Dead Girl Moon

by Charlie Price

  * * *

  JJ woke her. Said hi. Smiled. Shook her head. “Welcome to the palace.”

  Grace sat up. Didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m JJ, right? I’ve been living here for years. How do you think I feel?” When Grace didn’t respond, JJ went on.

  “It could be worse. Gary’s nice enough except the way he handles Jon. Tina’s a zombie, 24/7. Jon’s hell. Avoid him. Gary cooks okay. Cooks a lot. He tokes around the clock so he’s always hungry. You got to be careful not to put on weight like me. I’ll trim down when softball starts.”

  Grace was trying to get up to speed with this girl. Younger, clearly. Almost Grace’s height. Built sturdy with big shoulders, big wrists, short spiky black hair. Dark eyes, full lips, olive skin a little like Tina’s. Reminded Grace of a tree cutter her dad had hired back in San Rafael last summer: strong, pretty without makeup, mannish figure. Grace checked her for a chain on her wallet or a wad of keys clipped to her belt loop. Checked for a nostril ring, tongue stud, tattoo. The girl looked butch but maybe she was … a jock?

  “Yeah, I know,” JJ said. “Not much to look at, but I got a few brains and I got your back, so get to know me.”

  4

  IN THE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED, Grace learned that Portage was a sewer, rotten with secrets and deals. She learned that Sam Hammond ran the town with partners: Mackler, the director of Human Services, for sure, probably a judge named Bolton and a banker named Greer. Maybe also a highway patrolman named Scott Cassel. She learned that Hammond had something going with Cassel’s older son, Larry. Twenty-five, no experience, and suddenly he was the town’s new building inspector. The day she met Larry, she learned something else. He fancied himself a Casanova.

  Hammond hired runaway girls. He’d arranged for Human Services to make her Gary Stovall’s foster child. Until she turned eighteen, if she stayed, the Stovalls would make an extra six hundred dollars a month. Like a beat-up single-wide full of dope and booze was a “suitable” placement!

  Grace told JJ very little about herself; nothing that was true, including her real age. She did say that she’d appreciate JJ’s help learning how to fit in here.

  From JJ, Grace learned Gary repaired electronics for a living out of the trailer. Had an arrangement with the hardware store, Hammond’s, to pick up and refurbish radios, TVs, surround-sound systems, but his real money came from selling the weed he grew hydroponically in an insulated shed a couple of blocks above Main. JJ told her she’d lived with the Stovalls since her mom, Tina’s sister, died several years ago. Told her that Tina’s drinking had made her a turnip by the time she’d had Jon, the Devil Boy, and that neither Gary nor Tina could deal with him. Something was wrong with Jon. He was wired and mad practically all the time. When he got real bad, Gary would keep him cuffed and medicated. JJ didn’t know what to do, afraid what would happen to all of them if she told the police. Grace already knew in her bones that Jon had no future. Psych ward, jail, or death.

  From Grace’s real family, the only person she ever thought about, the only person she ever missed, was her sister. Caitlin had been a good athlete like JJ. Taller and leaner, a different body entirely, but she’d been blunt and funny and she lifted Grace’s spirits when they spent time together.

  Turned out JJ was fourteen, an eighth grader, but she’d been bumped up to a combo of freshman-sophomore so she could attend high school and play on the girls’ sports teams. Softball in particular. The Portage Trappers had a chance to take state for the next two years thanks to a remarkable junior pitcher. JJ was the only girl in town good enough to catch her sixty-mile-an-hour fastballs and risers.

  * * *

  Grace was polite to Gary, avoided Tina and Jon whenever possible, and steadily developed a low-key friendship with her younger roomie. At school, Grace was busy making grades. Told them when she enrolled that she’d been homeschooled and should be a junior. Standing with her, Gary nodded, and the guidance counselor accepted it. So leaping grades like JJ, she had a lot of work to cover. Of course she was the new girl, but socially she managed a quiet entry because she didn’t try to make friends. Aloof, disdainful, she seemed older, above it all. The girls bad-mouthed her among themselves and were happy to ignore her. The guys wanted a new conquest and her persistent lack of interest left them mostly bewildered.

  5

  GARY WAS RIGHT. Hammond came through. Six or seven weeks later, post-Thanksgiving, he gave her a job waitressing after classes in his downtown café. Gary gave her the news, sent her over after school in early December. She walked through the door into a medium-sized dining area bordered by an L-shaped counter, four booths along the opposite wall, six tables in the middle. The place was well-lit, warm, and smelled like butter and burgers.

  A guy came out through the service door, lots of gray in his wiry hair, stomach bulging against a stained apron, all business. Pointed to the two waitresses standing behind the counter, a pretty young Latina, Ramona, and a tall, stacked blonde, Evelyn. They nodded, kept their distance. He said his name, Cookie, and showed her the pantry/locker room. Handed her two cheap white tops that looked like they’d fit. “Wear black pants,” he said. “No jeans.”

  Grace wasn’t sure what to say. Hadn’t had a job before. Thought he might ask her age.

  “Five to closing. Don’t be late. It’s a good shift. Dinner. You’re hungry, you can eat something after. Pay every second Friday. Do good, move to full-time this summer.”

  Should she ask how much she’d make? Didn’t seem like it.

  “If this place is slow, you’ll go to the motel couple of blocks down to finish room cleaning. Start tomorrow. You need something, ask.” He left her and went to the wide stainless-steel grill and griddle, took a spatula and turned browning potatoes. Saw her watching him. “Breakfast all day,” he said. “You can leave that way.” He nodded to a back door. “You drive here, that’s the parking lot.”

  It was dark when Grace got back to the street. Most businesses were lights-out. Old-fashioned streetlamps gave Main a coziness in spite of the wind chill. The cold clean air made Grace dread returning to the funk of the trailer.

  * * *

  Grace was a quick study, learned to keep the orders straight, smile, boost tips with subtle flirting. Such a different person from school! Made her feel like an actress. Better, she started to earn real money. Ramona moved to day shift, Evelyn stayed swing. She and Grace made a pretty good evening attraction. More truckers and ranch hands every night.

  Turned out ideal. Café was gossip central and the motel provided some of the juiciest confirmations. Grace added another layer. Undercover intel, gathering news she could put to use when opportunity presented.

  Within days, Mackler was waiting for her at the sidewalk when classes let out. She saw him, walked wide to avoid him, but he cut her off.

  “How’s it goin’?” Though the temp was in the thirties, he’d loosened his tie, suit coat over his shoulder, chewing gum.

  Grace faced him. “I’m working for Hammond.”

  “I know. I got you the job.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Yeah.” He looked around casually like he was checking to see if anyone was paying attention. “Want to do something? Go for a drive?”

  It was sunny, no wind, snowless patches on the southern hills were golden.

  “I’m working for Hammond,” Grace repeated.

  “Yeah,” Mackler said. Left it at that.

  “I have to go.”

  Mackler cut his eyes to a late-model Audi parked by the curb.

  Grace shook her head, walked around him. Didn’t look back.

  She hadn’t gone a block before she felt someone close behind her. She wheeled, thinking to slap the creepy bastard and get it over with.

  Not Mackler. Two jocks in letter jackets. One handsome enough to be an actor. Probably six feet, medium build, curly reddish brown hair to his collar. The other, bigger, bulky, black crew cut.

  “You one of Mackler’s?” This question from
curly-hair, with a mean smile behind it.

  Grace shook her head. Guy was hot but reminded her of her second brother.

  “Going to the game tonight?” Bulky grinned at her. Even his teeth were big.

  “Football…” Grace didn’t catch on.

  “Basketball. Tim and I start. How about it?”

  Grace didn’t smile. Not ready for this. “I work,” she said.

  The guy nodded. “You stuck up? Think you’re chill?” He waited for a response. Didn’t get one.

  Grace left them standing there.

  “I’m Cunneen. My man’s Tim Cassel,” he yelled at her back. “We deal with bitches.”

  6

  BY FEBRUARY GRACE HAD SETTLED into a steady routine: school, work after, studies before bed. She was staying low-profile, making good money, and the friendlier she got with Cookie, the more dirt she heard about the town’s inner workings.

  Yesterday and today winter had taken a short break and Grace enjoyed her walk home, the late-night stillness, her breath like smoke in the cold air, stars blinking through leafless branches. When she reached the trailer, she was expecting to lie down on the bed and quietly finish her homework. Wasn’t going to happen. JJ was all wound up, bopping around the small room like a puppy.

  “We got a new neighbor,” JJ said, grinning.

  Grace thought about the old woman across the lot. She moved? No, Gary would have said something.

  JJ plopped on the bed and patted next to her for Grace to sit. As soon as she did, JJ popped up again. Grace hadn’t seen the girl this animated.

  They didn’t have any classes together but she knew JJ was low-key at school, always by herself in the halls. JJ had grown up in Portland, had gone to a huge elementary school until her mom died. When she’d had to move here to Portage, she’d never really adjusted, never shared any of the cowboy culture. JJ’d complained that she wasn’t pretty enough to be courted by guys or sought by girls for their cliques. Her sports ability wasn’t glamorous. Worse, living in this trailer, this cesspool, it wasn’t like JJ could invite new friends over.

  Grace remembered the afternoon she herself had arrived. JJ’d been openly glad to have a roommate nearly her age. Finally someone to talk to, and JJ could be funny, but tonight was something else. Grace thought she knew what. “A boy, right?”

  “Damn straight. He’s tall and quiet, like big but gentle, but not soft, you know. Nice eyes.”

  “Hey, simmer down, homegirl. How do you know all this? Did he take a personality test?”

  “No, G, I just know. I spent the last hour with him at the river.”

  “So he’s a fisherman? A stalker? A hobo?”

  “He just got here. He’s in that place on the corner by the alley.”

  “The shack behind the hardware?”

  “He’s going to play football next year.”

  “That explains it. Jock to jock connection.”

  JJ blushed. “It’s not like that. You have to meet him…” JJ’s mood shifted as she said that and looked at Grace. Looked at her lying back on the bed now, in her dark pants and white waitress top. “Crap!” JJ seemed to want the word back but it was too late.

  Grace got it.

  “I won’t,” she told JJ. “I’m not even interested. Don’t want a guy. At all.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” JJ said, sitting on her side of the bed, picking up her hand mirror, putting it down. “He’ll see you. And from then—” JJ stopped herself. “Anyway,” she said, “he’s cool. No, he’s real. You’ll like him.”

  Grace didn’t know what to say.

  JJ stretched out, turned on her reading light, picked up her book, energy gone.

  7

  MICK WOKE TO HIS DAD tugging on his arm. The man didn’t have to say a word. Mick knew. He also knew arguing was a waste of breath.

  “Ten minutes,” his father said, and then he was gone and Mick could hear him rummaging in the kitchen.

  The boy scrambled up, took a deep breath, tried to get his brain working so he could check his room. First things: pulled on his jeans and a sweatshirt, got his heavy snow jacket out of the closet along with the shopping bag he always kept packed. Unplugged his CD alarm and tossed it in the bag. Tossed in the book he was reading. Looked under his bed for his magazines. Couldn’t find them. His dad must have taken them.

  “C’mon!” The man walked past Mick’s door on the way to the garage.

  The boy turned a complete circle. Most things he had cared about—watch, first-base mitt, his mom’s picture—had already been left and lost in earlier moves. Mick saw the souvenir bat from a Boise Hawks game they’d gone to this past summer. Took it. Good memories, good weapon. He jammed his feet in his snow boots and that made him think of his sneakers. He found them behind his door as he heard the car start. The home phone started ringing.

  “Leave it!”

  That reminded Mick of his cell. He found it in his shirt pocket on the chair by his bed, pulled the charger out of the wall plug and shoved it and the shirt in the shopping bag. He was sticking the cell in his jeans when he heard the garage door go up.

  “Now!”

  That was always the last warning. Sure enough, a car door slammed. If his dad left him … he made it to the passenger side as the car started to roll. They were out of the driveway when his damn phone rang.

  “They must have gotten your number,” his dad said, holding out one hand and steering with the other, taking the corner too fast, fishtailing.

  Mick put his phone in the outstretched hand and his dad threw it as far as he could out the driver’s-side window. The man felt on the seat beside him, came up with a paper sack. Pushed it at Mick. “Sandwich,” he said.

  The cell phone. The only tie Mick had to the kids he’d met here. For a minute it felt like his father had ripped off Mick’s arm. If they’d been going slower Mick might have jumped from the car to look for it.

  The boy wasn’t sure what time it was but the lack of neighborhood lights and the absence of traffic made early morning a good bet. He didn’t feel like eating. His stomach was rumbling like it did when he thought his dad might be arrested. Mick put the sack back on the seat, belted up, zipped his jacket all the way to the neck, and closed his eyes. Crap! He felt in his pockets. No idea where his gloves were. He sat hating himself. Stupid. The last thing he remembered was leaning against the cold window glass looking out at winking ranch lights in the meadows near the turnoff to Riggins.

  * * *

  Not such good things happen when your dad is a thief. Your mom might leave. Mick’s did. You might move way too much. Might not have any friends. You might be afraid a lot. Nervous. Like something bad could happen anytime. Like cops. And if they take your dad, then what? Where do you go? Think they could still find your mom after six or seven years? His mom hadn’t even called. Might not have kept the same name. Might be remarried. Might have a new family. A new son.

  * * *

  Mick awoke after dawn to the memory of his dad hustling them out of McCall in the dead of night. Same old thing. Something had gone wrong or somebody had ratted and the cops were onto him. So far he’d stayed a jump ahead. After a few minutes Mick caught a road sign. They were driving up Montana 135 heading toward Plains. His dad noticed him looking.

  “Going to Portage,” the man said. “Couple more hours.”

  To their right a dark river slid along the canyon, to their left, rocky bluffs climbed skyward. His dad said pay attention, they might spot a bighorn sheep. The man drove with both hands on the wheel, kept a constant check on the rearview mirror, didn’t break the speed limit. Couldn’t afford to be pulled over. “It’s going to be different this time,” he told Mick. “Swear.”

  His father didn’t look at him but Mick thought it was kind of an apology. His dad told him he was tired of hustling, tired of nomading around. He thought he had a good job waiting for him at the Conoco in Portage. Said he’d called and set it up the week before when he’d been worried a local investigation was g
etting too close. He told Mick he was done “finding” things. Caused too much trouble. Never made that much money with it anyway.

  Mick listened, kept looking out the window.

  The past twelve months Mick had gone to three different high schools. His dad said Portage had a good one, two or three hundred kids. Mick knew something his father didn’t and Mick wasn’t going to tell. This time Mick was going to make a close friend, somebody he could stay with if his dad got in trouble again. Mick was going to have a whole junior year in one place. He was strong enough and fast enough and he was going out for sports. He was done skipping out. Better off alone if that’s the way it had to be.

  An hour or so later they crossed the Salish River, tooled past the tiny airport, and drove the length of town, east to west. It was big enough to have the stores you needed, small enough to walk where you wanted to go. Main Street showed wall-to-wall colorfully painted buildings, front sidewalks shoveled clear of snow.

  On their way back through, when they took any narrow street south toward the river, the paving ended quickly in a scrabble of shacks and beat-up trailers. The broken siding, patched roofs, plywood windows were a big contrast to Main Street. The town was fakey, like a movie set. Maybe that was a fit. He and his father looked right on the outside, but inside? Not so good.

  8

  MICK’S FATHER RENTED THEM A PLACE down one of those gravel alleys, a “studio,” he said. Actually it was a ramshackle room with rickety walls and no insulation, cobbled on behind Hammond’s Hardware. When they moved in, they found the pipes were clogged or frozen and the plumbing useless, but his dad had already paid cash. The deal didn’t include refunds. For a few days they would have to do their business and take spit baths after hours up at the Conoco. Until April, they’d have to wear most of their clothes all the time. That would make entering school as a new kid even harder. Mick would look and smell homeless.