The Dead Girls Club (ARC)

by Damien Walters

  “I can’t,” she said.

  There was talking in the background; she covered the phone and spoke, but I couldn’t hear what she said.

  “Who’s that?” I said.

  “The television. I just had to turn it down.”

  I heard a familiar giggle, a Rachel giggle. If she was there, Gia was, too. I wiped tears away before they fell, so they didn’t count.

  “Maybe later, then?” I said, trying to sound fine. I bit the side of a cuticle, ignoring the sharp sting.

  “Sure,” she said, then added in a whisper, “It was their idea not to invite you. Don’t be mad at me. Why would you want to hang out with me anyway? I’m crazy, right?”

  With that, she hung up. I hugged myself tight. What were the three of them doing right now? Were they talking about the Red Lady, or were they talking about me?

  * * *

  When my mom started vacuuming and told me to scoot, I took a book to the playground. There was a mom with a little kid near the slide, but by the time I climbed to the top of the monkey bars, they were on their way out. Swinging my legs, I read a few pages, the sun warm.

  A trill of laughter broke the quiet. My fingers clenched the bars; my stomach knotted. On the sidewalk passing the playground, Becca, Rachel, and Gia were walking together. I drew air to call out but clamped my lips shut. I was right there. All they had to do was look to the side. Then Becca did look. Her gaze caught mine, then she cat-blinked and looked away. I told myself it didn’t matter, but it did. It mattered more than anything in the whole world. I closed my eyes, not wanting to cry, and when I opened them again, my friends were gone. I felt like I had a huge hole inside me. If I’d told the truth the night of the second ritual, everything would be different. Becca would still be my best friend, and she’d be walking with me, not Rachel and Gia.

  My side ached with a sharp pain in the wrong place to be a cramp. Hands in fists, not caring if anyone heard, not caring that she wasn’t real, I said, “You took my friends away from me; isn’t that enough? You made them hate me. Just leave me alone.”

  I stayed at the playground for a little while longer, but every time I tried to read, the words jumbled in my head. I spent the rest of the day in my bedroom with the door closed.

  For dinner, it was only me and Mom. Dad went to the Orioles game with his work friends. I pushed my peas in small circles and dragged my fork through my mashed potatoes. My mom started eating, but she kept sneaking peeks. Usually it was cool when it was the two of us, because we’d talk about stuff like periods and bras. My dad never cared if we talked about it around him, but it was easier when he wasn’t there.

  “Is everything okay?” she said. “You seem a little down lately.”

  I stared at my plate. “It’s nothing.”

  “You know you can talk to me about anything at all.”

  “I know,” I said.

  I made myself eat, but everything tasted like nothing.

  “You haven’t been hanging out with Becca much lately,” she said. “Did you two have a disagreement?”

  I traced my initials in the condensation on my glass. “Sort of. She wants to hang out with Rachel and Gia instead of me. Like we’re not even friends anymore.”

  My mom clasped her hands beneath her chin, elbows on the table. “Sometimes friendships change, sweetheart. Sometimes people’s interests change and they get closer to one friend or another for a little while.”

  “But they’re not supposed to change like that. Becca’s my best friend,” I said.

  “She can be friends with Rachel and Gia and still be your best friend.”

  “Not if she doesn’t even want to talk to me.”

  “Maybe you need to give her a little bit of time,” she said. “I’m sure everything will be okay, especially once school starts.”

  All I could think of was sitting alone in the cafeteria. I’d rather die. My throat got thick, but I swallowed iced tea until it stopped and I had brain freeze. I didn’t want to cry in front of her. She acted as if she knew, but she didn’t. Maybe she could have a fight with her friends and be fine, but it wasn’t the same for me. She hadn’t seen how Becca’d looked at me, then looked away. Everything would not be okay. Not in a million years.

  I tried to read for a while, but the story wouldn’t stick in my head, so I took a walk, ending up at the empty house. I knew they’d be there, even before I sneaked to the side and saw light peeking through the basement curtains. I didn’t want to go in. Didn’t want to sit outside either. Mostly, I didn’t want to fight anymore. I didn’t want them to be mad at me. I decided to tell them what I’d felt the night of the ritual. I’d tell them I hadn’t admitted it because I hadn’t wanted her to be real. I’d tell them whatever they wanted to hear so we’d be friends again.

  The door to the house was unlocked, like they knew I’d be coming, but I kept my footsteps light so I wouldn’t scare them. Laughter pealed out from the half-open basement door, first loud, then muffled, and I leaned against the doorframe.

  Rachel said, “I think it’s better with Heather not here.”

  Gia said something I couldn’t hear.

  “Yeah, she’s been…”

  “A bitch?” Rachel said, her whisper sharp as a nail.

  They all giggled.

  “I don’t understand why she’s been acting so weird,” Gia said.

  “She’s dumb,” Rachel said.

  Becca said, “She said I was crazy. Do you think I am?”

  Rachel’s and Gia’s nos were clear as day. My fingernails bit into the wood. I didn’t think that. Her thinking the Red Lady was real was crazy. There was a big difference. She knew it, too.

  “Maybe the Red Lady doesn’t like her,” Becca said. “Maybe that’s why she didn’t see her, why she didn’t dream about her.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t like her either,” Rachel said.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t,” Becca said.

  My eyes went all teary. How could they say those things? I’d never talk about them that way. I wanted to stomp down the steps and start yelling, but then they’d hate me even more. I wanted to run out of the house, but that would make me a chicken, so I called out, “Hello? Are you here?”

  There was a bunch of furious whispering. Then Becca said, “Yeah, we’re here.”

  I made sure to act normal. They were all sitting close and didn’t make a space for me, so I sat a little off to the side. “How come you didn’t tell me you were coming here tonight?”

  Rachel and Gia shot side-eye looks at each other.

  Becca shrugged. “We didn’t think you’d want to come, since we were talking about the Red Lady.”

  “But maybe I would’ve. You could’ve at least asked. I mean, if you don’t want to be my friends anymore, just tell me.”

  Rachel opened her mouth like she was surprised, but it was faker than fake. “We never said that.”

  Gia said, “I don’t even know why you keep hanging out with us. It’s not like you want to do the stuff we want to.”

  I waited for Becca to say something, to tell her she was wrong, but she didn’t. She looked at me, then past me like I was nothing. Like I wasn’t even there. That hurt most of all.

  “I heard you,” I said. “I came here to say sorry, to try and make things right, and you’re talking about me? It’s better with me not here? I’m dumb? We’re supposed to be friends.”

  Rachel put her head down, but I saw her smirking.

  “If I didn’t want to hang out with you anymore, I’d tell you,” I said. “I wouldn’t be a chicken, sneaking around and acting like you didn’t exist. I wouldn’t walk past you on the playground and pretend I didn’t see you.” I looked straight at Becca. She didn’t turn away. Didn’t look embarrassed or guilty, either.

  “You don’t care about the Red Lady. We do,” she said. “You don’t even think she’s real, so when we’re talking about her, you make faces and think we’re idiots for believing in her.”

  “I do not.”
<
br />   “Yes you do,” Gia said, bobbing her head with each word.

  “It’s not our fault,” Becca said. “So stop acting like it is.”

  “Then whose fault is it? Everything was fine until you started telling those stupid stories.” I flung out an arm.

  “See?” Rachel said. “You think they’re stupid.”

  “Why do you even care?” Gia said, pulling her chin down to her chest. “You should go home.”

  “Yeah, go home,” Rachel said.

  I waited, hoping Becca would tell them to shut up. She opened her mouth to speak, but coughed. Her eyes grew wide and she coughed again, pressing her forearm to her mouth. The back of my throat tickled, but I swallowed against it. Rachel’s and Gia’s mouths worked, too. Becca coughed a third time, thick and muffled, as though her mouth was full.

  I felt dirt in my mouth and nose. I could taste it, dry and crumbling and mixing with my saliva into a thick paste, choking me, cutting off my air. I rolled onto my hands and knees, hanging my head low. Laughter filled my ears, a weight pressed on my chest, and that strange, sharp pain coiled in my side. I clawed at my face, trying to pull out something that wasn’t there. Rachel and Gia were doing the same. Becca was on her side, fingers curled at her throat.

  My head went swimmy. The laugh grew louder, the pain sharper. Everything hurt and the weight pushed me down and down and down. Someone touched the back of my head and spoke against my ear, but I couldn’t hear through the choking. Then, in the span of a blink, the dirt was gone. I shoved two fingers past my teeth, sure I’d find dirt or a ragged stump where my tongue should be.

  Gia tugged the ends of her hair. Rachel hugged her stomach. Becca was pale, with shadows under her eyes. Rachel started crying, softly at first, then harder, her shoulders shaking back and forth. “Was that her?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” Becca said.

  “Why would she do that to us?” Gia said. “Why would she hurt us?”

  “It’s her fault,” Rachel said, pointing at me. “Everything was fine until she showed up.”

  My gaze locked on Becca’s, and her lips curled, the same thing she did when she got away with telling her mom a lie. Something crumpled inside my chest like a paper cup beneath a sneaker sole. I wished she’d really choked to death. I wished they all had. If my skin were laced with poison, I’d touch them and leave them writhing on the floor.

  I bounded to my feet, took the stairs two at a time. I didn’t shut the door, didn’t care if anyone saw me leaving, didn’t care about anything except getting away. I ran across the field, kicking up dirt, and my chest hurt by the time I turned onto my street. My parents’ car wasn’t there, so I raced into the house and flipped the lock.

  In my room, I stood in front of the mirror, still shaking, and opened my mouth as wide as I could. My tongue was there and there was no dirt, but I could taste it. That wasn’t the worst part at all. Inside, I was scooped out and filled with lava.

  I unhooked the half-heart and threw it in my trash can. “I hate you,” I said. “I hate you all.” After a couple minutes, I fished the necklace out and put it in my dresser drawer, underneath a bunch of old T-shirts.

  “I thought you were my friend,” I said. The lava kept bubbling and burning, and I wanted to pour it all over the three of them until they were nothing but a pile of charred bones. I didn’t even feel bad for thinking that. Not even a little. I hated them more than they could ever hate me.

  * * *

  “Becca’s on the phone,” my mom said, peeking in my bedroom.

  I lowered my book just below my eyes. Yesterday she was talking about me behind my back and now she wanted to talk to me? Not even funny. “Can you tell her I’m taking a nap?” I said.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I don’t feel good.”

  Her eyebrows went up, wrinkling her forehead, but she shut the door. A little later, she came back and perched on my bed. “Sit up,” she said.

  “I don’t want to,” I said. “I’m reading.”

  “But I want you to,” she said.

  I sighed, but did as she asked.

  “Move closer, please, and turn around.” When I did, she gathered my hair together and ran her fingers through it, catching on the tangles. “What a mess you’ve got here.”

  Slow and careful, she brushed the ends, working out the tangles one by one. Her hair wasn’t as long as mine, but it was thick, too, so she knew how to do it so it wouldn’t hurt too much. She didn’t talk while she brushed, but when all the snarls were gone, she said, “Now count to one hundred.”

  “Mo-om,” I said.

  “Hea-ther,” she imitated. “Count.”

  “One, two, three…”

  I kept counting as she kept brushing, long, even strokes from my scalp to the bottom. She stopped when I reached one hundred and kissed the top of my head. “Feel better?”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “Good. Counting was the only way you’d sit still when you were little.”

  “Not true.”

  “Yes, very true,” she said. “If I wanted you to sit, I had to get you to count.”

  “How come you’ve never told me that before?” I said.

  “Pretty sure I have.”

  “I would remember.”

  “Hmph,” she said. “Not if you didn’t want to, you wouldn’t.”

  “Hmph,” I said, and she bonked my shoulder.

  “What’s that on your finger?” she said, pointing to blue smears on my index finger.

  “I don’t know. Ink, I guess. Next you’ll tell me how I used to draw on myself.”

  She gave a little laugh. “And how you did. Luckily only once with a permanent marker. And I know I’ve told you that story.”

  “Yeah, I remember that one.”

  “See? All right, I need to throw some laundry in. Your dad’s out of underwear and we don’t want him running around the house naked.”

  “Mom! That’s gross.”

  She took my hand again, and I tried to curl my fingers in so she wouldn’t see the ragged cuticles. She didn’t speak, just kissed them one by one, as if she was wishing away the hurt, and I did feel better, a little.

  * * *

  The phone rang while my parents were grocery shopping, and L. THOMAS flashed on the caller ID. Was Becca going to call me every day until I answered? Were her and Rachel and Gia giggling and calling me names, waiting for me to pick up? But I did anyway, waiting until the fifth ring. “Hello?” Everything was quiet on the other end, and I said louder, my stomach tight, “Hello?”

  “Heather?” Becca said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Um, I … can I come over? I…”

  Her words melted into a puddle of sadness. Yes rolled on my tongue, but I shoved it between my cheek and teeth, remembering the way she looked at me, the way she didn’t defend me. The lava boiled to the surface again, so hot it scorched my throat.

  She kept sniffling.

  “Please,” I said. “You’re so faking. Is this supposed to be a prank call, because hello, it’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m not. I swear I’m not.”

  “So why don’t you call Rachel or Gia?” I said. “They’re your new best friends now.”

  I could be cruel, too, but the words hurt me deep inside.

  “Please be kind,” she said.

  And rewind, I mouthed, but hung up before I could say it aloud.

  I started jumping every time the phone rang. I wasn’t sure if I’d talk to her if she called again, but I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t either, even if it was a trick or if all she wanted to talk about was the Red Lady.

  I missed my best friend so much that after brushing my teeth one night, I put the necklace back on as though I could magic our friendship back together via the heart.

  Propped up with my pillows, I opened The Dark Half, the last book from the used bookstore I had to read. On the first page, the words HELP HER were written in the margin. It wasn’t the first used book I�
��d found with writing in it. Most of the time it was jokes or doodles, and once a note said THIS BOOK WAS TERRIBLE. DON’T READ IT. I flipped through the rest of the pages, but there was nothing else.

  I tried rubbing the words off, hoping they were pencil, but no such luck. Then I rolled closer to my nightstand lamp. The writing was sort of wobbly, but the loops on the h’s were squishy and fat the way I wrote mine, and the rest of the letters were messy. My teachers always said my penmanship was terrible. Yet I knew I hadn’t written this. HELP HER. I traced my thumb over the words again and shivered, even though I wasn’t cold at all.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THEN

  “I had an odd phone call from Rachel’s mom,” my mom said.

  We were sitting at the dining room table, her face serious, the way it had looked two years ago when she told me Pops, my dad’s dad, had died.

  “O-kay,” I said, picking at a cuticle, a lump growing in my throat. Mom cleared her throat, and I tucked both hands beneath my thighs.

  “She overheard Rachel, Gia, and Becca talking about something and called to find out if I knew about it. I didn’t, so I thought I’d talk to you.”

  “Why doesn’t she just ask Rachel?”

  “She did. Would you like to tell me about the Red Lady?”

  I couldn’t read her expression. My fingers spidered free from my legs, curled around the sides of the seat, and held tight, as though the chair might levitate or drop through the floor.

  “She’s from a story Becca told.”

  “A story?”

  “Yeah, nothing major,” I said, but my cheeks went hot. Had Rachel’s mom made her tell about our club, too? She couldn’t do that, could she? It wasn’t anyone’s business except ours.

  “It must’ve been some story. Rachel’s been having nightmares and her mom caught her sleepwalking, which she hasn’t done since she was little.”

  I knew about the sleepwalking. The second time everyone stayed over at my house, I’d overheard my mom telling Rachel’s she’d found Rachel in the kitchen, holding a loaf of bread. After everyone went home, she’d told me about it.