Girl Squad

by Kim Hoover

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

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  Synopsis

  A lazy small town summer in 1970s Texas turns treacherous when Cal Long’s mother goes missing. Cal and her best friend Rachel, along with sophisticated new friend Jane, use every trick in their teenage arsenal to get to the bottom of the mystery.

  Along the way, Cal is drawn to Jane in ways she’s never felt before while Rachel struggles to understand her best friend’s new attraction. From Amarillo to Palo Duro Canyon to Ft. Worth and back, the girls puzzle through the connections surrounding the mystery of Cal’s mother’s disappearance.

  But their shocking discoveries are soon eclipsed by the explosive consequences of Cal’s surrender to her feelings for Jane.

  Copyright © 2019 by Kim Hoover

  Bella Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 10543

  Tallahassee, FL 32302

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  First Bella Books Edition 2019

  eBook released 2019

  Editor: Ann Roberts

  Cover Designer: Sandy Knowles

  ISBN: 978-1-64247-044-4

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  About the Author

  Kim Hoover is a lawyer by training, a real estate entrepreneur by experience and a writer by nature. Raised in Texas, she spent three decades in Washington, DC, where she built her career and her family. She and her wife of twenty years raised two daughters there and now split their time between Miami and New York City. In her spare time, Kim is most likely curled up with a cup of coffee and her latest political advocacy project or philanthropic endeavor. She is a board member of Lambda Literary, Voices for Progress and Advocates for Youth.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my family for their endless support of me wherever my imagination has taken me. In particular, I would like to thank my wife, Lynn, for always believing in me, my daughter, Stephanie, for being my first reader and biggest cheerleader, and my daughter Lauren for being herself.

  I would also like to thank the many friends who read early versions of this book, or just heard about it, and offered their approval and encouragement. You know who you are.

  And finally, I would like to thank Ann Roberts, my editor, and all the women of Bella Books, who made possible the introduction of this book to the wider world.

  For Mom

  For Dad

  Separate but Equal

  Chapter One

  May, 1973

  “For Pete’s sake, Carrie Ann, can you sit like a lady for once? You’re too old to be acting like a contortionist at the Texas State Fair.”

  My mother had pulled me out of bed after midnight, throwing a robe at me and saying nothing more than “come to the living room.” I obeyed, taking my usual place in the family circle—a swiveling velvet chair. I slumped down, my legs slung over the right arm, and my hands exploring the split-ended strands of hair that fell to my shoulders.

  My dad sat nearby, his elbows on his thighs, his hands cradling his head. The television set, a heavy wooden console that sat next to the couch, flickered blankly, the fuzzy screen bathing him in light. I saw that he was crying. I looked at my mother, trying to read her expression. She was not crying. In fact, she looked happier than I had seen her in a long time.

  “I said, sit up straight.” She pointed a finger at me.

  When she spoke, in that drawly voice of hers, my dad raised his head, glanced at me and straightened his back. “Leave her alone, Joyce, why don’t you? She’ll have enough to deal with after tonight.”

  I sat up at that, looking from one to the other. My mother pulled an upholstered wing-backed chair from the dining room and sat, perched on the edge like a blue jay assessing her prey. My dad let his head fall into his hands again while she primly folded hers in her lap, like a lady in church. When she spoke, I no longer recognized her voice. She was someone different, someone cold, emotionless, saying something that made no sense.

  “Your father and I, we have decided to…to try a…to separate.”

  What? I jerked my head quickly in his direction. He stared straight ahead, not looking at her or at me, and giving no indication he had anything to add to her pronouncement. What is happening? My face burned hot with outrage, and suddenly, feeling as if everything I had ever known or understood about myself was all wrong, I jumped to my feet.

  “Are you crazy?”

  I stood toe-to-toe with my mother, towering over her with every scrap of energy I could muster, demanding a response. She sat perfectly still and remained silent. I fumed, my anger boiling to the point that I had to use all my willpower to resist slapping her in the face.

  “You can’t do this to me.” By now I was panicked. “You can’t get a divorce. How will we live? What will my friends say? What will your friends say?”

  All I could think of was a long list of terrible things that would happen to me, like facing people at church as that girl from a broken home, or shopping at Goodwill because we couldn’t afford clothes. The fear gurgled in my gut and I thought I might vomit.

  “Calm down,” she said.

  I ignored her, and, recovering a little, bounded over to my father’s crouched and cowering frame.

  “Do something!” I demanded, my voice cracking and tears overtaking my face like a gushing fire hydrant. “Please, Dad.”

  He looked up
and the desperation darkening his eyes crushed my hope of a solution. He was defeated. Whatever had happened between them had killed his spirit.

  “Are you moving out?”

  My tears had dried with the realization I had no option but to accept my mother’s will. Hers was the strongest force that intersected with my life and I had long ago learned not to waste energy once her decision was clear.

  “He’s looking for an apartment,” she said.

  My attention snapped back to her. “Apartment? Where? I didn’t know there were any apartments in this town.”

  “Yes. Even in this godforsaken town, there are apartments. There’s a complex over by the Coronado shopping center. They have a pool.”

  I had never known anyone who lived in an apartment. Dumas was a small Texas town lined with rows of three bedroom/two bathroom, brick, one-story houses. I had a momentary vision of inviting my friends to a pool party over the summer. Then I banished that thought as I considered what my friends’ parents would say behind our backs about that pitiable divorced man living like a bachelor. I slumped to my chair, gloom and dread covering me like a damp smelly blanket.

  “Get to bed,” she said, standing and signaling the end of this farcical family meeting.

  “Where’s Dad sleeping?”

  “Mind your own business.”

  “In the guest room,” he said, saying something at last.

  He brushed past me, and I thought of saying something encouraging like “hang in there,” or “you’ll be fine,” but I guessed he probably didn’t want to hear anything like that right now.

  As I stepped into my room, I saw a bright light shining onto my curtains from outside. I peeked from the side window and caught a glimpse of a man in a fancy car pulling away from our curb. But the distraction didn’t last and I fell into bed with the weight of the world coming down on me.

  Under the covers the tears came back, along with deep, hard sobs. I buried my face in the softness of my pillow, feeling sure no one in the world had it as hard as I did. No one had a mom as mean as I did or a dad as pathetic.

  Chapter Two

  Two months later…

  “Cal! Supper!”

  I caught a glimpse of my mother standing on the front porch of our ranch-style house, looking up and down the block, squinting against the hot July sun. The summer was in full swing and I was enjoying the freedom of lazy days and keeping my own schedule. She waved me in as I came around the corner on my prized possession—a no-name-brand bike that I had tricked out to look like a Schwinn Stingray. My friend Rachel had the real thing, since her parents were willing to spend money they didn’t have, but I had to save every penny for a whole summer to have enough to buy the banana seat and chopper handlebars fitted onto mine. The bike frame was not short and sleek like a Stingray, so it looked like a town car trying to be a sports car, but I didn’t care.

  I sped toward the house as fast as I could go. My long, dark hair slapped my face as it whipped in the high winds. I was late. I parked the bike in the garage and stepped over the grease spot left on the concrete floor by my dad’s Chevy. A pang of guilt hit me because I rarely thought about him between our scheduled visits. Not having him around wasn’t that different from when he lived with us. His work schedule meant he worked evenings and nights two thirds of the time. He had never made an effort to pay attention to me on the evenings he was home. And if he did say something to me, it was usually a complaint, a criticism, or an order. The only thing I can remember we ever really did together was watch the Dallas Cowboys on TV after church and maybe play a game of pickup football during halftime. That was fun.

  Mom and I had fallen into a rhythm without him, not having to say too much to each other, knowing what our jobs were, almost like roommates. But I had crossed a line by being late for dinner.

  I went straight for the silverware drawer, avoiding eye contact with her, hoping I could slide by without a tongue-lashing. I laid out the utensils on the table without saying a word. I held my breath, waiting for the bite.

  “How many times have I told you—”

  “I know! We had a team meeting after softball practice.”

  “It’s no excuse,” she said, putting a plate of chicken fried steak in front of me. “Supper is at five thirty and you know it. And anyway, why do you have to play that stupid game? You’re a girl.”

  “It’s girls’ softball.”

  “It’s not proper for girls to run around in the dirt hitting balls and yelling like hyenas.”

  There was no point in arguing. She sat across from me, her shoulder-length auburn hair pulled back and clipped at the nape of the neck. People had always said my mother was beautiful and now that I was fifteen, I could see it for myself. She dressed carefully, outfitted with earrings, necklace, bracelets, and scarves—just to sit down to dinner with me. She always wore lipstick and full makeup. She made her own clothes and mine too. She’d say, “Why buy from the store when I can make something better and cheaper?”

  I glanced over at the empty chair where my father used to sit. Sure, I missed him, but, for the most part, I was fine with the way things were and my routine with Mom. This night, like most nights, we ate without speaking to each other. When I finished, I got up to go to my room.

  “You clean up,” she said.

  “But I thought we were taking turns—”

  “I said, you clean up.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “Poor little Cal. So put upon.”

  She gave me the look that I called the hairy eyeball. I complied, even though we had a clear agreement that we would trade off cleaning up after supper and I had done it the night before. I slammed the pans around in the sink. I hated it when she used that “put upon” thing with me.

  “Dang!” I screamed, smashing my finger accidentally as I brought the frying pan down with a thud.

  When I had dried everything and put it all away, I picked up the telephone receiver that hung on the wall next to the sink and called Rachel.

  “I’m coming over.”

  Rachel’s mom opened the door. She was so different from mine. She didn’t care that her house was a mess with piles of clothes all over the floor, even in the entryway. And she let Rachel get away with murder as far as cleaning up or doing her homework or going to church. Our moms had one thing in common, their looks. Rachel’s mom had her hair piled on her head in a fancy do and she wore full makeup on her already gorgeous face. Her outfit was something she could have worn on a fancy date, but she always dressed that way.

  “Oh, hi, Cal. Come on in. Rachel’s in the living room.” She stepped back to let me by, the ash of her cigarette firing as she sucked on the plastic tip.

  Rachel waved my way without taking her eyes off the TV or removing the fork from her mouth. A frozen dinner teetered precariously on her knees. She was spoiled. She looked up at me and grinned like she knew what I was thinking, her bangs falling into her eyes, her freckled face framed by a pixie haircut.

  “You think you’re so cute,” I said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can I make some ice tea?”

  “Use the pan that’s on the stove,” she said, waving toward the kitchen.

  I boiled water and poured it into a plastic pitcher over three Lipton tea bags. As the tea bags steeped, I felt the anger and frustration slip away. Rachel’s house had always been my refuge. The place with no rules. The place I could run to when my house felt too heavy. Iced tea in hand, I flopped onto the couch next to Rachel, letting out a sigh.

  “Have you been paying attention to this?” She pointed to the television and I saw it was a special news report on Watergate.

  “Of course. I wrote our congressman a letter about it for an assignment in our typing class last spring.”

  “Did he write you back?”

  “He did, but he didn’t say much really. Said he didn’t want to comment on something that was an ongoing investigation or something like that.”

  “I think he
’s a crook,” Rachel said, pointing her fork at the TV.

  “Adults really know how to mess up the world,” I said, crossing my arms in disgust.

  “What’s your deal? Your mom again?”

  “It’s nothing really. You know her. We just get on each other’s nerves sometimes.”

  “What’s it about now?”

  “Anything…nothing…everything.”

  “Well, you’re the only one to take it out on now.”

  “I’m just glad we’re leaving tomorrow for camp.”

  “I’m already packed!” Rachel said.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  We stayed up until midnight watching reruns of Perry Mason while Rachel practiced making origami butterflies.

  “What are you going to do with all those?” I asked, pointing to the messy pile of butterflies on the floor.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, giving them a loving look. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

  “If you say so.”

  “I’ve been thinking about getting a butterfly bush for the yard. I read about it in a magazine. I think they’d like that.”

  “You know they’re not alive, dingbat. They don’t have feelings.”

  “You say that, but how do you know? Why isn’t it just as likely that a soul enters their body once they’re finished and then they transform,” she said with a flourish, her arms opening in a swoop to the ceiling while she gazed into the space above her head.

  I looked at her blankly. I had no answer to that. Sometimes even I couldn’t quite understand what went on in Rachel’s head. I slept over and the next morning we drained glasses of Carnation Instant Breakfast before crossing the street to my house.

  Mom drove us to the church to pick up the bus to camp. I slid the window down and felt the dry, hot air on my skin. Not many people had automatic controls on their cars and I was proud we did. I hung my arm out the window and closed my eyes.