Dead Girls Society

by Michelle Krys

  I start to think Farrah’s going to back out, which would give me the perfect excuse not to jump, but then she takes an infinitesimal step toward the ledge. Wisps of hair freed from her braid swirl around her face in a light breeze. She squeezes her eyes shut, dark lashes fanned out across golden cheeks.

  And then she jumps.

  Same as before, my heart stops as she plummets toward the ground. And same as before, the track lurches as she bounces back up. More than it did before? Or am I just imagining it?

  “Who’s next?” Nikki says.

  I blow out a hard breath.

  “You don’t have to do it,” Nikki says. “Surely they’d understand if you didn’t.”

  Her words bring the world back into sharp focus. I blink at her, looking at me with that dreaded pity in her eyes. She doesn’t think I can do it. And that alone makes me determined to prove that I can. I’m tired of people treating me like I’m a delicate flower—sick of acting like a delicate flower. I came here to prove something to myself, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  “I’m next,” I say.

  I hoist up the rope and copy what the others have done, slipping my arms through the vest, securing the clips over the chest and crotch, and pulling the straps as tight as they go. Then I slip my feet into the ankle cuffs, which are like a pair of shoes that have been soldered together, and pull those straps tight too. The work takes my mind off what I have to do after. But then I’m done, all strapped in, and there’s nothing left to do but jump.

  I stand up and teeter precariously in the middle of the track. It’s harder than I expected to balance without the ability to spread my feet apart, and I have to put my arms out at my sides to stop from wobbling. My breath comes in tiny gasps, and I feel lightheaded. Far in the distance, the city of New Orleans flashes, wide awake and bright as a star. To the south, the gulf glitters with fishing boats and oil rigs, and just north is I-10, snaking away toward Lake Pontchartrain, peppered with semis and late-night travelers.

  A flash of movement below catches my eye. I squint into the shadows, but there’s nothing there. Just empty fairgrounds.

  I…I could have sworn I saw a person.

  I work to bring oxygen into my body. My mind is playing tricks on me. Trying to scare me out of this. There’s no one there. Just Hartley and Farrah, who are probably bickering about money or politics or the shape of the moon.

  For a second I allow myself to think about what would happen if the bungee cord didn’t work and I hit the ground. How much would it hurt? I’m going to die, I know that, but I don’t want to splatter into a million pieces on the pavement of an abandoned amusement park.

  I shake myself out. I’m being overly dramatic. Two girls just did the same thing I’m about to do, and they’re both fine. Besides, I’ve spent my whole life just trying really hard not to die. My whole life worrying. And it’s killing me.

  Right now I’m going to live.

  With that thought in mind, I take a deep breath. Swallow. Close my eyes.

  And jump.

  For a moment it feels like time stops. I hang in the air, like in one of those cartoons where a character runs off a cliff but doesn’t drop until he looks down.

  My stomach squeezes hard. And then I’m falling.

  I pitch forward headfirst, wind burning my cheeks and stinging my eyes.

  The ground rushes up.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Terror rips through me. I should be stopping. My arms flail out, uselessly reaching for something to grab onto. An inhuman noise escapes me, drowned out by the wind in my ears.

  And then I’m soaring back up.

  Sweet relief floods my system as I bounce away from the ground, then back toward it again. Based on the way the track heaved when the others jumped, I would have assumed I’d feel a jerk when the rope caught, but the whole thing happens in one fluid motion—I’m falling, and then I’m not.

  I did it.

  A million different emotions swirl in my chest. Nothing half as exciting has ever happened to me before. And in this moment I don’t care about all the unknowns.

  A hundred thousand dollars.

  Enough money to pay off some of my mountainous medical bills before I die and leave Mom with an unbearable burden. Enough money to go far, far away. To travel the world, put my French lessons to good use. Enough money to live.

  I stretch my arms out and let the wind push against me as I bounce, a silly smile plastered across my face. Laughter bubbles up in me, and I suddenly know why I came out here tonight. It’s not just because I was curious, or because I wanted to impress these girls, or even because I needed the money—it’s because I needed this, an escape. Some control.

  “All right, we don’t have all night,” Farrah says.

  I wish I could swing here for a minute, but she’s right: there are still two others to go, and the issue of getting home before sunup. I unsnap the buckles on my chest and shrug out of the harness, then pull into a crunch that makes me woozy so I can loosen the straps on the ankle cuffs, pulling one foot out, then the other. I drop and feel a zing up my spine as my feet hit cement. When I push up, I take a deep breath and do a careful inventory of my body for possible damage. But I feel fine. I feel…good. A smile bursts over my face.

  The cord rattles as the harness travels up the tower. I imagine Nikki shaking her head in surprise at my success, impatiently checking the time, and Lyla smiling with pride. Strange how I know both of them so well after so little time.

  I limp out of the way and collect my purse and the flashlight from the grass, then go over to where Hartley and Farrah wait.

  It’s too far to see who’s next, but a figure moves to the ledge of the coaster. I keep waiting for something to happen, but minutes tick by and no one jumps.

  “God, would she hurry it up already?” Farrah says.

  Hartley puts her hands around her mouth and yells, “Come on!”

  I look at the time on my cell. It’s almost two in the morning, and there’s no missed call, no text from Mom. She hasn’t noticed I’m gone yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Every minute that passes takes me closer to months of complete isolation, zero contact with the outside world. Zero Ethan. Everything that makes life just a little bit tolerable. But I can’t think about it right now or I’ll start hyperventilating.

  “Finally,” Hartley says.

  I look up. Someone jumped. The body soars toward the pavement, then springs back up. When the bouncing slows, I see the satin-mesh shorts bunched around muscular thighs: Lyla.

  She unclips her harness and falls to the ground.

  “What took so long?” Farrah asks.

  Lyla jogs over, her blond ponytail slashing from side to side. “Just got nervous, I guess.”

  I frown; she didn’t seem remotely nervous earlier.

  But pretty soon it becomes clear why it really took so long. There’s still no movement up top from Nikki. Hartley gets bored and starts doing back handsprings, and Farrah narrates all the ways Hartley might accidentally kill herself. While they’re distracted, I whisper to Lyla, “What really happened up there?”

  Lyla makes sure the others aren’t listening before she answers. “Nikki froze. I tried to talk her into it, but it wasn’t happening.”

  Just as I thought.

  “How long are we supposed to wait?” Farrah asks after a few more minutes have passed.

  “You can go if you want,” Hartley answers. “It’s not far to the freeway, and I’m sure someone would pick up a pretty girl like you.”

  Farrah rolls her eyes.

  “I think she’s going to do it!” Lyla says suddenly.

  Nikki has appeared at the ledge.

  Lyla cups her hands around her mouth. “Come on, Nik! You can do it, girl!”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Hartley says.

  “What does it look like?” Lyla answers.

  All it would take to eliminate Nikki from the
game and make it that much easier for Lyla to take home a hundred thousand dollars would be a little jeering. Instead she encourages her. Exactly as she did for me.

  I put my hands around my own mouth. “Come on, Nikki!”

  “Woo, female solidarity!” Farrah says dryly, doing a little cheer.

  “Don’t fall on your face, Nikki!” Hartley yells up.

  “Hartley!” Lyla snaps.

  “What? There’s only one winner.”

  “You can do it!” Lyla yells, louder than before. “Don’t listen to this asshole. Ten. Nine. Eight.”

  I join her. “Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One!”

  There’s a battle cry from up top; then Nikki jumps.

  She plummets from the coaster, her yelp dying in the wind. A knot forms in my stomach as she soars toward the ground, but then the bungee cord meets resistance and she’s bouncing back up. I exhale through puffed-out cheeks. She did it. We all did it. There’s a low groan overhead as Nikki bounces, but it’s barely audible over our cheers.

  A loud crack splits the air.

  It all happens so fast I don’t realize what’s going on until it’s too late. Nikki screams as she hurtles toward the pavement; above her a gaping section of the track has split in half and is crashing after her. Nikki hits the blacktop with a crunch. The track follows, and we all scream and leap back, shielding our faces from the metal and wood flying in every direction in a deafening symphony of noise. And then it’s over.

  A final screw tinkles along the cracked pavement. A heavy silence follows, blanketing the park.

  “Nikki!” Lyla yells.

  We run over, surrounding her body. Nikki lies limply on her side in a heap of wood and twisted metal. She isn’t moving.

  Lyla falls to her knees. “Are you okay?”

  “You promised,” Nikki whimpers. “You said I wouldn’t get hurt.”

  I let out a breath. She’s alive.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t think—I thought…” Lyla scrubs her hair back from her face, pulling her ponytail loose.

  “I didn’t mean it.” Hartley stands back from the group, her eyes wide with shock.

  “It’s not like you made the track break,” Farrah says.

  “Forget about that!” I snap. “We’re going to turn you over, okay, Nikki?”

  I gently turn her onto her back, the way I’ve seen countless paramedics do on medical TV shows. Her eyes fly open at the movement, and she cries out in pain.

  “Sorry, sorry!” I say.

  Nikki’s arm lies on the pavement next to her, as if it’s not attached to her body; blood oozes from the road rash across her whole left cheek. My stomach pitches. I’ve spent my whole life in hospitals, seen enough gory shit—usually happening to me—to fill more than one horror film. I should be immune to this stuff.

  Get it together, Callahan.

  “All right,” Lyla says in a soothing voice. “Don’t panic. Your arm is probably broken.”

  “Ya think?” Farrah says.

  “We need to call 911,” I say.

  “Are you stupid?” Hartley says. “Then we’re all caught! They charge people for trespassing out here.”

  “Really, Hartley?” I say. “You’re worried about your record?”

  Nikki groans.

  “She’s right,” Lyla says. “No cops.”

  She’s the last person I would have expected to agree with Hartley, and I gape at her in shock. “We can’t just leave her here like this. She needs help.”

  “No one said anything about leaving her.” Lyla keeps her voice calm and commanding.

  Farrah starts pacing with her hands in her hair while Nikki writhes on the cement.

  “All right,” I say. “We’ll drive her to the hospital and drop her off in the ER. We can think up an excuse on the way.”

  No one argues.

  “Can you walk?” Lyla asks.

  “I don’t think so,” Nikki answers.

  “Okay, that’s no problem.” Lyla scoops her up, grunting as she struggles to her feet. Nikki howls as Lyla repositions her body in her arms.

  Lyla lumbers toward the main entrance. Though the walk seemed long on the way in, we didn’t cover as much ground as I thought. In moments we’re at the hole in the front gate, the four of us fumbling and swearing and shouting directions as we try to fit Nikki’s limp body through the gap.

  When we finally get her through, I sprint ahead to get the car. It’s not until a wet cough chokes out of my throat that I realize what I’m doing. If Mom were here right now, she’d force me to sit down and take ten hits of my inhaler. She’d take care of me.

  But she isn’t here, and it isn’t about me. For once I’m not the sickest one in the room.

  I fall into the front seat of the car, fingers shaking as I start the engine. Up-tempo zydeco music filters through the speakers, starkly at odds with the mood of the night. I turn off the radio and skid into the parking lot.

  Nikki cries out as Lyla struggles to get her into the backseat. The rest of the girls climb in, and I speed back to the interstate.

  “What’s the excuse?” Farrah asks as soon as we’ve topped 70 mph—faster than Nikki would prefer, but something tells me she’d approve this once.

  “She slipped and fell in the shower,” Hartley says. “Just go with something simple so it doesn’t sound made up. I broke my arm once just sitting in a chair. Weird shit happens.”

  “At two in the morning?” Lyla challenges.

  “And she got road rash on her face from all that cement in her shower?” Farrah says.

  “You got anything better?” Hartley says.

  “Yeah, actually. She fell off her roof.”

  Hartley laughs loudly. “And that’s more believable how?”

  “She climbed up there to have a smoke and fell off. See, you make her look bad by having her admit to the smoking thing so no one questions the rest of the story.”

  It’s more devious than I would have thought Farrah Weir-Montgomery capable of, and I’m slightly impressed.

  “I live in an apartment building,” Nikki manages. “No roof access.”

  Shit.

  I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. “Okay, what about this? She was out for a joyride with a boy on his motorcycle. He took a hard turn, and she fell. He took off because he didn’t want to get charged. We saw and picked her up.”

  No one says anything for a minute. Then Farrah says, “Well, it’s not worse than any of the other ideas.”

  So it’s decided.

  “Does this mean you’re pulling out of the game, then?” Hartley asks Nikki.

  “Insensitive much?” Farrah says.

  “What? It’s an honest question, and you all were thinking it.”

  But a glance in the rearview mirror tells me that Nikki’s not even paying attention. Her eyes are squeezed shut, and there’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She doesn’t look good.

  Before long Tulane Medical Center comes into view. I pull the car into the roundabout outside the hospital. Lyla jumps out before I’m fully stopped, gets a wheelchair from the lobby, and brings it to the car. Hartley helps her get Nikki into the chair, and then Lyla’s wheeling her through the automatic doors. We all watch in rapt silence as she exchanges a few words with a nurse in green scrubs, and then she’s walking back out through the sliding glass doors.

  “What did you say?” Farrah asks as soon as Lyla’s ass hits the leather seat.

  “That we saw the accident and took her here. Just like we planned.”

  “Did she fall for it?” Farrah’s slumped ridiculously low in the seat. All that she’s missing now is a pair of glasses with a fake nose and mustache attached.

  “I don’t know. I think so,” Lyla says, retying her ponytail.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Farrah mutters. “This isn’t good.”

  “So long as Nikki sticks to the story, there’s no way for anyone to know what really happened,” Hartley says. “And even if she did say someth
ing about what really happened, where’s her proof? You just need to relax.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Farrah says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Farrah shakes her head and bites her manicured nails as she peers out the window. “This whole thing was stupid.”

  And for once I agree with something Farrah says. This time when Hartley starts flicking her lighter, I don’t bother telling her to stop.

  I turn off the headlights before I slip back into the Iberville Rentals parking lot, even though Mom’s blinds are closed and cars come and go from our apartment at all hours of the day and night.

  The events of the night are so twisted I can hardly believe they actually happened.

  I snuck out of the house.

  Stole Mom’s car.

  Went into an abandoned warehouse.

  And jumped off a freaking roller coaster.

  Sure, my chest is a little tight and I might pay for this tomorrow, but I don’t feel sick right now. I feel…good. Incredible. Alive.

  All at once I remember the way Nikki looked, broken on the pavement, and sober up. It’s not the time to be elated. Besides, it’s not over yet. I still have to get inside.

  My guts are a mess as I carefully climb the metal stairs. My legs tremble, and I’m fairly certain I could puke at any moment. The door snicks as I open it and edge inside, but the house is as still and silent as ever. I don’t breathe as I shut the door behind me and ease the keys onto the rack. Then, heart pounding, I slide the bolt back into place and race down the shadowed halls to my bedroom. Once safely inside, I lean against the door to catch my breath.

  I did it.

  But when I open my eyes, someone is sitting on my bed.

  I gasp and fumble for the doorknob behind me.

  “Shhh. Wouldn’t want to wake Mom.”

  “Jenny!” I press a hand against my chest, trying in vain to slow my racing heart.

  “Sneaking out?” she asks. “My big sister is growing up.”

  I suck in ragged breaths. This is the part where Mom would force me to sit down and take my inhaler, and the whole conversation about where I was would be derailed, at least for a little while. But Jenny stares at me resolutely. That’s when I notice she has a box with a huge red bow curled over its top in her lap.