Mean Streaks

by Kimberly G. Giarratano

  Melissa Gunner saunters up to Ashley and tugs her back toward the other girls. Melissa is Rebecca’s lieutenant, a willowy blonde who makes sure the girls follow orders. Ashley is clearly going AWOL since she's too chatty, too playful, too free with Rebecca’s boyfriend. I smile. This is the one place where I’m happy to be excluded.

  Melissa catches my eye and smirks before smoothing her hand over the bodice of her baby blue dress. Melissa gives me one last look before she heads out of the backyard, probably to tattle on Ashley. The Bitch Clique loves drama.

  Oddly though, Rebecca is nowhere to be found. I had seen her earlier, standing beside her mother, greeting guests. When I handed her a box wrapped in gold paper, she said ‘thank you’ like she was programmed and added the present to the growing pile of crap she had been given. She tucked a strand of glossy hair behind her ear, adjusted her yellow strapless dress, and glanced above my head, seeking a face, most likely Elliot’s. When she met my eyes, the corner of her mouth tilted up in such a way that goosebumps erupted along my arms.

  I’m scanning the partygoers now when my mother sneaks up behind me and pinches the underside of my arm. Wincing, I rub furiously at the skin.

  “Could you mingle?” she hisses in my ear. I smell alcohol on her breath. “It’s embarrassing how you're over here moping.”

  I'm not moping. And I'm not exactly sure what she wants me to do. I have too much pride to ingratiate myself in the clique’s conversation. Luckily, I know where I can disappear.

  “Sure, Mom,” I say, slithering away from her. I walk along the stone path that cuts through the shrubbery and leads to the patio. I hear the twang of violin strings and it takes me a moment to realize there’s a quartet of live musicians setting up next to the French doors. One woman plucks at her instrument, testing its sound.

  I spot a bottle of open Champagne on top of the abandoned piano and slide it off in one fell swoop. I make my way through the house, striding purposefully so that no one stops me. But someone does.

  Rebecca.

  She pulls me roughly by the elbow toward the foyer. “Stealing? Typical Carrie.”

  “Whatever. You want the damn Champagne, you hypocrite?” I extend the bottle to her but she swats it away and I nearly drop it. I imagine dark shards careening across the marble floors, and Mrs. Green hollering at me about the damage.

  Rebecca presses me up against the coat closet door. Her pupils are blown and I can't help but wonder what she’d gotten up to before she found me. “Listen, skank. I didn't want you here.”

  “So, why’d you invite me then?”

  She shakes her head as if that’s an answer. “Stay away from Elliot.”

  This surprises me. I don’t know what she knows and I’m not about to provide her with ammo. Maybe she says that to all the girls. I raise my hands in mock surrender and shrug.

  A guest floats by and gives us a smile. Rebecca smiles back. “This party is a fucking disaster,” she says, sounding on the verge of tears. “Make sure to stick around though. I have a big announcement later that you’ll want to hear.”

  I swallow a marble. Is she going to out Elliot and me to everyone? Would she do that? It would embarrass her, too. As my mind runs through the various scenarios, Rebecca trails her nails down the side of my arm, drawing blood. “Ow!”

  She mutters something under her breath. It sounds like, “I’m done being everyone’s bitch,” but I’m not sure if she’s even addressing me at this point.

  Rebecca brushes down her skirt and leaves me. She doesn’t take the Champagne with her. I consider this a victory. No sooner has Rebecca left when Elliot’s sister, Piper, lunges at me and steals the bottle.

  “Hey!” I call to her, but she’s practically sprinting out the door. I follow her down the front steps and around the hedges to a clearing where an iron table and chairs have been set up. I don’t think the chairs are meant to be used, since there’s bird shit on them, but Piper doesn’t care. She plops down into one and brings the full Champagne bottle to her lips. Some of the liquid spills out from the top and lands on her navy dress. Piper wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Her lipstick is smeared, and I’m not sure if it’s from her sloppy drinking or if she arrived like that. Her mascara has smudged too.

  Piper is a year older than me, and she’s hardened in a way Elliot is not. She and I used to smoke weed together in the girls’ bathroom during lunch before she ditched me, presumably to hang with someone else. But by then it was okay because I had found something more fun to do with Elliot.

  Piper takes another swig of Champagne, which annoys me because I want to get drunk. She gives me a grumpy side glance and then hands over the bottle. “Here,” she says. “You need this as much as I do.”

  I graciously accept it. “What makes you so sure?”

  She doesn’t respond, just glances at the claw marks on my arm. “Did Rebecca do that?”

  I don’t answer either. It seems we ask questions we know the answers to anyway.

  I swallow a mouthful of Champagne. It’s sweet and carbonated and warms my stomach. I gulp back another sip and then sit across from Piper, wondering if the uncomfortable metal chair, green from weather and oxidation, will stain my dress. I don’t really care.

  “This party is bullshit,” Piper says with a sneer. I hand the bottle back to her. She takes a drink and belches.

  I grunt in agreement. It is bullshit, but I don’t hate being here. Elliot stands off in the distance, leaning his tall frame against a red convertible—not his—that the valet had parked on the lawn. His hands are in his pockets, but his eyes are on me. He licks his lips and raises his dark brows into arcs.

  I don’t know why I got tagged the sophomore class slut. I didn’t have sex with the entire lacrosse team like Rebecca insinuated. I just made out with a few of them. It was fun until Neil Dutton got too handsy and I socked him in the mouth. Word got around that Neil was a serial rapist waiting to happen. His mother shipped him off to a boarding school in Connecticut and everyone blamed me for the lacrosse team losing the state finals.

  I became fair game. A target for everyone’s self-loathing. I didn’t even spread the rumor, but Rebecca told everyone that I did.

  No one wants to hang out with me now. Except for Elliot.

  After chugging a long sip from the bottle, I hand it over to Piper. “The rest is yours.”

  She takes the bottle and shakes it slightly, her face hinting at annoyance that there’s not much left inside. I shrug. Piper’s disappointment is not my concern.

  Leaving her alone, I slip through the hedges, peek around trees, wondering if other guests have made their way to the massive front lawn, and if so, what they can see. Elliot turns his back to me and crosses the street, heading for the woods.

  I follow.

  A hiking trail cuts through the dense brush and ferns, so it’s not difficult to traverse the forest floor even in my dreadful heels. I’m tempted to slip the shoes off my feet, but I worry about cutting my toes on the rocks and roots that jut from the dirt.

  The party noises are quickly replaced by sounds of chipmunks scampering through shrubs, blackbirds cawing to another, and an airplane growling above me. When a twig snaps, I jerk my head around, but only see a squirrel jumping onto a tree branch.

  A hand darts out and grabs my waist and a squeal escapes my lips, higher-pitched than I intend, and I’m instantly mortified. Laughing, Elliot hands me his flask and I take a sip. My head swims a little. I know my cheeks are bright pink—they always darken when I’m buzzed.

  I return the flask and he tucks it into his jacket pocket. He presses me against a thick tree trunk and kisses my collarbone, neck, and eventually makes his way to that spot just below my earlobe. I think I can die here, right now.

  With one hand he tilts my chin toward him so he can kiss me on the mouth. His other hand slowly makes its way up my dress. My breath hitches. So does his.

  We have performed this dance many times. At first, back when I was friend
s with Rebecca and she’d invite me and the rest of the class over on Saturday nights when her parents were out, Elliot and I would steal kisses in the pantry, sometimes the guest room. And then it had turned into groping in the janitor’s closet after homeroom, before it became fumbling for our clothes behind the maintenance shed near the football field during lunch.

  I’m not stupid. Elliot and I aren’t going to become boyfriend and girlfriend. He is the most popular boy in the sophomore class. I’m not beautiful. I’m not even pretty. And when I’m not being dissed, I’m lucky to be ignored. But I excite Elliot because I’m his dirty little secret. Rebecca can’t be that. Neither can Ashley.

  It excites me too.

  I’m panting hard now and the bark scrapes against my back, possibly tearing my dress to shreds. Elliot crashes his mouth to mine and we’re kissing with teeth, my legs wrapped around him. We both cry out, so isolated in the woods, we feel safe to do so.

  We can’t catch our breaths. Elliot nuzzles my neck, even as he gulps for air. He lowers my legs, stumbles back, and hitches up his pants. He tucks in his dress shirt, zips up his fly, and adjusts his belt. I find my underwear stuck to a skinny branch and I wonder how it got there.

  After we’re dressed, Elliot puts his hands on my hips and pulls me in for a final kiss. I’m surprised as he’s never done this before. My heart changes rhythm.

  He doesn’t say anything—he often doesn’t—just rubs his fingertips along the fresh scratches on my arm before he takes off down the trail. I give him a several minute headstart since we can’t be seen emerging from the woods together. I take the time to steady my breathing, to slow my pulse, to comb my fingers through my hair, to brush bits of bark from my dress. I examine the peach fabric, torn at the hem, and curse the brown smudges. My mother will notice this. How can she not?

  My Champagne buzz is wearing off, and so is the afterglow. I’m in need of another fix. Elliot is a drug. And like most addicts, I think I can go without, but I can’t.

  I stumble through the woods. My legs wobble, and I can’t tell whether it’s from the alcohol or from them being wrapped around Elliot’s waist.

  I finally emerge where the asphalt meets the grass. My eyes search the road, checking for oncoming traffic, as well as guests. It’s quiet and I’m grateful.

  I cross the street and then the lawn and slide past a long line of cars parked in the driveway. When I rejoin the party, I expect my mother to corner me again. She gets huffy when I disappear, when she can’t observe me with the other kids. My mother has this insane idea that I’m friends with the Bitch Clique. Once upon a time I was, before Rebecca got her claws in Elliot, and I became an easy target.

  If the attention is on me, it’s not on them.

  The massive Green property has secret gardens and coves where a person can hide and no one will think to search. But to access them, I’d have to return to the backyard where lunch is being served by now and my mother will surely spot me. I decide to go back to that small clearing in the side yard where Piper and I were swigging from the Champagne bottle earlier. Maybe she’s still there. Maybe there’s more liquor.

  I push through the shrubbery. A thorn snags my dress and I cringe, imagining the fit my mother will throw. She made a big point of taking me to Lannister’s Department Store and had me try on several dresses before deciding peach was my color. “It goes well with your skin tone,” she had said, and even the sales girl nodded in agreement.

  I glance down at the dirt that’s accumulated from my romp with Elliot. The dress, with its dark smudges, seems more fitting on me now than it was when it was new.

  My gaze lands on the table and chairs. Piper is nowhere to be found but the Champagne bottle rests comfortably atop the little round table. I squint. A little liquid still remains in the bottle. No more than a sip, but that will do.

  I make a dash for it, but stumble on a root and curse. I collapse against the edge of the table, my stomach hits it hard and the air is sucked out of me.

  What the…?

  I glare down at the offending root. Not a root. An outstretched arm with fingernails painted red. My eyes trace the limb to the body that owns it, eventually stopping at bright green irises. No blood oozes from the skin despite the angry welts on the skin just above the collar bone. Several tiny rhinestones lie near the body. They don’t glint in the light because the light hasn’t reached this particular part of the yard.

  My stomach churns acid and Champagne, and I retch into the bushes, throwing up nothing but liquid.

  I wipe my hand across my mouth replacing the memory of Elliot’s lips with a new memory—finding Rebecca Green’s dead body.

  No one is allowed to go home.

  Detective Rowell stands while I sit next to my mother at a round banquet table. All the moms have claimed their sons and daughters. Except for Mrs. Green who sobs uncontrollably on the patio. I can’t see her from the table, but can hear her wails, and I shudder.

  The detective towers over us and scribbles into a tiny notepad, the kind I used to have in grade school to jot down homework assignments. He must be my dad’s age. He has gray hair at his temples, and wrinkles near his eyes, and a bit of a beer belly which definitely reminds me of my father.

  My mother clasps my hand, making me uncomfortable. Also annoyed since an hour ago she was reaming me out for disappearing.

  After I found Rebecca’s body, I barreled through the backyard, crashed into a waiter, and begged him to call the police. I was doing a good deed. Not that I could’ve returned to the party and stabbed my fork into a plate of mixed greens like nothing was wrong.

  The detective narrows his gaze at me and my skin itches. My chin in my hands, I scan the lawn for Elliot. I spot him and Piper slumped into chairs next to their mother near the hedges. I can’t get a read on their expressions. Elliot glances up, and he must see my face, because he gives an imperceptible shake of his head. I know what he's saying. “Don't tell them we were together.”

  Uniformed officers mill about taking statements, including a younger detective who’s interviewing Mrs. Green, but right now Rowell only wants me. I think, at first, it’s because I found Rebecca. But his nostrils flare and his lips purse, and I realize he expects me to lie to him before he’s even asked me a question. My reputation must precede me. Also, he’s eyeing the scratches on my arm. Only Rebecca would fuck me before she died.

  I don’t want to do this with my mother here, but what choice do I have?

  Rowell unbuttons his suit jacket and sits down, his eyes still on his ridiculous little notepad. His gut billows over the top of his belt. He clicks his pen. I’m not sure how to answer his questions if I can’t realistically account for where I’ve been. It’s not like I can blurt out that I’d been screwing Elliot MacIver while someone slammed Rebecca’s head against a metal table, now can I?

  “So, Miss Longview, when you found Rebecca, where were you coming from exactly?”

  To this, I don’t lie. “I was across the street. In the woods.”

  My mother sighs in exasperation.

  “Any particular reason why you were in the woods during a party?”

  “I just wanted to take a walk.”

  “A walk?”

  “Uh huh.”

  My mother drums her nails on the table, the cream table linen muffling the sound, but it still rattles my nerves. Rowell senses this and smiles kindly. “Mrs. Longview, perhaps you could get your daughter a glass of ice water? She’s had a shock.”

  Rowell and I both know he doesn’t give a shit about my well-being, but I can’t even hide the gratitude when my mother rises from the table in search of a waiter.

  When she’s out of earshot, he says, “What were you really doing in the woods?”

  I can’t tell him, so I offer up a half-truth. “The Bitch Clique hates me. I’m pretty sure I was only invited to this party because my mom weaseled an invitation out of Mrs. Green. So I went for a walk to get away from everyone. Okay?”

  Rowell writ
es down my words, his expression neutral. Must be a cop thing.

  “What happened to your arm?”

  “Rebecca scratched me.”

  “During an altercation?”

  “No. She just drew blood. For funsies.”

  He frowns, clearly not appreciating my humor. He mutters something, but I can’t tell what. Then he says, “Why aren't you liked?”

  “I don't know. Ask them.”

  “The Bitch Clique?”

  I close my eyes and sigh. “It's what everyone calls them. Everyone at school who isn’t at this party, I mean.”

  “Your dress is dirty. Did Rebecca do that, too?”

  “No.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “My dress? I fell.”

  Scribble.

  “Were you and Rebecca ever friends?”

  “Once upon a time.”

  He flips through his notebook and goes back a few pages. “Ashley Thompson said you and Rebecca had a fight in school a few weeks ago. She said you threatened to slap her.”

  “Only because she threw my backpack into the toilet.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “How did Rebecca get along with other people?”

  “What other people?”

  “People like you.”

  “You mean unpopular people?”

  Rowell glances up at me now. His eyes are hazel, a weird mix of brown and green that make no sense, but I would kill to have. Bad choice of words.

  “She was nice to her friends only. Let’s put it that way.”

  He shifts again in his seat. “Do you know Teddy Levine?”

  I stare at my hands in my lap. “I know of him. How is he?”

  “Not good. Not likely to live, either.”

  I nod and say nothing.

  “Where were you the night of May tenth?”

  I whip my head up. That’s the night Teddy was hit. It was also the night I sneaked away with Elliot. We fooled around in my grandparents’ old RV that was parked behind the garage. I can’t mention this, either. I don’t understand why it matters unless… “What the hell are you getting at?” I wince at my language. Not because I’m embarrassed to curse, but because I don’t need this prick thinking I’m some crass-talking murderer. Double murderer.