Disciplining Little Abby (2 page)

“You need to grow up, Mal,” Eva chimed in. “Just because you’re unhappy doesn’t give you the right to attack me. I don’t deserve your attitude just because you’re angry about your own failures.”

Abby’s hands clenched into angry fists as she looked around the table. Both Julia and her father stared nervously at their plates, while Eva and her mother scowled at her. It was like being fifteen all over again, but not the parts she cared to repeat. Maybe she
had
been trying to push their buttons, but it had just been in fun. She hadn’t really meant anything by it, but as she felt her cheeks begin to flame, she realized she was mad. In fact, she was beyond mad. She was pissed.

“Well, I’m sooo sorry you don’t like being called Mom,
Mom
. It must really suck to be constantly reminded that you have such a failure for a daughter!” Abby shoved herself back from the table and threw her napkin across her barely touched plate. “I fucking hate being called Mallory, but you refuse to call me Abby, so I guess we’re both shit out of luck on that, huh?”

“Mallory Dawn, you watch your mouth!” her mother gasped, but Abby was just getting started. Whipping her head around, she redirected her fury towards Eva.

“And you don’t like my attitude? Well fuck you, Little Miss Perfect! You’re right, my car didn’t die! I parked it there so you’d have to drive around the block because I know how much it pisses you off. Poor Eva. I’ll bet you bitched your way into a new crop of wrinkles over it!” She stomped across the room to the archway by the hall, then turned to glare at each of them in turn. Julia’s eyes silently pleaded for her to stop, sit down, let it go. Her father simply stared at her miserably and said nothing. Somehow his silence cut her more than her mother’s words, and she felt tears welling up in her eyes. The thought of crying in front of them only made her madder.

“And you two just sit there and let them say whatever they want without once defending me! Thanks a lot, Dad. Jules. Nice to know I can always count on you two!”

Snorting in disgust at their weak protests, she gave them both a dramatic eye roll. “I’m outta here,” she snapped. It took her three strides to reach the door, and she slammed it loudly behind her as she left the house. She could hear Julia calling for her to come back, but she was in no mood to listen. Breaking into a run, she rounded the end of the drive and headed up the road before her little sister could try to catch her.

Running wasn’t a regular activity for Abby, and by the time she was halfway down the fourth block, an unwelcome stitch took up residence in her side. Clutching her ribs just under her left breast, Abby slowed to a walk, gasping for breath as she went along and desperately wishing she had Mr. Jingles to hug. Without his comforting presence, she opted for a smoke instead. Digging into her hip pocket, she retrieved the crumpled pack and shook out a slightly bent cigarette. Thankfully the neighborhood park lay at the end of the block, and she made her way towards the nearest bench as she lit up her last smoke.

It was one of her favorite places to retreat to whenever she came home. A skateboard park had been put in right after her thirteenth birthday, and she had many fond memories of long afternoons spent there, just her and her board and a few close friends. Sighing gratefully, she flopped down on the bench, draping her arms across the backrest. Memories of happier times rose to the surface, and the knot in her throat began to ease up as she relived the freedom of her youth, at least the part of it spent away from her family. To her relief, the tears that had threatened to spill over finally receded. As much eyeliner as she’d slapped on, she didn’t want to imagine what she would have looked like if the waterworks had cut loose.

Her eyes fell upon a
Three Sixty
magazine at the end of the bench, and she reached for it curiously. It was a local publication aimed at the skater community, and she hadn’t seen one in years. Flipping through its dog-eared pages made her feel both young and old at the same time. She remembered the lingo, but the players had all changed.

Abby took a slow drag off her cigarette and watched a group of teenagers practice heel flips and rail slides and being cool at the skateboard park. It seemed like just yesterday when she was the one doing darkside grinds and laser flips and hanging with the skater boys, and she could probably still ollie circles around them, but at thirty-two-years-old, they would just think she was weird or a sex pest or something.
Probably do anyway
, she mused as she pulled her legs up to sit cross-legged on the bench.
Sitting here, staring at them like some Mrs. Robinson pedo
. Not that she was looking at them in that way, but she doubted any of them would understand. It was a cruel cosmic joke that had forced her to grow up but left her feeling not a day over fifteen, and she wondered if it was that way for everyone.

Judging from the twenty-going-on-forty-year-olds she worked with, she doubted it.

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a slender blonde girl wearing ponytails watching her from beside one of the mobile ice cream vendors. In one hand she clung to a brown stuffed bunny, in the other an ice cream cone. Beside her stood a tall, attractive cowboy type that Abby assumed was her father. Apparently realizing she was being watched back, the little girl turned to the man beside her and tugged on his sleeve, whispering in his ear when he finally leaned over. He glanced briefly at Abby, then ordered another ice cream cone.

The next thing she knew, the girl was skipping towards her, ice cream in each hand and the giant stuffed bunny tucked tightly under her arm. As the girl came to a stop beside her, Abby was stunned to realize that what she had assumed to be a ten or twelve-year-old was actually a grown woman of at least twenty, perhaps more.

“I like your eyeliner,” she said with a giggle, holding out an ice cream cone to Abby.

“Thanks,” Abby said, uncertain how to react as she accepted the cone. “Um, I like your bunny.”

“I’m Josey,” she said with a grin, and Abby found herself grinning back in spite of the utter weirdness of the whole encounter.

“I’m Abby.”

“You’re not a teenager,” the bunny-toting woman observed, and immediately Abby tensed.

“And you’re not ten,” she retorted.

She watched as the woman licked the ice cream from her fingers and then reached into her pocket, pulling out a business card and handing it over. Accepting it hesitantly, she flipped it over and read the front.

Mr. Green

“Who the hell is Mr. Green?”

The little blonde giggled and covered her mouth, and Abby was struck by how utterly innocent and childlike she seemed. “Someone you should call, silly!” she giggled as she started to turn away. “I promise you won’t be sorry!”

Abby watched as the strange woman galloped away to rejoin the man she’d thought was her father but now realized must be a boyfriend or husband. With wonder she watched as he grinned and ruffled her hair indulgently, then took her hand and led her towards the movie theater across the street. Flipping the card over, she saw a number on the back, worn and thin and carefully re-written in indigo crayon.

“Why the hell not?” she muttered to no one as she pulled out her phone and began to dial.

She was watching the odd couple stand outside the theater, studying the movie posters when a smooth, female voice came on the line and immediately asked when she would like to set an appointment. Startled, she hung up, then let out a nervous giggle. She’d half expected the number to go to a florist shop. Perhaps Mr. Green’s Flowers. It had a nice ring to it. Before she could set her phone back down, it rang. Caller ID showed the number she’d just hung up on.
Shit.
Hesitantly, she answered it.

“Hello, I’m calling from Mr. Green’s office. I believe a call was just made from this number?”

“Um,” Abby stammered uneasily. “Yeah, sorry about that. Lost the connection right as you picked up.”

“I completely understand,” the woman on the other end assured her. “It happens all the time. Now, when would you like me to set your appointment? I have an opening in half an hour. Would you like me to pencil you in?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you guys do. Some girl, woman really, she handed me a card with your number and then took off. I was just curious. I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

“No apology needed, dear. Ordinarily our clients tell their referrals more about the nature of the service, but sometimes our younger ones get so excited, they forget. Mr. Green offers a sort of matchmaking service, part therapy and part life coach, in a manner of speaking. If you’re free in half an hour, he’ll be happy to explain it to you himself. No obligation, of course.”

Abby considered her options. The last thing she wanted to do was go back home and face the music that was no doubt waiting for her. But was this really a good idea? Why did the girl give her the card in the first place? Was it because she was also dressed way too young for her age? Was that how the girl met her handsome companion?

Hang up now
, her common sense voice insistently warned.
Hang up and go home. Be an adult for once in your life. Tell Mom you’re sorry and throw that card in the trash
.

Instead, she agreed to the appointment.

This is crazy.
Abby could barely believe the sound of her own voice as she gave the woman her name and location and agreed to wait for the driver to arrive in ten minutes.
You’re going to wind up dead in a ditch!
The corner of her mouth twisted into a grin at the idea of becoming the subject of a cold case homicide reenacted by marginally talented actors on some true crime drama show. She doubted her mother would appreciate that sort of scandalous publicity.

“Betchya’d be wishing you could still hear me call you Mom then,” she mumbled dryly. She looked toward the theater once more, but the couple had disappeared.

Exactly ten minutes later, a sleek, black sedan pulled up to the curb beside her, and a tall, muscular driver in a sharp uniform got out and opened the rear door. Mirrored sunglasses reflected back a ponytailed woman with overly blackened eyes about to gnaw her lip off. Hesitantly, Abby moved towards the sedan but came to a halt just shy of the door. Her common sense voice demanded she dismiss any ideas of getting into the unknown car at once. As usual, it was rapidly being drowned out by the surge of adrenaline that always came when she was about to do something stupid. Cautiously, she peered at her image in the driver’s sunglasses, trying to see through it to the eyes behind.

“I know you’re probably feeling a little bit afraid, Miss Abby, but I promise you’ll be very safe with me.”

The sound of his voice startled her almost as much as the fact that he spoke. She’d expected him to sound deep and intimidating. Instead, he sounded gentle and kind, like a protective older brother. Her stomach flip-flopped as she glanced into the car’s immaculate interior.
Whadja expect, bloodstains?
Looking back, she realized he was watching her over the top of his sunglasses, a bemused twinkle in his now visible eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “It’s just all my life I’ve been told not to take rides from strangers, you know? And you guys are like, the Godfather of strangers, and I’m supposed to just hop in and ride off to who knows where—”

“Does your cell have some sort of map app or GPS on it?” he interrupted. “If so, go ahead and turn it on now. That way you’ll know exactly where you are at all times and can dial 911 in case we have an accident, or a flat tire, or I suddenly morph into Dexter.”

Abby giggled at the reference to her second favorite TV show. “Dexter only kills serial killers and murderers though,” she quickly pointed out as she finally slid into the backseat.

“Well then, you’ll be perfectly safe with me,” he smiled, shutting the door behind her.

The ride went by quickly and they pulled up in front of a seemingly deserted strip mall at exactly seven-thirty without having suffered any accidents, flat tires, or murders. She took in the details of the empty parking lot and foreboding exterior of the building as the driver came around to help her out. Standing before the imposing building, the fear and anxiety from earlier returned with a rush, and she found herself wanting to flee back to the safety of the car that she’d feared only minutes earlier.

“Listen, I don’t know that this is such a great idea,” she hedged, staring uneasily at the blank front windows and deserted lot. “I mean, this place has murder palace written all over it.” To her surprise, he burst out laughing.

“I know,” he chuckled. “You should see it at night. I keep saying they should at least rent out a few of the store fronts so it doesn’t look like something out of a bad horror movie. I promise you though, it’s safe.”

“That’s what they always say,” she argued, though her distrust was rapidly being replaced with curiosity. “Right before the guy who says it sprouts claws or pulls a machete out.” Throwing up her hands in mock surrender she followed him to the front door, which he held open and told her to go down the hall and take the third door on the right. “I’ll be waiting out here to take you home after your appointment is over. I promise you’ll still be in one piece, Abby.”

The thickly carpeted hallway muffled the sound of her Vans as she tentatively walked towards the third doorway. Somewhere, someone had been burning a cinnamon scented candle, and her mouth watered as her stomach reminded her of the dinner she’d run out on. Too soon she stood before the third door, a heavy oak one with a brass knob and a golden nameplate proclaiming it to belong to Mr. Green. Abby wondered if the little blonde at the park had once stared at that nameplate with the same curious mix of excitement and fear, if she too had thought of racing back and begging the driver to take her home. The idea that the strange girl had probably sucked it up and walked in suddenly surfaced. She couldn’t imagine chickening out if the other girl hadn’t. Breathing deeply, she pushed the door open and went inside.

A simple but massive desk dominated the windowless room, its only adornment yet another nameplate and a dark leather briefcase with brass corners. Seated behind the briefcase was a man that didn’t fit any of Abby’s expectations. She guessed him to be in his mid to late thirties, good looking with a well-trimmed mustache and bright green eyes that seemed to take in every detail of his surroundings in an instant. His thick, salt and pepper hair was neatly styled, and the perfectly ironed linen suit he wore looked out of place in the office but completely at home against his tanned skin. If ever there was a man who belonged strolling along a beach at sunset, Abby decided it was the one sitting across from her.