The Ugly Girls' Club: A Murder Mystery Thriller

by C. A. Wittman

  “No girl deserves to be murdered,” Emma whispered.

  “We don’t know if that’s what happened,” Cat said.

  Emma and Cassandra didn’t argue with her.

  Cassandra lowered her hand from her face, which had turned into a wet mess.

  “I’ll get you a tissue,” Cat said.

  Emma’s eyes skipped away from her friend’s face and she guiltily tamped down the callous thought of how ugly Cassandra looked when she cried. The tip of her beak nose and her nostrils turned red in a way that made her look like she was fighting a cold, her face swollen from sorrow.

  Nisha came into the room, holding a plate with a slice of chicken pie, her eyes landing on Cassandra.

  “Mmm-mm. Girl, tears are not a pretty look on you.”

  “Shut up, Nisha,” Cassandra barked, her expression turned vicious inside of a second.

  Cat returned with the tissues and handed them to Cassandra. “What’s going on?”

  Nisha took a seat on a beanbag, brows high on her forehead. “Nothin’.” She shook her head and took a bite of pie.

  Chapter 7

  On Monday, a hum of tension radiated through Santa Monica Middle School. Small groups of students clustered together, discussing Wren Mahoney’s death and the possibilities of what may have happened to her. Morning classes were canceled as bereavement counselors fanned out through the school. Emma’s homeroom got Ms. Sendak, the school counselor. She greeted them at the door and then stood at the front of the room, her moist dark eyes gazing out at their class from behind studious black-rimmed glasses.

  “I know it’s an enormous shock, what’s happened with Wren, and we’re here to hold space for you through the school’s crisis and bereavement team,” she began her speech. Emma cringed inside and closed her eyes. She wasn’t a fan of Ms. Sendak, who was in her late twenties and looked nineteen. She often used the kinds of millennial expressions that made Emma want to gag: I’m here to hold space for you; that’s a big ask; I feel we need to give a voice to…

  There was no amount of space-holding, Emma thought, that could atone for the fact that Wren Mahoney, a bright, bubbly girl—a nice girl—had sat dead in a fold-up beach chair while people walked and rode bikes past her for hours and took not the least notice that something was wrong.

  Conspicuously missing from school were Wren’s two closest friends, Posie and Poppy.

  At lunch, Emma huddled in the school library with Cassandra, Cat, and Nisha while Cassandra fed them her gossip in a whispery voice.

  “Sam says she knows Wren’s boyfriend, Donovan.”

  “Posie’s brother?” Emma asked.

  “Yeah. She said he was shook. Wren’s parents didn’t know they were going out. He found out everything from Posie.” Cassandra lowered her voice even more and Emma had to strain to hear her. “It was suicide.” Cassandra’s brows pinched together, creating two white dots just above the brow line.

  “Suicide?” Cat said, aghast.

  “Shh!” Cassandra’s eyes darted around the room, but no one was paying attention to them. “She was suffering from depression.”

  Emma shook her head. “She always seemed so, like, you know, upbeat.”

  Cassandra nodded. “But you’ll never guess what she was depressed about.” The other three huddled in closer. “She was super down about her looks.”

  Nisha blinked. “Wren? Girl, what?”

  “I know,” Cassandra said.

  “Wren’s gorgeous—or was,” Cat said, running a nail over the spine of a book, and Emma had a mean thought. If Wren thought she was ugly, the rest of them were hopeless.

  “She left a note,” Cassandra continued with her news, “and then took herself to the beach and overdosed on ketamine at, like, seven in the morning on Saturday and—”

  “What’s ketamine?” Emma asked.

  “Isn’t that the date rape drug?” Cat asked.

  “Yeah,” Nisha confirmed. “It’s also a party drug.” She returned her attention to Cassandra. “So, girlfriend sat for how long before someone realized she was dead?” Nisha asked.

  The girls counted up the hours in their heads. They had come across Wren sometime after one in the afternoon.

  “Six hours,” Emma whispered.

  “That’s a sorry situation,” Nisha said sorrowfully.

  “But why were her nails painted different colors?” Cat asked.

  Cassandra shrugged. “That’s all I know.” She pulled out a chair from a nearby table. “I still can’t believe it. The last time I saw her, she seemed fine.”

  “Yeah, girlfriend was always laughing and smiling,” Nisha agreed.

  They looked glumly at each other.

  “It’s so sad she was going around feeling like that, and… and felt like she had to do something so drastic,” Cat said.

  “Nothing personal,” Nisha said, “but that’s white folks for you. Y’all is as thin-skinned as it gets. Things get a little tough and you’re willing to pop yourselves off.”

  “Nisha,” Emma made a face. “This isn’t a joke.”

  “Who’s joking? My uncle told me that during the Great Recession, people were committing suicide and shit because they lost their money. He said you’ll never see black folks killing themselves over bills.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cassandra snapped. “People lost their life savings. It wasn’t just a few bills. How would you like it if you worked and saved all your life and it all just disappeared overnight?”

  “Girl, I can tell you one thing, I wouldn’t be jumpin’ off no building or slittin’ my wrists. That’s for sure.”

  “Can we focus?” Cat growled. “A girl is dead. We’re not talking about the recession or people’s money. Jesus.”

  Nisha grabbed her bag and stood. “I’m out. You fools are gettin’ on my last nerve.”

  “Come on, Nisha, don’t be like that,” Emma said.

  Nisha slung her bag over her shoulder and stomped out of the library.

  “God,” Cassandra hissed. “She’s so ignorant sometimes.”

  Her words fell on silence. Then Emma asked, “What are you guys doing after school?”

  “Home. Homework,” Cat said.

  “Same,” Cassandra said.

  “I mentioned to my dad what happened to Wren when he called me last night, and now he wants me to come out to his later today and, like, I don’t know, comfort me or something.”

  “Yeah, that’s if Douche Bag remembers to pick you up,” Cat muttered.

  Emma felt the heat of a blush at the insult. “He’s been better about that lately.”

  “Oh, whoop de doo. Maybe he should get the father of the year award.” Cat rolled her eyes. They were puffy like she hadn’t slept well.

  “What’s up with you? Why are you acting like a B?”

  “I’m not acting like a B,” Cat shot back. “Your dad has a history, okay? He’s not the most reliable. There’s a pattern. He shows up when he’s supposed to a few times in a row and that’s followed by a month and a year of no-shows.” Cat made an ugh sound and scrunched her lips in disgust.

  The lash-out hurt, and Emma blinked back tears. She was used to tongue lashings from Nisha, but Cat’s vicious takedown of her dad, even if he deserved it, felt like it came out of left field. “God, Cat, why do you have to be so harsh?” Emma could hear the whine in her own voice and inwardly grimaced at the way she was groveling.

  Cat leaned forward, her eyes grown small and mean. “Someone has to be real with you, Emma. How many more times are you going to let your dad get away with the same bullshit? He’s a douche and you know it.”

  “Fuck, Cat,” Cassandra said as several tears slipped down Emma’s cheeks. “What the hell? Why are you treating her like that?”

  Emma pushed back her chair, holding her chin rigid so it wouldn’t tremble.

  “Em,” Cat said, her expression softening. “Wait.”

  But Emma couldn’t wait. She rushed out of the library. When sh
e reached the end of the hall, she heard Cat call her name, but she kept going, bursting through the double door that led to the quad. She walked through the grass, passing kids eating in pairs and groups, the normal noise level cut back to a somber quiet. Emma kept walking until she reached the field and continued out to the track, climbing the first two sets of bleachers and throwing her bag down on the metal bench. It made a hollow sound. Emma wanted to kick something. She stood for a moment, staring at her bag, her chest tight with anger.

  “I needed to get away, too,” someone said from behind her.

  Hunter Garret sat several more rows up, and Emma wondered how she’d missed seeing anyone there. Hunter used they/them pronouns. Their arms were wrapped around their knees, and their lavender-lined golden brown eyes blinked at Emma from behind clear-rimmed glasses. Hunter was friends with Wren, Poppy, and Posie. They weren’t as tight as the three girls were with each other, but still, Emma had seen them all hanging out enough that she knew Wren’s death was a huge blow for Hunter.

  Emma took a seat. “I didn’t see you,” she said. “I’m sorry about Wren.”

  Hunter continued to gaze at her and blinked some more. “I saw her Friday. She was excited about going to Disneyland with her boyfriend, then just like that, she’s murdered.”

  “She wasn’t murdered,” Emma said, then threw her hand over her mouth.

  Hunter released their knees and sat up straighter, a small wrinkle playing at their brows. “Do you know something?”

  “Shit. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Why? What do you know?” Hunter climbed down to her level and sat back down.

  “My friend’s sister said Posie’s brother told her it was suicide.”

  Hunter’s frown grew deeper. “Wren? Suicide? That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  Hunter looked her up and down. “Donovan shouldn’t be going around talking anyway. If the cause of death hasn’t been released to the public, there’s a reason. But if it is suicide, I’m shocked. Me and Wren weren’t as close as she was to Poppy and Posie, but I knew her well enough. I can tell you, there wasn’t a single emotional cloud in Wren’s mental landscape. The girl only expressed one feeling, and that was happy. I swear, if big Pharma could have figured out how to bottle what Wren had, they’d make a fortune.”

  “Maybe she had this other hidden side.” Emma lowered her voice. “She wrote a note, saying she thought she was ugly.”

  “This is wildly inappropriate that you’re sitting here, telling me about my friend’s death.”

  “Sorry,” Emma whispered.

  Hunter stared at her, but they didn’t seem mad, just thoughtful. “Again, that doesn’t sound like Wren. She had a make-up tutorial channel on YouTube. If anything, she was a little vain.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  Hunter shrugged. “I assumed she was murdered.”

  The two stared at each other and Hunter tucked a lock of hair behind their ear.

  Emma opened her bag and pulled out her lunch for something to do. Hunter eyed her lunch: a sub, cookies, and a can of Coke.

  “Do you always eat like that?” They asked.

  “Eat like what?”

  “Shit food.”

  Emma blushed. “No. I was in a hurry and just grabbed what was around.”

  Hunter shook their head. “That’s a sugar spike, crash and burn meal.”

  Emma unwrapped her sandwich, feeling self-conscious.

  “Did you know Wren at all?” They asked.

  “Not really. We went to elementary school together, but we never hung out or anything.” Emma took a bite of her sandwich, a tomato slipping out onto her lap. Embarrassed, she picked it up and tossed it, aiming for the grass. It landed on the first bleacher. “Oops,” she said, glancing at Hunter, who was studying her, their expression unreadable.

  Hunter sighed and gazed up at the blue sky. A dollop of golden afternoon light splashed across their face and Emma could make out the powder of their foundation.

  “It seems so unreal,” they said.

  “What?” Emma asked.

  “Wren.”

  Emma blushed. She’d forgotten about Wren in the moment, but Hunter didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. Instead, they said, “Once, I let Wren do a makeover on me for her YouTube channel. She was good. A natural.

  “What’s her handle?” Emma asked, taking another bite of her sandwich.

  “Wren Mahoney Does Make-up.” Hunter’s eyes lingered on Emma’s face. “Do you wear makeup?”

  “Not usually.”

  “You have great lips.”

  “Someone once said my lips look like a blowfish.”

  Hunter gave her a bemused look.

  Emma opened her coke and took a long swallow, then burped. It came out of her before she could cover her mouth. “Sorry,” she said.

  Hunter sighed. “I wonder where Wren is now—like, if there is life after life. It’s so strange to be alive and then not.”

  “I saw her,” Emma said softly.

  Hunter’s head whipped back in her direction, eyes now penetrating. “What do you mean?”

  “On Saturday. I was riding my bike with my friends and there was this crowd.”

  Hunter blinked and reached a hand up to pinch their lips.

  “She didn’t look dead. She was wearing a sun hat and sunglasses, just sitting on this beach chair, and her nails were painted different colors.”

  Hunter drew in a sharp breath. “That’s so macabre.”

  Emma set her drink on the bleacher and wrapped her sandwich back in the tinfoil. She really didn’t have an appetite.

  “So then what happened?” Hunter asked.

  “The police and paramedics came and told us to step back. Then I heard one of them say she’d expired.”

  Hunter gaped at her. Emma didn’t tell them how strange the word expired made her feel like the paramedic was talking about spoiled milk and not a girl. Emma didn’t realize her eyes were filling with tears until Hunter reached into their pocket and pulled out a real linen handkerchief. She took it from their hand, staring at the cloth.

  “Do you always carry a handkerchief?” She asked.

  “Yeah, why not? I like to be a gentleman.”

  “And a lady?” Emma was thinking about the makeup.

  “Yeah. Hence the pronoun, they.”

  Emma dabbed at her eyes, a laugh sputtering out of nowhere from her lips.

  Hunter gave a small smile.

  “This is, like, so old-fashioned,” Emma said. “What do I do with it? Do you want it back with all my tears and mucus on it?”

  Hunter hesitated and said, “You can keep it.”

  Emma stuffed the handkerchief in her bag. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Hunter removed their glasses, wiping the glass against their slacks.

  “I should be comforting you, though. Wren was your friend.”

  “I did a lot of crying over the weekend. On Sunday, I went to Poppy’s and that was all we did—lay around and cry.”

  Emma nodded. “My dad’s picking me up later because of Wren. He thought I should come over and, I don’t know…”

  “It’s nice that he’s supportive,” Hunter said.

  “He’s not,” Emma hissed, wrinkling her nose. “It’s just a show.”

  Hunter cocked their head, studying her. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just something that he thinks he should do, but I don’t think he actually cares, you know?” Emma glanced down at her short, chubby legs, thighs spreading on the bench, and her stomach spilling over her belt loop. She pulled down on her shirt in case any skin was showing.

  “Hm,” Hunter said.

  A flock of crows flew overhead and landed in the field, squabbling with each other.

  “Usually, I call one of my friends when I can’t take it anymore, being with him, but they're acting like dicks right now, so…” Emma swallowed, an instant feeling of guilt bl
ossoming in her chest. She’d never talked about her friends like that with someone else outside of their friend group. Yeah, they gossiped about each other, but that didn’t count. They knew each other so well that bickering and snubs always worked themselves out. Bad feelings were like passing storms—not meant to stay forever. It was a given that they’d always be friends.

  “You can call me,” Hunter said.

  Emma was about to say something snarky like, they didn’t have to cater to her sorry ass, but when she looked at Hunter, she saw a genuine glint of empathy in their eyes.

  “I can be like a sponsor,” they said.

  “A sponsor?”

  “Yeah. When people are in support groups to help them deal with dysfunctional family members, they have sponsors.”

  “There're support groups for that?”

  “There’s a support group for everything these days,” Hunter said.

  “Oh.”

  Hunter dug their phone out of their bag. “What’s your number?”

  Emma gave it to them. “I’m Emma, by the way,” she said.

  “I know,” Hunter said. “Emma Dawson, right?”

  She nodded.

  Hunter texted something.

  Her phone pinged.

  Hey, Emma Dawson, thanks for talking with me, H

  Chapter 8

  Emma’s dad showed up on time. He arrived in his black Lamborghini with another one of his slim, blond twenty-something women. She sat up front where Emma should have been with her window rolled down. She flashed a smile while tucking a long glossy strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Mia. It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Emma’s eyes skipped to her dad, who watched her with bated breath. Emma sighed, opened the back door, and threw her overnight bag into the car.

  “Hello, darling,” her dad said.

  “Hi,” Emma mumbled and climbed in, putting on her seatbelt. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t an idiot. It was obvious he’d just met Mia and had her rehearse that little speech. A wave of fury swept through Emma, which she swallowed back, thinking of Cat’s intense little rant earlier. Since lunch, Cat had sent Emma a bucket load of sorry texts that Emma refused to answer. She knew Cat was right about her dad, but hated to concede, even if it was just to herself.