Avenged

by E. E. Cooper

  “I don’t think she’s worth your energy,” I said.

  “It’s worth it to me. So can I count on you?”

  “Always.”

  Brit sighed and lay back down. “Sleep tight, Kah-bear.”

  “You too, Brit-bear.”

  Within seconds, Brit’s breath evened out and she was asleep. The room was still spinning as fast as my mind. I propped myself up. What was Brit planning for Sara? Whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be good.

  I looked at Brit. As she let out her breath her nose gave a tiny whistle. She looked like someone’s idea of Sleeping Beauty, complete with the prom crown resting on the pillow next to her. She may look innocent and sweet, but I knew what the brain behind those closed eyes was capable of doing.

  I realized I was clutching one of her throw pillows in my hands. It would be so easy to reach over and cover her face. I let the fantasy unwind. She would fight back as I pushed the pillow into her features, her hands would claw at my arms, but as long as I was kneeling on top of her she wouldn’t be able to unlodge me. I was stronger, at least physically. The idea of smothering her, of pressing the life out of her lungs, was almost orgasmic. I blinked, realizing that I was breathing heavier and both hands were clutching the pillow.

  I’d go to jail. There was no way I would get away with it. It was the most primal kind of justice, an eye for an eye. She killed Beth and I’d kill her. It was almost poetic.

  Brit grunted in her sleep and rolled over onto her side. How would she respond if she knew what I was thinking? I smiled. Knowing Brit she would almost be proud of me. She didn’t think I was capable of that kind of passion and commitment. A sudden rush of tears filled my eyes. She was right. I liked the idea of doing it, but I never would. I lacked whatever it was in her that made it possible for her to go from thought to deed. I was always the one who sat back, but she was going to find out things were changing.

  I made myself wait, the digital clock on her dresser slowly clicking off each minute. A half hour slid past. She had to be really out by now. “Brit,” I whispered. She didn’t stir. “Britney,” I said a bit louder. Her breath continued in measured waves. I slipped out from under the covers and stood. I was locked in place. My brain was telling my legs to move, but the connection seemed to be broken.

  I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for, but this was my chance. Brit was a minihoarder. She saved everything—matchbooks to remember restaurants, old birthday cards, magazines, paper drink coasters, notes, tags from expensive clothes, seashells from a summer vacation, and even a tiny bottle of sand from a Hawaiian vacation. She collected links to her past—it was a compulsion. She had to have something from when she was gone—something that would prove that she hadn’t been wandering around in an amnesic fog. Something that would give me a hint of what to do next.

  Her closet door squeaked as I pushed it open, and I flinched. I looked over my shoulder, but Brit hadn’t moved. I had my phone with me and I turned on the flashlight app. My hands slid over her clothing, quickly checking pockets. Other than a few crumpled tissues and a tube of Burt’s Bees, there wasn’t anything. She had rows of shoes and boots, but I didn’t see anything that was out of place. Brit had an entire shelf of handbags—Coach, Kate Spade, Louis Vuitton. I could go through each of them, but she hadn’t taken any of them with her. For her suicide story to work, she’d had to leave almost everything behind. She wouldn’t have taken anything that might have been noticed.

  I slipped back out of the closet and crossed the room to her bathroom. I quietly shut the door behind him. My heart slowed down: if Brit woke up she wouldn’t find it strange that I was in here. The black-and-white tiles were cool under my bare feet. There was a motion sensor in a night-light that clicked on, casting a dim light around the room. The marble counter was covered with pots of eye shadow, lipstick, and a spilled puddle of congealing hair goo from when we’d been getting ready. One of Brit’s false eyelashes was stuck to the marble like a spider cut in half.

  I slid open each drawer and quickly rummaged through. Picking up each item, hoping for something to be off. Maybe a price sticker on a box of tampons that would show it came from a store out of town, but nothing.

  I sat back on my heels. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy; I just had to think. I stepped back into the bedroom. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. I watched Brit’s chest rise and fall. I tiptoed over to her desk and sat in the chair. If she woke I could say I was looking for a pen so I could write something down. I pulled each drawer open flipping through stacks of paper, notes, papers from school. Nothing useful. A sharp pain. I yanked my hand from the drawer. A paper cut. I stuck my finger in my mouth and sucked the drip of blood off.

  Brit grunted and rolled over. I froze in place, but she slipped back to sleep. There was one more place to check. At the foot of Brit’s bed she had a carved cedar chest. It had been her mom’s; Brit called it a hope chest. I knew Brit kept her most precious stuff in there. It was the most likely place she would keep something special and the one place that I had zero excuse to be poking around in.

  “Brit?” I whispered, checking one more time. She didn’t move. The lid seemed to stick, but with a push it creaked open. The corsage Justin had given her for fall’s homecoming dance was mummified in a clear plastic container on top. No doubt her prom crown would go in here eventually. There was something lacy, a bunch of Valentine’s Day cards, and her old yearbooks. There was a small jewelry box, and I opened it. A pair of diamond earrings, her class ring, a bunch of badges from Girl Scouts, and what looked like an antique ring. I slid the jewelry box back into the chest and noted something folded along the side. Cheap, like worn cotton. Not something that looked precious. I pulled it out. It was a strip of black fabric, folded over to make pockets with strips sewn to the ends. There was a faint smell. I held it up to my nose—spicy. Then I saw the tiny words in the corner. El Az. I’d seen these before.

  My heart picked up speed, beating a drum against my ribs. El Az was a Mexican restaurant in East Lansing, hugely popular with MSU students. My brother, Nadir, took me there almost every time I visited for their cheese dip and mole enchiladas. Why would Brit have a waitress apron from there? There was no reason. Unless that’s where she’d been after the murder. I’d suspected she’d hidden out in a college town where a teen girl on her own could easily blend in, and a rush of victory ran down my spine. I quickly folded the apron up and closed the lid to the chest. I shoved the apron into the bottom of my duffel bag.

  I slipped back into my bed. I wasn’t sure what it proved, but it was something. At least I was doing something. Now I had a place to start.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  I nearly jumped out of bed. Brit’s face was leaning over the side looking at me. I held my breath, had she seen what I’d been doing? I pictured her watching me through half-slit eyes as I rummaged around her room.

  “No,” I said softly.

  Brit smiled in the dim light. “Try counting sheep.” She rolled back over, out of sight. “Works for me every time.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I’d been sure I wouldn’t sleep at all, but I woke up around noon on Saturday when I heard Brit in the shower. My eyes darted over to my duffel bag. Had it been moved? I shouldn’t have taken the apron—it was a mistake. I had no idea if she ever checked on the things in her chest, but if she found it missing she would know something was up. It wasn’t like a robber was going to break into her parents’ giant house and bypass all the electronics and jewelry to steal a used waitress apron. I wanted to kick myself. I’d been so excited to find something it had never occurred to me that the apron didn’t prove anything—all it did was raise questions. If Brit really did have posttraumatic amnesia and couldn’t remember a thing about while she’d been gone, why was she saving this? Knowing Brit she’d find a way to explain it. It did give me something to chase down—at least it was a place to start—but keeping it would be a mistake.

  I slid out of bed and
unzipped the duffel so I could put it back. The shower turned off and I stood in the middle of the bedroom. Wavering. I took a step toward the chest and then back again. My hands were shaking. I yanked the lid of the chest open and shoved it inside.

  As the lid dropped down, the bathroom door flew open and Brit came out, a thick plush white towel wrapped around her.

  “God, that felt good. My hair was gross.” Brit paused and looked at me. “Going somewhere?” I realized I was still holding my duffel bag clutched to my chest.

  “I thought I should head home. My parents are going to want all the details from the dance,” I said.

  Brit’s eyebrows crunched together, and I was gripped with the irrational fear that she had X-ray vision and could see the apron lying on top of her chest instead of folded and tucked along the side. “You sure? My mom will make us some lunch.”

  “I really should go.” I stood there as if I were waiting for her permission, which in a way I was.

  Brit ran a comb through her wet hair. “Your call. You sure you don’t want a shower?”

  “Nah, I’ll clean up at home.” I backed toward the door, yanking a sweatshirt over my tee. “I’ll see you Monday,” I said, fighting the urge to turn and run. Once I was out of her room I flew down the stairs. My mom would kill me for not finding Brit’s parents and thanking them for letting me stay, but if I had to keep up appearances for one more second I was going to lose it.

  “Let’s go out.”

  I jumped. I’d been reading in my room, almost half-asleep, and now suddenly Brit was there. After prom I felt we’d had enough time together, and I’d been counting on not having to see her until tomorrow.

  “Have you seen this?” Brit thrust a paper at my face.

  I pulled back so I could actually make out the print. “What is it?”

  “Were you sleeping? Your parents said they were making some big Sunday brunch, but I told them we made plans to go out.”

  “Out?” I felt like my thinking was on some kind of time delay. I couldn’t make sense of what she was saying.

  Brit was already rummaging through my closet. “You need to get dressed. We have to talk. We’ll go get something to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I complained.

  “Are you going to help me or not?” Brit’s jaw was set.

  “Help you with what?” I asked.

  Brit’s finger jabbed the paper, almost jamming straight through it. I glanced down.

  WHERE WAS BRITNEY?

  There was a picture of Brit underneath. It had been taken at prom. She was standing on the stage, balancing her crown. She was smiling, but it wasn’t a flattering photo. Her mouth was twisted slightly, so it looked more like a sneer, and the way her head was tucked gave her a slight double chin.

  “What is this?” I was trying to take all of it in at the same time, but my eyes kept skipping around the page. Then I caught the byline. Derek Iriven. Holy shit. He was the reporter who hadn’t liked Brit right from the start. I skimmed through the article. The article questioned why the police hadn’t bothered to investigate where Britney had been while she had been “amnesic” and implied that the fact that her family had money meant no questions had been asked. It mentioned the donation to the foundation, but it definitely came across as an afterthought.

  I got up and went across the hall to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face and yanked my hair back in a ponytail. I made sure the smile, or even the hint of a smile, was wiped off my face.

  When I got back to my room Brit was pacing back and forth. “This guy is going to try and make a name for himself by dragging mine through the mud.”

  “That’s what he’s known for. He’s always writing those op-ed pieces that are designed to tick people off,” I said.

  “If he thinks he’s going to get away with this, he’s going to be sorry.” She stared at me as if I were the one who had written the article, and I shifted uneasily.

  I picked the paper back up. “What exactly does he say?”

  Brit snatched the paper out of my hand, nearly ripping it in two. “He basically wrote that there is something shifty about how my case was handled.”

  A ripple of excitement ran through my chest. “Shifty how?”

  Brit’s face was mottled red. “He says that the cops totally mishandled what happened to Beth because my parents have money. Some anonymous source told him that I was hiding out in Ann Arbor, but who cares where I was? I had amnesia.”

  “He said that?” I wanted to grab the paper and look for myself. I wondered who the source was. It meant I had an ally out there. I was sure the apron meant she’d been in East Lansing, but it’s possible she’d been in both cities at some point. Both were college towns—easy for one more teen girl to blend into a crowd. Maybe Derek’s story would result in some kind of action by the police.

  “He’s not stupid. He doesn’t say it directly, but it’s crystal clear if you read between the lines. One of things Derek the Dick makes a big deal about is that my parents were able to talk to me when I was found before the cops had a chance to question me.”

  “But why is it a big deal if you saw your parents?”

  Brit threw her hands up in the air. “I know! I had a freaking head injury. I’d been suicidal. I had this huge trauma, and he acts like it’s weird I would want to see my family before anyone else.” Brit tossed me the paper and crossed her arms.

  “Unbelievable,” I said. I mulled over what she’d told me so far.

  My eyes scanned over the paper, trying not to look excited. My brain scrambled, trying to think of who might have told him where Brit was. “I can’t believe this happened,” I said.

  “I hate that guy,” Brit said. “I hate that anyone would talk about me behind my back. Imply that I’m some kind of horrible person.”

  She hated it because she knew it was true. Brit didn’t want to face the fact that she was nothing more than a filthy liar. Then I remembered what I should be doing. I threw my arms around her and hugged her. “It’s going to be okay,” I said.

  “I waited so long to be queen, and he’s ruined all of it. He hardly even mentioned Beth’s scholarship. If he thinks he, or anyone else who would try to betray me, can take me down, he’s got a lot to learn.” Brit took a deep breath to calm herself.

  I hoped Derek had crossed every t and dotted every i, and that his source was well hidden, because Brit was going to go after them full speed ahead.

  “Why aren’t you dressed yet?” Brit said, her mood seeming to spin again. “I’m starving.”

  I looked down. I was still in the ratty yoga pants I always wore when I planned to hang around the house. “Give me ten minutes.”

  “Five. You don’t need to look good.”

  I pulled open a drawer and pulled out a shirt. “What are we going to do?”

  “First we’re going to get some food and then we’re going to figure out how to make Derek the Dick sorry he ever wrote about me.”

  I paused. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “We’re not going to do anything to him, are we?” I hoped all she had in mind was something like egging his car, but I was uneasy. Brit had solved one problem in a very permanent way. I was almost a hundred percent certain that what happened with Beth had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, but what if it wasn’t? Or what if she decided that since she’d already killed one person, a second would be no big deal?

  “I also need to figure out how to handle tomorrow morning. Everyone at school is going to have seen this.” She sucked in her cheeks. “Oh, you just know that Sara creamed her pants when she read it.”

  “What she thinks doesn’t matter.” I managed to avoid pointing out that Sara didn’t need to see it in black and white to know that Brit didn’t have to play by the rules. How Brit talked about Sara was making me uneasy.

  “I hate the idea that he thinks he has something on me.” Britney picked at a piece of red, swollen skin on her index finger.

  “It’s just his opinion. Eve
ryone will know he’s making it as wild as possible for attention,” I said. Of course I was counting on the fact it would make people start to wonder just what the hell she had been up to all that time. If there was some real scrutiny, Brit’s story would start to crack. “Things are going to work out the way they’re supposed to,” I said, and then I crossed my fingers that I was right.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  On Monday I practically floated into school. After Brit dropped me off yesterday afternoon I’d gone back out and gotten my own copy of Derek’s op-ed piece. I smuggled it into the house like it was weed instead of a newspaper. I’d read it so many times I could quote it verbatim. He wanted to know why hadn’t the police spent any real time trying to figure out where Brit had spent those weeks. What made me the happiest was that I wasn’t alone. Someone else was checking into her story, and that doubled the chances of finding someplace where she’d slipped up and made a mistake.

  Brit’s story was full of holes. No one had really investigated what she’d said when she returned. She had a story, her parents backed up her trauma amnesia theory, and everyone around her swallowed it without a single question, like a dog being tricked into eating a pill hidden in cheese. Once real questions started to pepper the walls of lies she was hiding behind, they would crumble. Things wouldn’t add up, and the inconsistencies would be so glaring that no one could ignore them. And if I could check out her story in East Lansing and this source could get the police to check out Ann Arbor, then Brit would feel the noose start to tighten. I’d have a front-row seat for the whole thing, right up to when they clicked the handcuffs on her and arrested her for the murder of Beth. The thought of that moment floated up in my chest like champagne bubbles.

  Once they had Britney behind bars I would visit her. Years of watching Law & Order meant I could picture it perfectly. She’d be in one of those cheap polyester orange jumpsuits, slightly faded and worn from being used and washed over and over. Her hair would be frizzy because she wouldn’t have access anymore to high-priced hair products or a good stylist. Her skin would look sallow both because she wouldn’t be sitting out in the sun and because the high-carb diet would make her puffy. She’d pick up the phone on the other side of the glass, pathetically grateful to see me as she sank onto the rickety metal folding chair.