I reminded myself. People around me were smart, and I was pissed off because of it.

“Okay,” Morgan said again. It was the “okay” that I hated so much. It was a crazy person’s okay. If I had told her that a tribe of pygmies had saved me from my attackers, she would have given me the same okay. There wouldn’t even be a change in inflection.

Of everyone in the world who would believe me unconditionally, I thought it would be her.

“Okay,” I said. My voice dripped icicles. “Well, it’s good to see you.”

Again, Morgan wasn’t stupid. I didn’t get anything past her. She leaned forward and grabbed my wrist again. The mask of pity was replaced with something resembling confusion.
Better,
I supposed.

“I’m sorry, Luce,” she said. “I just… We all searched for you, you know? We all thought… You aren’t exactly the run-away type. Not in the middle of a date. I’m just… I don’t know how to deal with this.”

I nodded, but I couldn’t get rid of my disapproving frown and the cold set of my features. It was stupid and stubborn, but I don’t care. I’d believe her in a heartbeat. I wouldn’t vomit pity on her like she was insane.

“I have to go,” I said. A pair of stock boys had already spotted Morgan’s egg carton mess and were moving in with mops and buckets.

“Wait,” she said. “Can I call you tonight?”

I paused, looking down at the hand on my wrist. “I just need some alone time.”

She nodded and let go of my hand with a sudden crispness.

“Okay,” she said. That damn okay.

As I scooped up my box of Shake ’N Bake from the shelf and made for the check-out aisle, Morgan spoke up. I only half-turned toward her when she did.

“I’ll see you Monday?”

I nodded. “Still want a ride?”

She frowned. “Yeah.”

She said it like she’d taken a swig of bad milk.

“See you Monday.”

I paid for the Shake ’N Bake and headed out the door. I welcomed the gray dimness of the overcast sky, and it reminded me more than a little of the beach and the highway and the foggy nothingness of my dreams. I’d been a regular bitch to Morgan, for no reason. Plus I’d terrified everyone, gotten Morgan and probably Daphne in deep trouble with their parents.
All for what?A stupid date?

When I got to my bike, and I was holding the bike lock in one hand, a sudden spike of panic shot through my body.
Run
. Run run run run run.
Run or die.
Run or
die
.

Sweat slicked my skin, and I stumbled under the incredible weight of the terror spreading through every pore in my body. I dropped the bike lock with a dull rattle and ran. A pair of soda machines stood against the side of the building not far away, and I jumped into the nook between them and pressed myself as hard as I could against the white brick wall.