The Dead Girls Club (ARC)

by Damien Walters

  “Today we’re going to talk about changes,” I say, balancing my notebook on my knees. “Specifically the changes you’ll need to make when you leave here.” Groans all around.

  “What kind of changes?” Samantha says, leaning far forward, the points of her elbows on her thighs, fingers beneath her chin.

  “That’s what we’re going to figure out. I’m not talking about a full game plan. Think small things, things that might not seem important but can have a big impact.”

  She flounces back in her seat.

  Willfully obtuse, I’d call her comment. Pushing buttons.

  Hannah clears her throat. “What Dr. Cole means is we need to come up with the answers.”

  Hannah starts talking again, and I tap my pen on my notebook, letting her voice fade into the background of my mind. I need to come up with a new game plan. No matter who’s doing this to me, if they’re willing to come into my house, to run me off the road, I should be ready for anything. It’s clear they want more than to make me remember. Maybe they want a life for a life. What can I do to stop it? I can watch my back, look over my shoulders, but I can’t do either twenty-four/seven. And what if—

  A girl jumps to her feet. A chair thuds on its side. Hands grab. An open palm meets a cheek. A girl curses. Shouts. Another girl shrieks. Like a stop-motion film, each thing happens a little too slow, the whole thing a little too unreal. I blink once, twice. Someone’s calling my name, begging me to help, to stop it.

  I stand, notebook sliding to the floor, and the chaos rushes in full-speed. Samantha has Hannah on the floor, knees pinning her in place, slapping and punching and pulling her hair, yelling names every girl and woman knows too well. Hannah’s crying and trying to get away. Abby’s grabbing Samantha’s arms, attempting to pull her free. The other girls are shouting. I push someone out of the way. Grab for Samantha. But she’s an eel coated in olive oil; no matter where I touch, my grip slides right off.

  “Get security!” I say to the nearest girl.

  It doesn’t take long. It also takes forever. By the time the guard arrives and she successfully peels Samantha off Hannah, the latter’s cheeks are dark red, one eye is swollen shut, and her lower lip is split, the blood running bright down her chin. She seems dazed. All the girls do, except Samantha. She looks triumphant. Smiling with one side of her mouth, blinking like a milk-fed cat. The guard is holding her tight, but she isn’t trying to squirm away. She’s standing as if waiting for a bus and doesn’t look back when the guard leads her out.

  The room smells of sweat, musk, and adrenaline. Abby’s by Hannah’s side, and when the nurse comes for her, Abby stays behind, standing like a lost child. The other girls are huddled together on the opposite side of the room, and once I have myself under control, I say, “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  One steps forward, looking down at the floor. When she does glance up, it’s in tiny increments, and she says, whisper soft, “Why didn’t you stop her, Dr. Cole? The things she was saying. Why didn’t you make her stop?”

  Knives in the gut, those words. I should’ve been paying attention. Yes, it could’ve been so much worse, but it shouldn’t have happened at all. If I’d been doing my job, it wouldn’t have.

  From behind me, Nicole says, “Everyone okay?”

  My first thought: I hope she didn’t hear what Claire said. My second: I hope Claire doesn’t repeat it. My third: I can’t believe I’m even thinking this way.

  “What happened?” Nicole asks.

  “Samantha was saying shi—stuff to me,” Abby tells Nicole, “and I guess Dr. Cole didn’t hear her. Then she tried to hit me, and Hannah grabbed her arm and stopped her. Then Samantha just attacked her.”

  When Nicole looks at me, I nod my agreement, even though I’m collapsing on the inside. It’s all I can do. I should’ve noticed as soon as things went south. I should’ve stopped them before things got too far. I should’ve sent for security faster. It’s my fault. One thousand percent. And I can see Nicole thinks so, too.

  “Girls, we’re going to end the session early, so go ahead to the common areas or to your rooms. I’ll talk to each of you a little later.” To me, she tips her head, and I follow her to her office.

  I sit first. Fingers wrapping the armrests, Nicole lowers herself down. Exhales once she gets there and fixes me with a gaze, all heat and coiled energy. “What the hell happened?”

  “One minute we were there, talking, and the next…” I rake my fingers through my hair. It sounds like a pitiful excuse. It sounds like a lie.

  “And what Abby said? Did you not hear what Samantha was saying?”

  “I didn’t, I’m sorry. It happened so fast, I didn’t realize what was going on. I guess I…”

  “Wasn’t paying attention?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Your face said it all.” Her mouth twists as though she’s bitten a lemon. “I told you to keep an eye on her. I told you she was antagonizing Abby.”

  “They seemed fine, Nicole. They’ve even been sitting together. I didn’t think it was a problem.”

  She leans forward. “Then you weren’t paying attention.”

  I open my mouth to deny it, to lie, but I can’t do it. I know I’m wearing the truth on my face. This isn’t private dysfunction. It’s public destruction. Maybe not a nuclear war, but a promise of the chaos to come.

  “I did my best to grab her, but…” I hold up my wrapped wrist, feeling the flimsiness of the excuse settling like a gauze veil.

  When she speaks again, her words are faded at the edges and falling in the middle. “I think it would be a good idea if you took a few weeks off. The worst part of all this is that I knew something was wrong. I thought about pulling you from the sessions but didn’t think it was necessary, so this is on me, too.”

  The knives in my belly twist. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I—”

  “Please leave all your session notes on your desk before you leave.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “Heather,” she says, and the word’s a guillotine. “Just go.”

  There are no notes from today in my notebook. Nothing a few pages back either. I must’ve used a different one, but when I find another in my bag, there’s only a page of circular doodles, another with slashes. I know Nicole. She won’t forget her request. But I pack my things as quickly as possible, grateful that her office door is shut when I pass.

  I manage to get out of the driveway before the tears hit, but it’s a near thing. I manage to drive safely to my office. That, too, is a near thing.

  There, I open Cassidy’s file, looking for recent notes and finding none. Not from this week or last week or the one previous. There’s a sheet with pen marks, that’s all. I check another patient’s file. Nothing. And they’re not the only ones. I can’t find any recent notes in any files. I nibble at a cuticle. Tear it free. Do the same with another. This time, there’s blood. I forcibly pull my hand from my mouth. I need to get a handle on myself. This isn’t okay at all.

  I’m not okay.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THEN

  I sneaked a can of Coke upstairs—my mom didn’t let me have it late—and drank it when I got tired. Reading made me way too sleepy, so I sat on the floor, back against my bed, and listened to my Walkman while waiting for my parents to finish their movie and come upstairs.

  I snapped awake with a jolt, headphones and the house silent. Panic made a Greyhound of my heart, but it was only a little after midnight. I slipped on the necklace, and it was strangely heavy, but comfortable, too.

  My parents’ door was shut, the gap beneath dark. Holding my shoes, I took a step and the floorboard creaked. I froze, but my parents’ light stayed off. Baby steps took me downstairs. I was afraid the front door would make too much noise, so I crept down to the basement. Even though I had to wiggle the key in the dead bolt, the back door opened without a sound and closed the same way. Key in pocket, I darted across the backyard. The latch on the gate slipped, cla
nking shut, and I crouched beside it, my whole body shaking. No lights turned on anywhere, so I lifted the latch again, pinching it tight between my fingers. With only crickets to notice my passage, I ran through the neighborhood to the field. Halfway across, a possum trundled by, hissing at me.

  My steps slowed when I got near the house. By the time I sneaked through the hedges, I was practically dragging my feet. The front door was unlocked and the hallway was dark, but there was a pale light in the kitchen from the open basement door. I went down the stairs quietly, but not so quiet she wouldn’t know I was there.

  She was on the floor with her back to me, her hair in a ponytail. Her pillow and blanket rested near the wall, with a collection of juice boxes and crumpled granola bar and Pop Tart wrappers, a box of vanilla wafers next to them. A few books sat in a pile. A drawing hung on the wall of the two of us from the back, holding hands and walking toward the house.

  Along with the basement stink, I smelled dirty feet, sweaty armpits, and unbrushed teeth. I stood perfectly still, afraid it wasn’t Becca at all. I tried to say her name, but it stuck in my mouth like peanut butter.

  She turned. The grease was gone from her hair. Her clothes were clean, and while circles still marred the skin below her eyes, they weren’t as dark. Her eyes were bright, not dull and vacant.

  “Have you been sleeping here?” I didn’t need to ask; the answer was in front of me.

  “Sometimes, when Lauren gets really bad. It’s safer here. I was afraid you weren’t coming.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, toeing the carpet. “I fell asleep waiting for my parents.”

  Her gaze found my necklace. “Best friends?”

  I gripped the heart between my finger and thumb. “Forever.” I sat, legs crossed. “So what do we have to—”

  “Not yet,” she said. “Can we just be friends for a while, and talk the way we used to?”

  I smiled so wide it made my cheeks sore and I felt like crying, but in a good way. “Sure.”

  She smiled, too. “Do you remember when Kyle peed his pants in first grade? And said he spilled water from the water fountain?”

  “And how mad he got when Mrs. Jackson sent him to the nurse?”

  It was silly to remember that after so long, but it was okay, too. We kept talking about kids in school, about books, about music, about everything. Leaning back, arms straight, I thought things would be okay. I didn’t think this was the ritual, but it was sort of one all by itself. Maybe it would be enough. I felt like I had my best friend back. Finally.

  Then she tucked her knees beneath her chin. “Sometimes I hate everything, but I hate myself most of all, and the feeling never, ever goes away. I want to scream and kick and punch everyone, but I almost don’t even care anymore. Anyway, what difference would it make? At the end of the day, I’d still be me. And no one wants me.”

  I hunched forward, not sure what to say, not sure if I was part of the “no one.” But she had to know I wanted her, because I was here with her.

  She cocked her head to the side, as if listening. “Okay,” she said.

  I was afraid she’d start jumping around like she had in her room, but she stayed put. She was almost the old Becca, but different, too. More grown-up, which seemed silly to think. But her eyes were different. Not scared or stormy. Peaceful.

  “Okay what?”

  She linked her fingers together. “Everything will be okay tomorrow night.”

  “What do you mean, tomorrow night?”

  “Tonight I had to be sure.”

  “Sure of what?”

  “Sure you were really my friend. If not, the ritual won’t work.” She yawned. “You should go now. It’s really late. Want me to walk you home?”

  “No, I’ll be okay,” I said, my voice small.

  She walked me upstairs and leaned close at the door. “Promise you’ll come back tomorrow night?”

  “I promise.”

  “And you’d do anything I asked, right? If I told you it would help me? Even if it didn’t make sense?”

  I looked her right in the eye and said, “Yes.” I meant it, too.

  * * *

  Sneaking out was easier the second time. I wasn’t even scared.

  All the trash was gone from the basement. Becca’s blanket and pillow, too. Everything save the picture on the wall. She was sitting on a towel inside a circle of unlit candles, her head down, hair loose, a red ribbon as a headband.

  “Don’t get upset,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  She lifted her chin, and I gasped. The skin around her eye was purple and red, and blood was crusted beneath her nose. Her lower lip was split, beginning to scab. I stepped over the candles and dropped to my knees, my hands making frantic designs in the air.

  “I went home to change,” she said, “and Lauren was there. I didn’t do anything. She just started yelling at me and she pushed me down and I fell and she didn’t even care.”

  “Becca—” This was awful in a way I couldn’t describe. Her face. How could her mom do that to her? How?

  “It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

  She was lying. She had to be. And I wasn’t sad. I was angry, angrier even than when I’d thought Becca hated me. “We can’t do nothing. We have to tell some—”

  “You promised you wouldn’t. You can’t take back a promise like that.” Her words were calm, but unyielding.

  I hung my head. I had promised, but I didn’t think I could keep it. Not after seeing her like that. But I’d come up with something so Becca wouldn’t know it was me. I’d tell my mom not to say I told her. Even if Becca hated me forever. What her mom was doing wasn’t okay at all, and she couldn’t just get away with it.

  “She tried to save me once when I was little,” Becca said.

  “Who?” I said.

  “The Red Lady, but I didn’t know it was her. She used magic to hide her real face. I know now, though. Lauren was too strong then, but she isn’t anymore.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t understand.” And I didn’t. The Red Lady had tried to save her? When? How? But she wasn’t even real.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “We don’t have time for me to explain it anyway. There’s one last story I have to tell.”

  I scowled. “But after this, no more, okay? No stories or pictures, like you promised?”

  “After this, I won’t need to.”

  She lit the candles and turned off the overhead light. Shadows danced on the wall, and soon enough, I could smell only the candles, all fruit–vanilla–pine trees. I sat with my arms and legs crossed, not wanting to hear the story, just wanting it to be over.

  “The Red Lady’s friend, the one who helped her die fast instead of slow? She left the village in secret. When she came back, everyone was gone. She went to the Red Lady’s house and saw her there, waiting. She apologized and cried, saying she should have stopped everyone, she knew it was wrong, but the Red Lady said it was okay, she did what she could, and it was better now because she was stronger. They both were.

  “Her friend said she’d tell everyone the whole story so it could never happen again, but the Red Lady said no, she had to promise not to. She didn’t want anyone to know. She said no one would believe her, and it was the truth. Then the Red Lady told her to go. When she got to the door, she looked back, but the Red Lady was gone.”

  I rubbed away goose bumps. “Did she keep her promise not to tell?”

  “She did. Because when you make a promise, you keep it forever. She thought about telling the story once and even started to, but stopped before she got to anything important. The next morning there were footprints by her bed. She knew it was the Red Lady, reminding her not to ever tell.”

  “But wasn’t the Red Lady her friend?” I said. “She wouldn’t have really hurt her, would she?”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but she didn’t want to take a chance.” Becca unfolded a corner of the towel, revealing a plastic baggie filled with reddish dirt and a sma
ll knife. “Don’t worry,” she said.

  “I’m not,” I said, but I swallowed hard, my throat sandpaper. The knife had a dark wood handle and a small blade glimmering orange-yellow in the candlelight. My mom used one like it to peel vegetables. “What’s the dirt for?”

  “It’s for later. Remember how the Red Lady will help you, but you have to give something up?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “She can grant your most secret wish—the one you never tell anybody, not even your best friend—but there’s a catch.” She bit her lip. “You have to die first.”

  “That’s not funny, Becca.” My voice was shaking.

  “It’s not supposed to be. I wanted to tell you before, but I was afraid you wouldn’t come back if you knew.” She stretched out on the towel and held out the knife. “You have to be my friend. Best friends forever, you said.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She pulled up her shirt. Pointed to a spot on her side. “You have to do it right here. Right here exactly.”

  “What?” I said, the word wavery. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m not. This is how it has to be done. Trust me, I won’t die. I mean, I might, but I’ll come back. She’ll bring me back and everything will be okay.”

  “You want me to stab you?” I said. “That … no … I can’t do that.” I was angry all over again, my skin hot. It had to be a test, but I wasn’t sure what for. Wasn’t it obvious I was still her friend? I was here, wasn’t I?

  She didn’t get up. “You said you’d do anything. This is what you have to do. I can’t do it by myself. It won’t work. It has to be you.”

  I shook my head so hard my ears rang. She was serious. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a game. “I can’t.”

  “You have to. You promised you’d help me. She said you would.”